⛩️#41 The Unsolved ¥300m Heist

Or, how to pull off the perfect robbery

The letter arrives by express mail.

It passes from the postman’s hand to someone else’s, we don’t see who.

We’re high in the rafters of a building. Down below us, laid out like a grid of city streets, are desks. In the chairs are bank workers counting money by hand.

Now we’re at floor level, following the well shined high heels of a woman.

This woman, a SECRETARY, walks purposefully through the counting room. She wears the same uniform as everyone else here — dark blue blouse over white shirt, dark blue skirt, a neckerchief of contrasting, vivid pink. She passes the desks at which women are hand-counting stacks of currency at incredible speed — the collective SOUND is what a train made of leaves would make.

Hands with thimbles on every finger go through a stack of ¥10,000 bills revealing, again and again, the face of Prince Shōtoku.

Our secretary is carrying the express mail letter in her hand as she walks through the counting room.

She approaches a door on which are etched, in Japanese, the words MANAGER, KOKUBUNJI BRANCH, NIPPON TRUST BANK (支店長 行国分寺支店 日本信託銀)

She knocks perfunctorily and enters.

MANAGER’S OFFICE

The bald spot on the MANAGER’s head as he goes over papers. Raises his goggled face at the sound of the door.

Our secretary hands over the envelope, making a face.

The Manager takes the envelope and sees what she means — the envelope is fat, soiled, and the address written in a childish, unlettered hand.

Secretary turns to go.

Manager takes a letter opener, slits the envelope, finds a sheaf of papers inside.

Secretary half out of the door when the Manager: “what the hell?!”

* * *

15 minutes later the same Secretary leads a platoon of cops, uniformed and detectives, through the counting room. Slowly, as the cops are noticed, some of the bank workers stop their count and pan their heads to watch the cops.

THE DETECTIVE in the lead. He’s in a cheap but well-pressed suit. He needs a shave, he’s tieless, and looks like he might have been up for five days straight, but he has decent style, a natural suavity. One solitary gray-haired woman keeps up a demonic money count, oblivious to the cops.

* * *

If a female employee does not bring 3 million yen to the designated location by 5:00 pm tomorrow, the manager's house will be blown to bits

(翌7日午後5時までに指定の場所に300万円を女性行員に持ってこさせないと、支店長宅を爆破する)

That’s the letter — and the words have been cut out of a magazine and glued together to make the sentence.

“Fingerprints?”

The letter is on the manager’s desk. 6 pairs of police eyes staring down at it.

A UNIFORM replies to The Detective:

“‘Guys are on their way”.

Meanwhile the Manager paces back and forth in front of the blinds. Does not, actually, want his house blown up. Stop pacing, with:

“I haven’t been able to reach my wife. I haven’t reached my wife and child.”

“Try it again” — that’s the Detective, over his shoulder to another COP, who’s standing with the desk’s telephone receiver in his hand. Cop starts in on the rotary dial again (it’s 1968) and Detective turns back to the Manager with “No reason to think anything’s happened to them, sir.”

Manager not mollified. Doesn’t know what to do with his hands, his face, his soul.

* * *

Packets of cash are being secreted in a carpet bag.

The Uniform from earlier is taking the packets from a cash pile on the Manager’s desk and putting them in the bag. “No need to rupture the seals on these monies — ‘manager supervised the teller’s count personally.”

He laughs, he thinks he’s funny.

The Detective doesn’t think he’s funny.

They’re in the manager’s office, but it’s 12 hours later — night, lights burning — and the furniture has been pushed to the walls. New: a chalkboard, on which a rudimentary map has been done in white and blue chalk, plus arrows and stickmen and squiggles in the shape of cars.

The Manager isn’t here. The Detective now gives a head gesture at a FEMALE BANK EMPLOYEE we haven’t met, in uniform, hair severely tied back. She steps up to the desk where Uniform finishes loading the cash into the carpet bag.

Detective: “You’re a bank employee. Leave the bag and go. Nice and simple, they’re never tipped you’re a cop.”

The Bank Employee Who’s Actually a Cop says “Got it.”

Uniform to her “Any shortfall in the monies, we know it was you ‘took it”.

He still thinks he’s funny. Actually a Cop hefts the carpet bag—

“Heavy, right?” asks the Detective, meaning “too heavy for you?”

“No sir,” she says.

* * *

Daylight again.

A nondescript car parked on a street out in the sticks, miles from Tokyo Tokyo. SOUND: howling wind. December 1968 is cold.

Two aboard: Uniform and Cop Who Was On The Telephone, both now plainclothed.

Uniform yawns, hugs himself, rubbing his own arms, cold. They’ve been here all night. Telephone Cop winds down his window, curses at the cold, dumps a paper cup of something to the curb.

The piss steams in the cold.

THEIR POINT OF VIEW

Through the windshield of a huge empty lot where a building (a factory?) has been semi-demolished. Clumps of bricks that used to be walls — twisted metal rods — a DOOR SET IN A DOORFRAME minus anything around it. This lonely door suddenly SLAMS SHUT as the wind hits it.

Looks like a warzone.

And you could hide an army division here.

This is the HANDOVER SPOT.

ON SOUND: the drone of an airplane.

Uniform: “American base one kilometer away.”

Telephone Cop doesn’t care. Winds up his window again. “Bloody cold!”

A WATCHFACE

Shows 4:53. The seconds hand tick-tick-ticks.

It’s the Detective’s watch.

He’s driver’s side in another parked car, on a different street on a different side of the abandoned lot.

Next to him sits the Female Cop in Bank Uniform Disguise.

Backseat another PLAINCLOTHES with our carpet bag of cash on his lap.

Detective: “Here we go now”.

Disguise Cop cracks open her door, having to push against the wind. She shivers.

Detective keeps his eyes front.

His POV: the abandoned lot, new angle — an old, twisted water tower defying gravity by not collapsing.

Disguise Cop at the backdoor now, leaning in to be handed the carpet bag by Backseat Cop.

ABANDONED LOT FROM ABOVE

Looks like a bomb site.

We find a small figure below us: Disguised Cop in her bank uniform, walking toward the factory ruins, carrying the carpet bag.

The Detective in the car watches her go.

With Disguised Cop now as she picks her way carefully into the lot — her high heels make it tricky work on the loose debris.

(Back to Uniform and Cop in their car, on a different street, watching a different angle of the abandoned lot. They can’t see Disguise Cop from their vantage point. To them, nothing is happening.

Uniform: “Crack the window.”

Cop wants to know why.

Uniform: “I just farted.”)

BACK WITH DISGUISE COP

She’s penetrated a few meters into the wrecked lot. Her immaculate uniform contrasts with the dusty ruins around her. She pauses, perhaps wondering where exactly to leave the carpet bag. Wind whips at her. It’s freezing.

UNKNOWN POINT OF VIEW

A new angle, from behind a wrecked wall, of Disguise Cop, who from here is half-obscured by ruins. This might be the criminal’s point of view. We don’t know. BACK TO:

The Detective, watching Disguise Cop from his car. She passes the ruined water tower that dominates this sector of the ruins, looking up at it.

The Detective betrays no concern. Brings his watch up to his face. 4:58.

Disguise Cop presses on now, stepping carefully over twisted metal, carrying the heavy carpet bag.

THE DOOR IN A DOORFRAME standing there without anything around it. The wind causes the door to go through a cycle of SLAMMING shut, then falling open again. The blustery wind means this happens irregularly — sometimes SLAMS come in quick succession, sometimes not.

Disguise Cop approaches the door.

In their car, Uniform and Cop now see her come into view. From their angle, the wind-assisted door opens (revealing Female Cop), then SLAMS, hiding her from view again.

She approaches the door:

It SLAMS into a HUGE CLOSE UP:

DETAIL OF THE DOOR

Its black surface has been carved with crude (Japanese) graffiti: 資本主義破壊せよ!

BACK INTO UNKNOWN POINT OF VIEW

And now we’re moving…creeping through the ruins…we see nothing but wreckage but the loud SLAM of the door tells us we’re very close to the door/the Cop…

We stop behind some ancient rusted factory machinery, a loom of some kind. We peek out. We see Disguise Cop from behind, just meters away…

Who now is considering the best arrangement for leaving the bag.

The Detective watches from the car. She’s small in the distance. No one else is visible — not the UNKNOWN POINT OF VIEW person — BANG of the door slamming again…

Female Cop decides — steps in her heels right up to the door, then lowers the carpet bag to the ground so it is within the swing arc of the door.

She steps back. Now, when the wind causes the door to slam, the bag is in the way. The BANG of the slam is replaced with a near-silent THAWP of the door hitting the bag.

Uniform and Cop register this new rhythm. From their POV the Female Cop steps away from the doorframe and disappears.

The Detective watches the Female Cop hobble back over the broken ground towards his car, minus carpet bag.

BACK AT THE DOOR:

The wind temporarily having dropped, instead of slamming, this time the door comes to a gentle rest against THE MONEY BAG. SOUND OF THE WIND OUT:

“They never came for it.”

“Never came for the money?”

“Dunno, left it there, 3m yen and they never picked it up, ‘cops said.”

FOUR DAYS LATER we’re in a LOADING DOCK, with THREE MEN in black coats who’re stomping their feet to keep warm.

They’re waiting at a long metal counter. The loading dock is the size of a double garage. A black Nissan Cedric sedan is parked.

“Saito-san,” one of the men says, “you have the keys. Get the heater running?”

SAITO, the oldest of the three, goes over to the Nissan, chooses the correct key from a big bunch he’s found in his pocket, gets the ignition on.

A door opens. The men look up. A cart is pushed through the door, on which 3 large duralumin suitcases are stacked.

The person pushing the cart is the Secretary we saw at the top of the story.

She pushes the cart, which seems heavy, down a gentle ramp to the garage floor where the men wait (none try to help her).

Once the cart is down on their level, one of the men hefts the large suitcases one by one onto the metal counter.

The Secretary now hands over paperwork; Saito pulls out a hanko (name stamp) from his pocket. Over this:

Saito: “Heard you saw the letter?”

Secretary: “I handled it.”

Saito: “They never came for the money?”

Secretary: “The Manager was terrified. They said ‘your house gets blown up.’”

Another one of the Men taps the topmost metal suitcase, whose metallic surface gives a ringing sound: “How much is it today?”

Secretary, precisely: “294,307,500 yen.”

The man whistles. “Not bad.”

Secretary: “Yearly bonuses for the Toshiba Fuchu Factory.”

The three metal suitcases go into the trunk of the Nissan — the rear axle crouching visibly from the weight.

The Nissan’s exhaust chugs out smoke as Saito leans down, tenses, then with one single movement pulls up the metal door of the loading dock, allowing blinding sunlight in.

The Nissan emerges from the bank into a Tokyo street — where it passes a GROUP OF STUDENTS PROTESTORS, with placards and flags, are on the way to or from a demonstration.

The heater blasts.

Saito drives.

Sound of an airplane going very low overhead.

The guys pay it no attention.

The Nissan makes a turn onto a narrow road. On the left side of the road a very high wall continues off into the distance.

Inside the car:

From the backseat: “Millions of yen, just left there for anyone to pick up…”

Saito: “The cops will’ve been watching.”

Passenger Seat Guy: “I got a cousin’s in there.”

He head-gestures to the high wall on the left side of the road. Razor wire atop it.

Backseat: “Your cousin’s in prison?”

Saito: “He a thief?”

Passenger: “Some fake insurance thing.”

Saito: “Not the same at all.”

Passenger: “Almost had my wife handing him our life savings.”

Saito: “That’s not the same as threatening to blow up a bank manager’s house for 3 million yen.”

Passenger, aggrieved now: “I didn’t say it was!”

SOUND OF A SIREN

Eyes swerve to mirrors.

A police motorcyclist swings out from a side-road 100m behind the Nissan.

White-helmeted, big radio-mic strapped to his face, very precise. The SIREN blasts as he throttles up to catch the Nissan.

Saito’s eyes come off the rear-view. “Rather not stop right next to Fushu Prison…”

Saito takes foot off accelerator and the car starts to coast. SIREN gets closer—

Policeman still giving the bike some speed.

He slows as he reaches the coasting Nissan, flicks off the SIREN with a precise movement, then weaves into escort position and raises his white gauntleted left hand to waves the car down.

Saito looks across at him. Car and bike now doing 10kph, conversation possible.

“NIPPON TRUST BANK,” says the cop, breath coming out as a cloud.

Saito: “YES?”

“There’s been an explosion at the manager’s house.”

Holy shit! say the men’s faces — they really did it!

Saito stops the car.

The cop, very quick, halts his bike, flicks out the kickstand, steps off. Strides back to the car, saying: “I’m from Koganei Police Station. We got an emergency call from Sugamo Police Station, the house of the Sugamo branch manager of your bank has been blown up—”

Backseat: “They’ve done it with the Sugamo manager, not ours!”

Motorcycle Cop already continuing: “They said dynamite has been planted in this vehicle, check the interior now please!”

Instant panic mode — three men desperately look around the cramped interior—

Passenger: “No, no! No?”

Saito: “No!”

Backseat: “I don’t know!”

Cop: “No?”

Backseat: “Don’t think so!”

Cop: “Are you sure? Get out now, get out now!”

Permission granted, our guys tumble out of their doors.

Cop again: “Are you sure it wasn’t in there?”

The bank guys don’t want to be anywhere near potential dynamite and reply with shrugs.

Cop, not exactly enthusiastic: “It might be under the car…”

The bank guys watch as the Cop doesn’t look under the car. Instead, he goes round to the front, pops the hood.

Cop: “Come here.”

Who come here? The bank guys don’t look enthusiastic. Share a look. Saito, the driver, steps forward.

Cop: “Look with me around the engine.”

Cop and Saito examine engine bay — nada, no dynamite.

“Alright, step back now.”

Saito steps back. The Cop kneels, looks under the car. “Step back. Way back.”

Bank guys don’t need to be told twice. Look around for cover. Not much. Backseat Guy goes and cowers behind a telegraph pole.

Cop gets down on his belly now, looking under the car.

“Don’t see anything.”

Passenger Seat Guy feels they’ve been released from their responsibilities with the law on the scene: “We should get out of here.” That’s what they’re all thinking, but Saito’s in charge and he doesn’t move.

Cop still on his belly says “Might be something under here!”

He snake-crawls under the car till only his legs are visible.

“Here is it!”

Bank guys react.

WHOOSH! Smoke and flames burst out!

Bank guys re-react.

The cops legs as he wiggles back from under the car, shouting “It’s dynamite! It’s going to explode!”

He’s out from under now “get out of here!” and the bank guys are already scattering —

From a hedge, 50 meters away, as the bank guys sprint towards us. In background the Nissan is now almost completely enveloped in smoke.

Saito, old and wheezy, bringing up the rear says “Stay in the road to stop the traffic!” but his two younger colleagues aren’t listening, they leap behind the hedge and hide.

Back with the Nissan, within the cloud of smoke and the Cop opens the driver’s door, gets in, starts the engine with the keys Saito left in the ignition and…pulls away.

Saito, manfully standing in the road stopping a confused motorist (who opens his window and sticks his head out to ask what’s going on). Saito turns back to look up the road where, by the high walls of Fuchu Prison, the smoke-cloud has now dissipated enough for him to see the Nissan is — GONE. The police motorbike — still there. Off Saito’s confused face—

The scene

* * *

Let’s go from The Kyote to (Japanese) Wikipedia:

The “dynamite” was still emitting a small amount of smoke and flames, but no matter how long the bank guys waited, there was no explosion. Finally they approached it with trepidation and found that it was just a signal flare, which soon went out.

The driver, who was knowledgeable about motorcycles, realized that the abandoned “police motorcycle” was a fake, and that’s when they knew — whoops — they’d just been heisted of 294,307,500 yen cashola ($1.9m — worth around $17m today.)

They shouted up to the guards at the Fuchu Prison watchtower nearby, “Our car has been stolen! Please report it!”, and ran to a gas station closeby to borrow a phone and report the whole thing to the bank.

After confirming motorcycle guy was a fakey, the Metropolitan Police Department threw up roadblocks all around Tokyo, looking for the black 1964 Nissan Cedric 1900 Custom money vehicle — but found it abandoned nearby.¹

Fake Motorcycle Cop had changed to another, stolen car, and got away clean.

Eyewitness Evidence

The bank guys saw Motorcycle Cop. Unfortunately, in cop misconduct style, instead of doing an Identikit thing, where witnesses choose the facial features one by one from a bank of pictures of mouths, noses, etc., the cops instead found a suspect*, then found a photo of someone who looked like the suspect, then tried to foist the photo on the bank guys as the culprit so they could arrest their suspect.

Anyway, hundreds of thousands of wanted bills of the above photo were printed and distributed nationwide, and pretty much every man, woman and child in Japan thought the photo was of the suspect, instead of an approximation what the guy might look like.

* The suspect (known as “S”) was a 19 year old leader of a gang of delinquents who liked to steal cars. His father was a motorcycle cop, so presumably he knew the ins-and-outs of the job plus bikes.

Physical Evidence

There was oodles of it, vast amounts. The motorcycle was stolen and converted to look like a real police bike. That gave evidence from the paint-job, the microphone used for the siren, the cookie tin used to look like the document box all police bikes had etc. etc.

There was the signal flare, sold in their thousands at gas stations, plus magnets used to attach it to the bottom of the car, of which tens of thousands were in circulation.

The letters cut out to write the threatening letter came from a magazine, entire pages of which were cut out and wrapped around the outside of the flare — linking the earlier bomb threat directly to the robbery. They found saliva on the letter stamps but the forensic science of the time could do no better than find it was blood type B.

Oh, and also, left with the bike, were dozens of everyday household objects. This tricky bastard knew the cops would have to waste time tracing every single one of them.

No one was hurt in the robbery — but two cops died from overwork trying to track down the physical evidence.

And one other person died: S — the anonymous suspect the police alighted upon. 19 years old, son of a motorcycle cop, leader of a delinquent gang. His home was searched — cops found nothing. His handwriting didn’t match the letter. He was blood type A, the stamp saliva was B.

More to the point, he was a kid with no knowledge of the movements of the Nippon Trust Bank money transport cars.

The cops staked out his house.

They hear the kid and his father arguing.

The kid committed suicide that night, with potassium cyanide his father had purchased.

Death #3 surrounding the ¥300m robbery.

Postscript

• They never found motorcycle cop.

• They found the empty metal suitcases.

• They never found the money.

• In December 1975, eight years after the crime, the criminal statute of limitations passed. No one could be charged with the crime. The perpetrator did not come forward.

• In December 1988, twenty years after the crime, the statute of limitations for civil action against the perpetrator passed. The thief could then come forward without facing any legal repercussions. The perpetrator did not come forward.

• Over the years several sad individuals have come forward claiming responsibility; none have been able to cite the secret evidence police have kept from publication that would prove they are the culprit.

• As is usual for such a high profile unsolved case, several conspiracy theories have gained currency. A prominent one: that the whole thing was a fugazi used a pretext for an aggressive crackdown on the student movement, which was on the rise at the time (in the immediate aftermath of the robbery, police conducted aggressive, warrant-less door-to-door raids of student accommodations nearby).

• If it had been us, we’d’ve come forward and written the book by now…

---

Until next week,

The Kyote

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1. https://ja.wikipedia.org/wiki/%E4%B8%89%E5%84%84%E5%86%86%E4%BA%8B%E4%BB%B6