And so it was only a matter of time before Kiyono-san became enamoured and started spending a lot of time with me. I was by his side during his Oichu-Kabu card sessions. People thought I was his mistress, but really, I was not. Kiyono-san liked me and enjoyed the elaborate manner in which I would praise his business acumen. From time to time, when he was in a talkative mood and spoke of a problem here or there, I would offer a gentle suggestion which he greatly appreciated and then put into practice. He started referring to me as his good luck charm. All this within three months, Dr. Watson!
One day, he called for a meeting of some of his lieutenants at a gambling house. He requested that I be in attendance and serve sake. I agreed.
I recognized Takada, Murakami, Kobayashi, Itoh, and Sasaki, his most loyal core team. I served sake continuously and made efforts to be inconspicuous. The men appreciated the near-invisible attention.
‘The Europe project is now to begin,’ Kiyono-san addressed his team, ignoring me completely. ‘Our plans are in place. Shirahata-san has confirmed that our contacts in the Japanese Embassies have been activated. Money is being sent to them. You must now make plans to move to Europe immediately. Expect to be there for at least a year, if not two. Takada—you must be stationed in Rome. Murakami—Paris, Itoh—Berlin, Kobayashi—Berne, and Sasaki in London. You know what your occupations are to be. Await further instructions there. I myself will be travelling to Paris to meet the professor to formalize arrangements. I will meet each of you individually in Europe to check on your progress.’
‘How sure are we of the Chinese?’ asked Takada.
‘I am convinced and so is our Oyabun. Our expertise is not opium itself. We are to provide the Chinese with the safe channels they need for trade. We have signed an agreement with the Shanghai syndicate. We collect twenty percent of the sales value in Europe. That should be substantial. We have been given a million American dollars as a guarantee of good faith.’
Kiyono-san rolled out several maps and the team discussed various plans over the course of the night. They were interrupted by a couple of young men who had just completed an ubitsume ceremony. Their faces were ashen. They had wrapped their severed digits in a soft white cloth and, bowing low, presented their package to Itoh and Sasaki respectively. Both nodded indifferently and bowed very slightly in return, acknowledging receipt. Blood still dripped on the floor. It was not a pretty sight.
I thus slowly collected the strategic plans of the Sumiyoshi-kai Yakuza. I also gathered that the Inagawa-kai was doing precisely the same, for the simple reason of redundancy in operations. I reported all this to Oshima-san, who was both delighted by my efficiency and extremely alarmed by the news I had given him.
He then set up the process for Operation Kobe55, but what we lacked was a single force capable of converting our plan into action. That vacuum was filled by the entry of Sherlock Holmes.
My parents suddenly fell ill around this time (as I told Kiyono-san) and I had to leave Tokyo for a few months to be with them. I promised to be back. But of course, first I spent time with Oshima-san, working out the details of Operation Kobe55. Kazuo continued his business and did well enough in Tokyo.
Bombay
I do not like cities, my friend. The paths of friendly winds
are disturbed by ugly buildings. The vapours of the evil
thoughts of small people collect and abuse the heavens.
If you must visit Tokyo or Yokohama, do so, by
all means. But leave quickly, before your soul is
shackled. Return to your village near Nagasaki
and rest on the morning dew of the meadow.
From a distance, the city of Bombay did not look particularly attractive. The buildings seemed haphazard and decidedly ugly. I was at the doorstep of India, a land of history and incomprehensible, fascinating culture, of maharajahs and mystifying religious beliefs, of complex languages and unusual music. It had been so many years since I visited this vast country and yet it seemed somehow familiar.
The captain had met each of us and told us that the ship would halt for just one day at Bombay for repairs and to restock supplies and would leave promptly at two o’clock in the afternoon the next day. Rooms had been reserved for us at the stylish Watson’s Hotel,5 he said, and our personal effects could be taken there with us. He had to file a police report about the disappearance of David Joyce and also communicate with the ship owners in Liverpool by telegram. Dr. James Israel would stay behind to assist him in the unpleasant paperwork. He would also be occupied with some minor repairs to the ship’s boilers, he said.
‘Voyage not on schedule! Please return promptly,’ Captain Groves pleaded, ‘Or we may have no option but to leave you behind. But do enjoy the city. Good hotel! Excellent! Organized a tour of the city tomorrow morning! After which you will be brought straight here. And then we leave!’
At about ten o’clock in the morning we slowly moved into our berth in the harbour. A few gulls greeted our entry with loud squawks, skimming on the dark restless waters. On the dock, workers were busy preparing for the ship’s arrival.
The others seemed equally pleased to welcome landfall and breathe freely without the tension and suspicion that had cast a pall on the ship. The North Star was soon moored and secured and the gangplank laid out. The two Japanese trooped down first, followed by Colonel Burrowe, Miss Bryant, Mr. Shamsher Singh, and us. After the formalities at Customs, we stepped outside the port area. Coaches were waiting to transport us and our effects and, as planned, Holmes and I were together. Mr. Shamsher Singh, Miss Bryant, and Colonel Burrowe were in another coach and the Japanese in a third. The journey to the hotel was brief. We asked for a large suite and everyone repaired to their assigned rooms in short order. I followed Holmes blindly.
We were escorted to a first-floor suite and refreshed ourselves. I now prepared to learn as much as I could about Holmes’ mysterious reappearance in the guise of Simon Fletcher. By agreement, we had not discussed anything yet. Walls have ears even on ships and the priority was not conversation but simply staying alive.
Someone knocked on the door. Holmes opened it to admit a waiter with a large tray full of exotic dishes with unusual fragrances. ‘This is welcome to Watson’s Hotel,’ said the beaming young man, bowing repeatedly and then departing. I was in no mood to eat, still coming to terms with the fact that I was in the company of a man whose death I had been mourning for so long. I was surprised at myself: how could I not have guessed his identity on the North Star all these days?
And suddenly it seemed that that large hotel suite in Watson’s Hotel was 221B Baker Street. Holmes had found a chair quite similar to the one he was used to and had already settled down with his pipe. The two years of sorely felt absence evaporated in an instant.
‘These many months have been most trying, Watson,’ said Holmes. ‘I have seen a great deal of the world and encountered the most obtuse and base human behaviour. Sometimes I marvel that society even functions at a tolerable level where people can speak innocently of the advantages of a civilized existence. The rule of law is the exception, sadly, perhaps a vain, futile, and feeble attempt to resist the overwhelming current of impatient needs, jealousies, and consequent violence. Crime is endemic. Evil is forever bubbling everywhere. We are deluding ourselves when we think there is a frame of law that good citizens should have faith in and that shall guide individual destinies.’
I had rarely heard Sherlock Holmes speak in this bitter vein.
‘Doubtless you are shaken and confused by my sudden appearance and wonder at my whereabouts. You have a right to feel that I have been less than honest with you, Watson, and I am sorry that I did not communicate with you, even though I felt like doing so several times. Only my brother Mycroft and our friend Lestrade from Scotland Yard knew I was alive, apart from a few others, whose names I shall tell you soon. As to how I travelled from Meiringen to Bombay—well, it is a long story but needs
telling. I certainly would wish you to chronicle it for your amusement some time in the future. First, a brief summary and let us then take stock of the situation.’
Sherlock Holmes proceeded to tell me about his miraculous escape at Reichenbach Falls and about an extraordinary journey through Russia to Japan with a subsequent extended sojourn in Europe under an assumed identity (as an American importer of spirits, including Japanese sake, their rice wine) and the events that led to his being a passenger on the North Star (returning to Japan in possession of sensitive information with criminal gangs hot at his heels, hoping to head them off).
The story appeared so fantastic that I wondered sometimes if Holmes was entirely deranged. Secret agents, a criminal organization—no, not one, not two, but three! Operation Kobe55, Oshima, Nohara, Tsong Wang, opium dens, Shanghai, Yokohama, the Meiji Restoration, Professor Moriarty—the whole thing was bewildering in its complexity! But then, Holmes was never one to fantasize, being something of a machine, not concerned with anything but objective facts. The reader is directed to subsequent chapters in this book for the details.
‘Let us now come to the recent events that are most germane. I am Simon Fletcher on this trip, presumably, but Professor Moriarty, sitting in Paris, will sooner or later deduce my true identity. I would not be surprised if he already has, based on reports he must be receiving at regular intervals. Of this I am sure—the Japanese belong to the Yakuza and Miss Clara Bryant, far from being a fading, gentle lady travelling to Shanghai to tutor the Japanese consul’s children, is someone else. I do deduce a connection and even a lie, but shall not discuss it now. Colonel Burrowe—now who do you think he is, Watson?’
‘I could not say, Holmes. Why are you suspicious?’
‘It is in the nature of my business to be suspicious, Watson. I am surprised that you are not! You will recall he introduced himself as being in the Royal Horse artillery regiment, but you never, to the best of my knowledge, had any discussion with him on the ship about his experience with them. I, on the other hand, asked him a few questions very casually. If he had genuinely been in the Royal Horse, he would have known about the activities of that regiment in the Napoleonic War, who General George Campbell was, where the garrison was stationed in England, and so on. He could not even recall the colours of the Royal Horse regiment, which are blue with gold and red trappings. He responded to my friendly questions fluently, but in every case he lied, not being aware that I am quite familiar with military trivia. In brief, he had failed to do his homework, the hallmark of an overconfident master criminal who concludes, quite incorrectly, that a certain breezy fluency in speech and attitude will always cover a lie. That he was a soldier is not in doubt. But he was clearly not who he claimed to be.’
‘So who is he really?’
‘A general is only as effective as his advisors, Watson. This man is Colonel Sebastian Moran, formerly of the First Bangalore Pioneers. Incidentally, the Pioneers are the engineers of an army and a Pioneer cannot pass off as an Artillery man to the trained eye. He was decorated in Afghanistan and saw action at the Battle of Charasiab and then at the Battle of Sherpur, with a subsequent claim to fame as a big-game hunter. He is Professor Moriarty’s right-hand man, having taken up a life of crime after he retired from Her Majesty’s Army. Painful, yes, but such things do happen. A criminal streak lies dormant and can be triggered for some unknown reason, as a man of medicine like you would certainly appreciate, Watson; such was the case here, and very quickly he became Professor Moriarty’s aide, commissioned to execute the most audacious and sensitive of operations. You may recall the sensational theft of the Marquis of Kintyre’s sapphire ring, the bold assassination of the secretary of the Duke of Roxburghe, or even the shocking kidnapping of the young son of the ambassador of Slovenia. It was he who was behind those outrageous incidents. Military precision, the complete absence of any trace—why, I would even admire such a man if what he committed or abetted were not the gravest of crimes! But I digress.
‘This is a dangerous group, whose purpose in travelling together is to track me down before I reach Tokyo. I think they have one other purpose, but I am not yet sure; we shall know soon. Inspector David Joyce had been assigned by Lestrade to watch my back and to observe the other suspicious passengers on the North Star, especially the Japanese. I am sure Colonel Moran and the Japanese killed him. I believe they have been under the impression all this time, and possibly still are, that it is Shamsher Singh who is Sherlock Holmes and have been looking for ways to eliminate him. That may explain the event in Alexandria. That knife was intended for him, but the man is no fool. He sensed danger and saved your life too in the process. I know this because I followed the Japanese when they left the ship after you and saw one of them throw the knife. I then wrote the note to you, asking you to be alert. As to Hashimoto, I knew him as a secret agent stationed at the Japanese Embassy in London, returning home.
‘Do you recall, Watson, the Japanese characters on the sheet of paper that he told you about? Let me remind you.’
Holmes wrote the numbers on a piece of paper.
‘The numbers are “893”, the “signature” of the Yakuza, if you will. I will explain later what that means, but believe me when I say that it is of immense significance. It was I who slipped that paper under Mr. Hashimoto’s door, alerting him to the likely impending presence of the Yakuza on the ship. I was already aware that the two Japanese might join us at Marseilles, having been tipped off by Lestrade. Mr. Hashimoto could never have guessed it was me who had given him the warning, I imagine. When he finally died, he left behind a clue for whoever was able to understand—he wrote the same numbers on another sheet of paper with his own blood to declare that he was killed by the Yakuza.’
‘This is hair-raising, Holmes!’
‘I am being chased, Watson, because I have information that will break the back of a criminal conspiracy with very serious objectives. I had to leave because my identity was compromised. If I reach Japan and inform the authorities, certain individuals will be severely inconvenienced and they will not be pleased. In effect, we can expect to be intercepted between here and Japan at every turn. By my calculations, we must reach Tokyo and hand over the information by the tenth of August, which is the arrival date of the North Star into Yokohama. The Obon holiday starts thereafter and most of Japan will be away on vacation for extended periods. It would be a dangerous time for us and perhaps for others.
‘Many things will become clear as we travel and when we finally reach Yokohama, Watson. If we reach Yokohama. And then on to Tokyo, where I must meet my friend Mr. Oshima and give him the information he needs immediately. I will keep that secret even from you because it is highly sensitive and your very life may be in danger if it is found that you know things you should not. I know you will not mind.’
‘Certainly, Holmes. I respect your judgment.’
‘Thank you, Watson. Coming back to our current vexing situation—’
‘What about Mr. Shamsher Singh, Holmes?’ I interjected. ‘Is he what he says he is, do you think?’
‘I think that is the case, Watson. One can never be absolutely sure, of course, but I believe he is indeed an aide to the maharajah of Patiala. His bearing, language, knowledge, authority—everything indicates a man of great substance and command. My only concern is that he should not lose his life simply because Colonel Moran suspects him of being me.’
‘What next, then?’
‘The answer is clear in my mind, Watson, and I invite your opinion. I believe we should give Colonel Moran, Clara Bryant, and the Japanese the slip in Bombay. We should not continue our voyage on a ship where we have no advantage except, possibly, our wits. It is one thing to be courageous but quite another to be foolhardy and in a weak, unguarded position. If events happen on a merchant ship out in the sea, hundreds of miles from the outposts of civilization, there is no recourse and no protection. Shamsher Singh’s strong presence will be
missing too—he plans to be at the hotel for the rest of the day and then travel by train to Delhi and beyond later in the evening, if my memory serves me right. That is, provided he is not assassinated in the meanwhile. We should drop off at the last moment, feigning sickness, and take the next ship to Yokohama—which I think would be in a matter of days. Till then I continue to be the dull, uninspiring, and anonymous banker, Simon Fletcher.’
‘Your reasoning is always sound, Holmes.’
‘Thank you, Watson. Let us refresh ourselves and partake of a light meal, if you are so inclined.’
I stood up and went across to the table where the hotel waiter had placed the food earlier.
Holmes stepped forward and restrained me. ‘Not so fast, Watson. Trust no one.’
He carefully took a spoonful of the fragrant rice pilaf and stepped out to the balcony of the room where a large number of pigeons happened to be resting. He sprinkled the rice on the floor and we waited. A pigeon came forward boldly to try out the rice grains while the rest kept their distance. In a minute, the bird was in distress and as we watched, shocked, toppled over, quite dead.
Holmes and I looked at each other. There was nothing to be said.
We shooed the other birds away and cleaned up the poisoned rice, placing the dead bird carefully in a small box.
‘Well,’ shrugged Holmes. ‘I am sorry for the unnecessary death of the bird. But this validates our apprehensions. Someone does not desire that we should live. At the very least, they would like to incapacitate us. Perhaps we can use this to our advantage; we shall see. Let us go down to the lobby.’
We walked down and were relieved to find Mr. Shamsher Singh sitting at a table, leafing through a newspaper, which he set aside as we walked up.
‘Ah, gentlemen! Welcome! Do join me for lunch,’ he said, beaming at us.
We accepted his invitation. In the distance, I could see the two Japanese eating at a table and Miss Bryant and Colonel Moran at another, bent and absorbed in a discussion. They had not seen us.
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years, Japan Page 10
