by I. J. Parker
Mrs. Hamada’s hands twitched. He could see now that they were work-worn, the nails chipped and broken. “I must go,” she whispered. “Unless …” She gave a small gasp. “The Ministry of Justice,” she cried. “You work for the Ministry of Justice, sir? Oh, sir, do you know of something else I might try?”
Actually Akitada’s predicament was not without humor. His reputation as a solver of mysteries and crimes had gained him a certain reputation among the noble families and government officials, but it clearly had not penetrated to this strange woman. She merely hoped for legal advice.
“Tell me,” he asked, “why no one else has suspected the man was not who he claimed to be.”
“My husband … or … this man spent four years traveling and buying goods. On his return journey he was ship-wrecked off the coast of Tsushima island. He caught the smallpox there, and almost died. It was another year before he could hide away on a fishing boat and return to Japan.”
“But five years is not very long,” said Akitada dubiously.
“The man who claimed to be my husband is very like him, except … the smallpox has scarred his face terribly. And he limps on the same leg as my husband did.”
“What about his hair? His voice? Height? Mannerisms?”
“They were close enough. And he knew things, I don’t know how, but he knew all about the shop and the children, even his mother’s favorite story.”
“His mother is alive? What does she say?”
“Mother is nearly blind and hard of hearing. She was overjoyed when he returned. Besides even I, at first …” She flushed crimson and whispered, “I wanted to believe. But a wife knows.”
Akitada made up his mind. He paid for the food and told her, “Be near the store tomorrow at the same time. I must check out some things.”
He went back to the curio store first. Hamada’s was the largest and best of its kind in the capital and carried not only a variety of fine games and musical instruments, but also children’s toys. Today was a special day in Akitada’s family. His son, having turned four this year, would be putting on his first pair of trousers on this day. The soothsayer had been consulted, the day pronounced auspicious for the ceremony, the boy’s mother, grandmother, and aunts were arranging an elaborate family feast, and Akitada had been on his way to buy his son a present when he had encountered Mrs. Hamada peering over the fence for a glimpse of her own sons.
The store bustled with customers. A loud-voiced, barrel-chested man with a horribly scarred face--no doubt the alleged Hamada--had joined his assistants to wait on clients. Akitada was greeted by a very young salesman with a timid manner and he asked to see some toys suitable for a small boy.
While he waited, he studied the curio dealer surreptitiously. He did not recall Hamada from earlier visits, never having been an important enough customer to get the personal attention of the owner. The smallpox had left thick scar tissue and holes in the man’s cheeks and chin and distorted his nose and lips. In every other respect he was of ordinary appearance, middle-sized, broad-shouldered, thickened about the waist, his hair heavy and straight and neatly tied up. His voice, too, though strong, was ordinary, and his speech that of any city merchant. More significantly, he seemed to know his merchandise.
“Are any of these what the gentleman was looking for?” The shy young man was pointing to an assortment of balls, sticks, shuttle-cocks, and kites. “For a boy who is active?” he added with a little smile.
Akitada smiled back. Oh, yes. His boy was very active. A football? He had always enjoyed that himself. But perhaps four was a little young. Stilts? No. Too soon. A painted giccho ball with its curved stick? The little fellow could manage that well enough, and it would teach him agility. On second thought, though, the noise of a large wooden ball rolling about the wooden corridors of his home all day long might not be desirable. Kites in winter? Hardly. Akitada sighed. “It is not a good time of year for out-door sports,” he said to the young salesman.
“How about a spinning top, then?” boomed a voice behind him.
Akitada turned and almost recoiled. A demon’s face was grimacing hideously at him, wide purple lips drawn back to bare crooked yellow teeth. The man who called himself Hamada was taking an interest in a sale. No doubt this ghastly expression was a smile. Akitada controlled a strong sense of revulsion and nodded pleasantly, “Yes, perhaps. Thank you for the suggestion.”
“We have a very fine one,” continued the curio dealer, “large and painted with dragons in many colors. Children love the way the colors mingle when it spins. Get it, Noro!” The young assistant bowed, and ran. “Idiot!” growled the dealer.
“What?” asked Akitada, startled.
“That boy who waited on you. He’s an idiot and lazy. Don’t know why I took him on. His father couldn’t pay me enough to put up with such a slow fool. Have to lay into him with the bamboo almost every day.”
“I thought he was very helpful.”
The apprentice, out of breath and with beads of perspiration on his brow, returned with the magnificent top.
“Well?” thundered the curio dealer, glaring at the unfortunate youngster. “Are you just going to stand there? Show the gentleman how the thing works.”
“Yes, sir,” the apprentice whispered. With trembling fingers he wound a string about the top and attempted to spin it. But in his nervousness, he let the top scoot off to disappear in the folds of a customer’s full trousers.
Hamada’s face darkened with fury. He raised a fist.
Akitada said quickly, “It is the perfect gift, Mr. Hamada. Please have the young man wrap it for me.” While he waited for the toy to be retrieved, his eye fell on a zither a customer was strumming. “Do you still have your father’s Chinese lutes?” he asked the curio dealer.
The man swelled with pride. “Of course. Our family treasure. Would you care to have a look, sir?”
“I am in a hurry today, but I know someone who would be very eager to see them. He is a collector of rare instruments.”
Hamada’s eyes narrowed greedily. He rubbed his hands. “A collector you say? It so happens I might put them on the market. The expense of a growing family, you understand.”
“Then perhaps I might return tomorrow at this time with my friend?”
“Of course, of course. It would give me the greatest pleasure.” The dealer bowed Akitada out of the store with many expressions of delight.
From Hamada’s, Akitada went directly to the Imperial Office for Court Music and had a chat about Chinese lutes with the retired court musician Tamemori.
Afterward he paid a visit to the Municipal Police Headquarters and asked to speak to Captain Kobe. This meeting was difficult. A number of years ago, Akitada had solved a particularly complicated series of murders on the grounds of the Imperial University, and this embarrassment had not made Kobe very fond of him. In fact, the police captain considered Akitada a mere dilettante, a meddler in things that did not concern him. Therefore, it took all of Akitada’s persuasive powers to have him agree to his plan.
• • •
The following day, shortly after the noon hour, three very important-looking personages entered Hamada’s store. Akitada, in official silk robe and black cap led the way. Behind him came an elderly man, venerable with his white hair and beard, in a gorgeous brocade robe, and a tall, middle-aged gentleman in semi-formal court dress and with a very superior scowl on his stern face.
The young salesman recognized Akitada immediately.
“This way, your Honor,” he said, bowing deeply and leading them to the back of the store. “Mr. Hamada expects your Honor and the noble gentlemen.”
Hamada awaited them in his private quarters, a small, luxuriously matted room behind the public sales area. He knelt immediately and bowed deeply. On a low table next to him rested three ancient musical instruments resembling zithers. His visitors approached and looked at them.
“Cushions!” hissed Hamada to his apprentice, and cushions appeared immediately.
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They seated themselves, and Hamada said, “I understand there is an interest in these rare instruments.” He rubbed his large, square hands nervously and looked at Akitada’s companions. “My father’s Chinese lutes are three of only five authentic ones in this country. The other two are owned by His Majesty. Nothing else in this humble shop approaches them in rarity. How can I be of service to Your Excellencies?”
“Thank you for letting us see your treasures, Mr. Hamada,” said Akitada. “This is Counsellor Tamemori, and the other gentleman is Captain Kobe, a special friend of mine.”
Hamada bowed deeply to both.
Kobe leaned forward and poked one of the lutes with a long finger. “Don’t look like any lutes I ever saw,” he commented.
Hamada said quickly, “Chinese lutes are different in design from Japanese ones,” and turned his attention to the elderly man.
“I assume,” said Akitada to the curio dealer, “that your father told you all about the provenance of these instruments.”
Hamada smiled. “Certainly. My father was extremely proud of these and made sure that I understood their value and everything about them.”
“Can you play them?” asked the white-haired Tamemori, caressing one of the lutes and touching the silk strings lovingly.
“I’m afraid I have no musical talent,” said Hamada. “But my ancient mother used to play a little. My father taught her the technique. Excuse me a moment.”
Hamada left the room.
“Well?” asked Akitada, looking at Tamemori.
The old man nodded. “I think you are right. The instruments are authentic, but they should have been oiled, and the silk re-strung. These lutes will not play in their present condition, and may already be damaged by the neglect.”
Kobe said grimly, “Well, we’ll see soon enough. If you’re right, I would not want to be in his shoes. He will have to explain a number of very suspicious circumstances.”
Akitada raised his brows. “You surprise me. In your office yesterday you acted as if my suggestion were mad.”
Kobe flushed. “You have a way of interfering in police investigations. Briefly then: When his wife brought charges, we checked. He carried the real Hamada’s travel documents and told a convincing story, but I thought privately that he was vague about the places he had visited. By a coincidence, shortly before this Hamada appeared in town, we caught a bandit who claimed that a gang was operating between here and Naniwa on the coast. The gang specializes in robbing merchants traveling between the capital and the port city. The prisoner claimed that the gang had been selling off Chinese imports, painted scrolls, jade carvings, fine porcelain jars and so forth.” He paused, then added heavily, “If they caught the real Hamada on his return from China and if one of the gang members decided to impersonate him, the merchant must be dead.” He broke off when the door opened.
Hamada was leading an ancient woman in a black silk gown. She was bent almost double and nearly bald. Guiding her to the table, he said loudly, “Mother, these are three noble gentlemen who wish to hear you play Father’s lute.”
“What?” she said, peering at the visitors nearsightedly. “Lute, did you say?
My fingers are much too stiff.” She lowered herself painfully onto a cushion, and, muttering to herself, handled all three lutes, one after the other.
“Do the lutes have names?” Akitada asked Hamada.
The curio dealer hesitated, then said, “Yes, of course. All famous lutes do.”
“Well, what are their names?” snapped Kobe.
“Hmm. This large one here is called Singing Breeze, the one next to it Temple Bells, and the small one Cricket.”
“What did you say?” asked Tamemori, leaning his white head forward and putting a hand to his ear.
“They are called Temple Bells, Singing Breeze and Cricket, your Excellency,” repeated Hamada loudly.
The old woman raised her head. “What?” she asked sharply. “What is called Cricket?”
“Never mind, Mother. Show these gentlemen how they sound.”
“I used to know the song ‘Dancing with the Blue Phoenix.’” She stroked the strings of the lute Hamada had called Temple Bells. “Singing Bell needs new strings. Why doesn’t it have new strings?”
Hamada looked apologetically at his visitors. “I’m afraid my mother is very old. Her mind wanders. Of course everyone knows that it is wrong to replace any part of an antique. It destroys its value.”
Tamemori sighed. “It is very disappointing. I had my heart set on seeing the proper touch demonstrated. It is not necessary to play a tune. Could your mother just show us how she plucks the strings?”
The old woman stared at Tamemori. “You’re my age, sir. Did you hear me when I played Singing Bell?” she asked in a quavering voice. “I played for the Crown Prince. Were you there that day?”
“Come, Mother,” Hamada said in a peremptory tone. “Time to go back to your room.” He tried to lift her to her feet, but she slapped aside his hands.
“Singing Bell,” she cried. “Not Temple Bells. You know it is Singing Bell. And the strings are old, and you have not oiled the wood. Your father used to take such care of the lutes.” She burst into tears, and Hamada led her out.
The three men looked at each other.
“Well, are you satisfied?” Akitada asked Kobe.
The Police Captain nodded, rose, and went out. When he returned, he was accompanied by the younger Mrs. Hamada who took one look at the lutes and cried out, “Oh, they must be oiled right away. My husband and I always oiled the lutes three times a year.”
Hamada, coming in, stopped. “Who let this woman in? She has no right to be here.”
“On the contrary,” said Akitada. “It is you who have no right here. The real Hamada would have known all about his treasured lutes and cared for them properly. Counsellor Tamemori here oversees the treasures in the Imperial Music Office. He is an expert on the care of Chinese instruments. And Captain Kobe is superintendent of the Municipal Police. He has some questions about the kidnapping and murder of the real Hamada near Naniwa.”
The curio dealer’s disfigured face blanched a pasty white. He fell to his knees and touched his head to the floor.
“Then my husband is dead?” whispered Mrs. Hamada.
A heavy silence fell.
Suddenly there was the sound of young voices outside the room. She turned toward it, deep joy suffusing a face wet with tears.
Go is a board game that involves strategy. It resembles chess (which was also known in Akitada’s time) and is widely played by the upper classes where it inspired the sort of devotion Kawabata describes so well in his great novel, The Master of Go. It would have appealed to Akitada, who is by nature a man of thought and discipline. Here, the rivalry between Akitada and Captain Kobe dominates their reluctant friendship.
A Master of Go
The proper method … was to lose all awareness of self while awaiting an adversary’s play.
Yasunari Kawabata, The Master of Go.
Heian-Kyo (Kyoto): eleventh century; during the Long-Nights month (October):
A PAIR of ducks bobbed for food among the drifting leaves, taking turns so that one of them could keep a wary eye on the human watching them from the bridge. A cuckoo burst into sudden song in one of the willows: ‘Ho-to-to.’ ‘Ho-to-to.’
Akitada looked up from the ducks and saw the bird swaying on a slender branch. Sun-bright yellow against the pale blue of the morning sky, the willow’s leaves seemed to drift as gently on the breeze as their fallen companions bobbed with the ducks in the current of the canal below. Heaving a deep sigh of satisfaction, Akitada decided that he had achieved the proper frame of mind for his go lesson and crossed the bridge.
The go-master Nakamura was very poor and gave his lessons in the art of the ancient board game in the back room of an old inn because his house had become almost uninhabitable. The inn was near the university, in a pleasant, quiet street within a block of broad Suzaku Avenue. The
inn’s clientele was quiet and genteel, its service excellent, and the back room had the sort of elegance and peacefulness never found in ordinary inns.
But when Akitada turned the corner from Suzaku Avenue, he saw a small crowd gathered before the inn’s gate. A number of red-coated constables with bows and quivers of arrows looped over their shoulders were just disappearing into the courtyard.
His peace of mind gone, Akitada hurried after them. Nobody was about in the reception area, so he removed his boots quickly and followed the sound of raised voices. With more apprehension, Akitada recognized the gruff tone of Captain Kobe, head of the capital police.
The chief would not have been called out for a minor matter. They had met before, though “collided” would be a better term, and always on murder investigations. Kobe was a conscientious and dedicated official but not particularly imaginative or patient, often charging like a bull after the most obvious solutions. Akitada had interceded in more than one of Kobe’s cases until the captain had developed an intense aversion to his meddling.
