The Crane Pavillion

by I. J. Parker

He resisted. “If the police have been called, surely it’s too late. What’s the rush? There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Oh, Saburo,” she wailed. “Why do you do this to me?”

  He gave up. They ran down the street together and cut over to the next thoroughfare, Shokichi in front, her skirts gathered with one hand so that he could see her shapely legs moving swiftly and seductively in front of him. “Is it far?” he cried, trying to keep up and hoping that this would at least earn him some lovemaking later on.

  “Next street. In the Daikoku-yu.”

  The Daikoku-yu was a bathhouse. The next street marked the boundary between the amusement quarter and the business area of the city. The owner of the Daikoku-yu, which was named for the god of wealth, had chosen an excellent location where he could draw his clientele from both ways of life and earn the largest possible income. In the nature of things, the shopkeepers and businessmen were not averse to sharing a bath with the pretty women from the quarter and so both benefitted, and the Daikoku-yu did an excellent business.

  A crowd had gathered outside the bathhouse, craning their necks. Through the double doors, Saburo could see the red coats of police. But before he and Shokichi reached the entrance, the crowd parted, and a line of policemen came marching out. In their midst was a slight figure in a white gown now terribly stained with blood. Sachi was still young and quite good-looking but for her fixed eyes. Now her head was raised, the sightless eyes seeming to search the sky for rescue. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she moaned softly. Her hands were chained together in front and two burly policemen dragged her along by this chain. As she could not see, she stumbled and started to fall once or twice. The policemen jerked her upright with a shout to “walk faster!”

  Before Saburo could stop her, Shokichi screamed “Sachi!” and rushed among the policemen to throw her arms around the blind woman. This earned her a back-handed slap from one of the constables. For good measure, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her aside so roughly that she fell to the ground. The police escort marched its prisoner away, and Saburo went to pick Shokichi up.

  She wept and railed at him for not stopping the police while he searched for a tissue in his sash to stem her tears.

  “Please,” he begged, “calm down, my love. Are you hurt? That animal! How dared he strike a woman. I’ll file a complaint against him. Hold still and hush.”

  She snatched the tissue from his hand, blew her nose, and said angrily, “This is not about me. Didn’t you see how they treated Sachi? She’s also a woman. And she’s blind.”

  “Yes, but there was no point in making matters worse. Let’s find out first what happened.”

  Shokichi looked upset but followed him inside.

  The wet steamy smell of the bathhouse met them, but there was also a whiff of something else, both sickening and disturbing. Saburo knew the smell. He had smelled blood before, his own and that of others. It seemed to come from a room at the end of the hallway to the left. Its door was open, and a few people had gathered there. Another redcoat stood at the door beside a fat man in a brown ramie robe that showed large sweat stains under the arms and around his neck.

  Saburo stopped. Shokichi had turned rather pale. He said, “I think it will be best if you stay back. Find someone who knew Sachi. Start with the bathhouse staff. Ask them if they know what happened and who the victim is. Can you do that?”

  She nodded. “What will you do?”

  “I want to have a look at the room where it happened. I’ll come to find you.”

  To his relief, Shokichi went off obediently. For a moment there, he had been afraid her anger over Sachi’s treatment by the police had spilled over to him.

  Saburo approached the fat man who was talking to the policeman. “Your pardon for the interruption,” he said, peering past them. “We came for a bath and wondered what happened.”

  The fat man turned and bowed to the customer. “Please forgive the inconvenience,” he said in an oily voice. “A small disturbance merely. I’m Jinzaemon, the owner. Allow me to show you the way.”

  Saburo eyed him with disfavor. “Someone died in there. I can smell the blood. What happened?”

  Jinzaemon fluttered a fat hand. “Sssh! No need to upset other guests. It was just a quarrel between a harlot and her customer. We discourage women soliciting here, but I’m afraid it happens anyway. The police have taken her away. It’s perfectly safe now.” He reached out to take Saburo’s elbow and lead him away, but Saburo side-stepped and slipped past the policeman to peer into the small room.

  It was barely large enough for a reed mat. Apparently it was used for massages or moxa treatments, but the scattered metal bowl, towels, and bloody shaving knife showed that Sachi had worked here, giving shampoos and shaves. Across the reed mat lay a skinny man on his side. His gray hair was undone and still wet. He wore only the thin cotton yukata provided by the bathhouse. The yukata, the reed mat, most of the towels, and part of the floor were covered with his blood. The blood had also spattered across one of the walls, making a strange swirling pattern as if the dead man had turned the moment his throat had been cut.

  A black-robed monk was rising to his feet beside the body. He wiped his bloody hands on a towel, then dropped it. “You can take him away now,” he told the policeman.

  The policeman elbowed Saburo out of the way, and let the monk out of the room. “Did she do anything else to him?” he asked the monk.

  The monk shook his head. “Just the slashed throat. It was quick.”

  The policeman noticed Saburo and opened his mouth to speak.

  “Who is the dead man?” Saburo asked quickly.

  The monk glanced at him. “Nakamura Minobe. To live is to die.”

  The policeman growled, “Get out! This is an official investigation.”

  Saburo retreated to stand with some of the other watchers, as the monk walked away. Several young women, prostitutes to judge by their colorful wraps and the smudged makeup on their faces, stood about. The one closest to him said, “He was a bastard. Sachi did a lot of people a favor.”

  Saburo eyed her with interest. “How so?”

  She glanced at him, stared at his scars and his rolling eye, and stepped back a little. Close-up, Saburo was still a shocking sight to women. He made an effort to control his eye and gave her a reassuring smile.

  “Nakamura’s got more money than the emperor,” she said. “The stingy bastard’s a regular here. People think he’s Daitoku himself.” She laughed harshly. “He lends money to people and charges twice the monks’ rate. The monks are choosy who they lend money to, but Nakamura doesn’t care as long as they pay or own something he can sell.”

  A money lender? Saburo was pleased with the information. “A lot of people want a moneylender dead. And if he was wealthy, there’ll be some who’ll benefit from his death. So why would the police arrest a blind shampoo girl?”

  The woman gave another laugh. “Because she did it. Don’t ask me why. Sachi’s crazy. Who knows what such a person will do? Maybe her hand slipped, or maybe she made it slip. But if you ask me, I think he made a pass and she killed him for it. He’s a dirty old man and she doesn’t like to be touched.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  The woman made a face. “She acts like she’s better than us. Some of us took pity on her and tried to get her work in one of the houses, but she wouldn’t do it. Now look at her. No better than a beggar and a murderess.”

  There was an interruption as some sweepers came in with a litter. They went into the small room, wrapped the dead man into the blood-soaked mat, and placed him on the stretcher. The onlookers, shying away from contamination by the dead, dispersed, and the prostitute gathered her skirts and scuttled away on her wooden geta.

  Saburo stayed. The sweepers carried the corpse away at a brisk trot. He got only a brief glimpse of the man’s face between the folds of the mat. Nakamura’s face was gray and his fleshy lips had opened in an expression of surprise.

  The
observation was not helpful. Saburo imagined he would have been as surprised at being cut by the shampoo girl as by one of his disgruntled clients attacking him. With a sigh, he went in search of Shokichi.

  He found her near the entrance where the owner loitered, attempting to reassure possible customers. Shokichi was talking to the prostitute. When she saw Saburo, she bowed to the woman and came to him. “Komachi says there was blood everywhere,” she informed Saburo.

  He nodded. “People bleed out quickly when you cut their throat,” he said, looking after the prostitute. “Do you know her?”

  “Yes. Komachi’s a bitch and hates Sachi.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. I think it’s because Sachi wouldn’t sell herself. Some of the women wanted to help her because she’s pretty. You saw her.” She gave Saburo a searching glance.

  He nodded absentmindedly. “So the prostitutes hate her because she refused to become one of them?” Shokichi said nothing for a moment. “Well? Is that all they hold against her, that she tried to keep her self-respect?”

  Shokichi flushed and stared at him. “I guess so,” she finally said tonelessly.

  “Then they should be ashamed!”

  “She was starving. They meant to help. They tried very hard to get one of the houses to take her on. The woman who owns it didn’t want a blind girl. She said it would be a turn-off for the customers. But in the end she agreed, and they got her to offer Sachi a place. Sachi absolutely refused. She made a lot of enemies in the amusement quarter.”

  “Hmm.” Saburo thought this over. “I wonder what she said when they accused her of murder,” he muttered.

  Jinzaemon, overheard him. “The stupid bitch called for help,” he said. He directed one of the bath attendants, who carried two buckets of water, to the room where Nakamura had died. “Hurry,” he told the woman. “We’ll need the room later.”

  Jinzaemon was clearly above all a businessman. A murder on his premises was something that must be erased from people’s minds as quickly as possible.

  “Now, then, sir,” he said to Saburo. “Let me show you and the little woman where to go. You’ve paid already, haven’t you?”

  Saburo shook his head. “We’ve changed our minds.” He took Shokichi’s arm and started to walk out.

  Shokichi shook him off. “Look,” she pleaded with Jinzaemon, “Sachi’s my friend. We need to help her. Could someone else have done this?”

  Jinzaemon lost his good humor. “You should pick better friends,” he said and started to walk away.

  “Wait.” Saburo reached into his sash and pulled out a handful of coppers. “Here,” he said. “I bet you lost some business over this.”

  Jinzaemon stopped and took the coins. “You’re right,” he said, bowing. “And he was a very good customer, too. A real loss.”

  “You said she called for help. Did she know what she’d done?”

  “I would imagine. She’d enough common sense to say she’d stepped out the room for something and found him dead when she got back. Of course, no one believed that. She was covered with his blood. She would’ve been better off just running away as fast as possible.”

  “A blind girl?”

  “Whatever. Look, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the tip. Come back another time. This isn’t a good day.”

  No, it was not a good day.

  Saburo found Shokichi staring into space, her face white and frozen. He thought the smell of blood must have nauseated her. Somehow the mix of steam and blood had settled in his own nose and throat. He put an arm around her and walked her outside.

  Shokichi asked tonelessly, “What will you do next?”

  “The owner says your friend claimed she was out of the room when Nakamura was killed.”

  “If she said so, it’s true.”

  Saburo chuckled. “Why?”

  She glared at him. “Because she doesn’t lie. Poor Sachi.” She wrung her hands. “They’ll beat her till she confesses. This is so unjust.”

  Saburo cleared his throat and spat. He needed some wine to wash away the taste of blood. “Well, there’s nothing to be done at the moment,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders again. “Let’s go have a bite to eat and a cup of wine.”

  She flung his arm off. “You don’t care because we’re nothing to you.” And with that she walked away.

  “Wait!” Saburo ran after her. “Please, Shokichi, don’t be stupid!”

  It was the wrong thing to say. She flung about. “You think I’m stupid? Maybe you’re right. I’ve been stupid to think you cared for me. Go away, Saburo. This is my problem, not yours. I made a mistake. You and I are nothing to each other. I don’t want to see you again.”

  7

  The Caretaker and the Artist

  Tora was pleased that the plan had worked so well. Not only had they lured his master out of the house, but he already looked a changed man. Gone was the mild, abstracted manner, the urge to flee from conversations, the lack of interest in the outside world. Instead, his master looked more like the man they had feared left behind in Kyushu. His expression was intent, his eyes sharp, and he had developed a new energy.

  The trouble was they had tempted him with a case that was not really a case. He might be curious about the lady’s death now, but once he was satisfied that no crime had been committed, he would be angry with them and retreat again. In fact, Superintendent Kobe had pointed out just such a possibility. With so clear-cut a case of suicide, the Sugawara interest would flag almost immediately.

  But all was still well. His lordship, purposeful and energetic, announced, “Let’s go see the caretaker next. He should know more about this odd group of people.”

  Akitada was dimly aware of Tora’s worries. His initial irritation at being manipulated had given way to the knowledge that only real friends would go to such extremes. He was very moved by this. Furthermore, this alleged suicide—and Akitada was by no means convinced that the lady’s death had not been murder—touched on that other case in his past. It, too, had involved Tasuku and the death of a woman. Akitada believed there must be a story linking this woman with his former friend, and he very much wanted to know what it was.

  He was instinctively suspicious of Tasuku, or Abbot Genshin as he had become. Perhaps it still rankled that Tasuku had escaped punishment for his callous behavior in the past by taking the tonsure and was now living comfortably as a wealthy and respected cleric. Or perhaps it was the conviction that a womanizer of Tasuku’s cut could not possibly become a celibate saint.

  In any case, he wanted to know more.

  When they emerged from Lady Ogata’s pavilion, they found another odd-looking individual waiting for them.

  The man was short and stocky, in his forties, and clearly curious what they were doing. He was also unkempt. His hair stuck out from a carelessly tied topknot, his face was covered with three days’ worth of stubble, and his green robe and yellow trousers appeared ragged, filthy, and stained with paint.

  His manners left something to be desired also. “Who are you?” he demanded, looking them over rudely.

  “I’m Lord Sugawara.” Akitada eyed the paint-stains with a frown. “And you?”

  The man cocked his head and scratched his jaw. “Yoshizane,” He jerked his head toward Tora. “And that one?”

  Akitada ignored this. “You must be the painter.” His frown deepened. He had reason to dislike painters. One of them had abducted his young son and had drugged, tortured, and nearly killed Akitada. Since then, he had an ingrained suspicion that painters were madmen at heart who would stop at nothing for the sake of their profession.

  Seeing his master’s scowl, Tora interceded. “We’re looking for the caretaker. Can you direct us?”

  Yoshizane laughed. “Lucky coincidence! I was just going to see the lazy bastard myself. Come along, Come along.” He turned and skipped off along a path.

  Akitada grumbled but followed. They passed empty stables and kitchen buildings and reached a small ho
use built against the outer wall of the compound.

  The painter pointed at it. “That’s his. Koshiro and I take a cup of wine together this time of day.” He chuckled. “Or any other, if truth be told. He buys better wine than I. Heaven knows where he gets the money.” He shouted, “Ho, Koshiro?”

  The door opened and a man with short, gray hair put out his head.

  “You got visitors,” the painter called out. “Important ones by the look of them.”

  Koshiro emerged fully. He was tall and muscular and wore an ordinary checked jacket and short black pants. On his feet were straw sandals.

  The man clearly did not welcome the visit. In fact, he looked curiously uneasy.

  Akitada approached. “I’m Sugawara. I came to talk to you and the others about Lady Ogata’s death.”

  Koshiro blinked, then opened the door wider and invited them in. “We’ve told the police everything we know,” he said with a glance at the painter who followed, smiling and nodding.

  Koshiro’s quarters were simple but clean. To Akitada’s surprise, the man owned a number of books. Caretakers were not usually literate. They derived their appointments from the fact that they were trusted family servants, but here was an educated man, someone who could earn a good deal more by using his skills elsewhere or in another capacity. In the capital, there was always a great demand for scribes and men who could manage bureaus, offices, archives, and documents.

  Koshiro brought some rush mats for them to sit on, then sat down himself. The painter looked around for the wine, but decided to wait.

  Akitada began by asking the question that had just occurred to him. “How did you come to take on this work?”

  Koshiro met his eyes briefly and looked away. He will lie, thought Akitada, fascinated.

  “His Reverence needed someone to look after the place,” the caretaker said, “and I needed a place to live. I’m alone in the world and like the arrangement.”

  Ah. Not a lie perhaps, but certainly not an answer that contained any information. How did the two men meet? Why was Koshiro alone in the world? Why would he accept such a lowly position? And finally, perhaps most intriguingly, what was it about his life here that was so attractive?