by I. J. Parker
Akitada did not get to ask those questions, because the painter said cheerfully, “We all like it here. It’s peaceful, and we’re peaceful people.”
Akitada eyed him without pleasure. “You almost make it sound as if the residents are hiding from someone or something.”
Koshiro made a sudden movement, and the painter said quickly, “People. We hide from people. I have my work and hate interruptions; the student has his studies, the nun lives like hermit and does her devotions, and Koshiro’s shy.”
Akitada eyed the caretaker. “Shy?” The caretaker did not seem shy. He seemed very uncomfortable. “And Lady Ogata?”
“Well,” said the painter with a laugh, “women without families must find refuge someplace, right?”
“So she had no family? How did that come about?”
“How should I know? I don’t ask questions. It was enough to see her sometimes.” The painter’s eyes closed, and he smiled. “An exquisite beauty! A man could go mad with desire for such a one.”
Koshiro snapped, “Shame on you, Yoshizane! You’re disrespectful of the dead.”
The painter opened his eyes and grinned. “No offense, Koshiro. I’m an artist after all. My eyes are always searching out the most memorable and revealing features of the world around me.”
These words must have carried some secret meaning, for Koshiro now looked at the painter with a murderous expression. Akitada became convinced that the men who lived here had not been indifferent to the beautiful woman among them. He had already noted that the student, though younger than the dead woman, had been enamored of her. Such passions could create jealousies and bitter resentments, and these frequently led to murder.
But he said nothing of this. Instead he changed the subject to Abbot Genshin’s charity. “How is it that all the residents live here by Abbot Genshin’s generosity?”
Koshiro said quickly, “I work here. I’m the caretaker of the property. This small house is part of my pay.”
The painter smirked. “Not that his work is very heavy, considering there are always people from the outside coming in to sweep and rake, to trim and tidy up. As for me? Yes, I have use of some space in one of the wings. I do my painting there and pay for its use by donating some of my work to the abbot’s temple.”
Koshiro snorted.
By now both men glared at each other, and Akitada decided to change the subject again. “Tell me what you know about Lady Ogata.”
The painter said, “She kept to herself. Well, we all do mostly. The student, of course, leaves for his classes. I think the nun might know more about her than the men. The two women did visit each other sometimes.”
“How do you know that? From what I gather, both Lady Ogata’s pavilion and the nun’s are hidden by trees from the main house.”
The painter flushed.
Koshiro stared at him. “Been spying on her, have you, Yoshizane?” he sneered.
“No more than you, you dirty old man.”
Koshiro started up, fists clenched.
Tora stepped between them. “Sit down, both of you. We don’t care about you watching a pretty female, though I’m sure she might have. We want to know what you saw while you were ogling her charms from the bushes.”
Akitada gave him a look. “What Tora means,” he said, “is that you have all lived here together for a number of years. It stands to reason that you should know about each other’s lives, activities, moods, backgrounds, and even why each one of you came here to live.”
It was a mistake. Both men clamped their lips together and glowered. He heard Tora heave a sigh.
“So, “Akitada declared, “there was something wrong with her death, and you two know what it was.”
“No,” cried Koshiro, turning white.
“What do you mean?” protested the painter. “What could have been wrong?
“Could she have been murdered? Did someone have reason to kill her? Did she quarrel with anyone? Threaten anyone? Did she know something that made her dangerous to someone? Was she in someone’s way? Come on! There was something! Speak up!”
The painter gulped.
Koshiro, who was breathing fast, said, “The police have been here. They looked at everything. They said it was suicide. I found her that morning. There was no way anyone could have done this.”
Akitada raised his brows. “How so?”
“Well … it looked … you know … like suicide.” Koshiro wiped a suddenly sweaty brow. “She was alone, and she’d pushed a trunk under a rafter. She’d climbed up, tied a piece of silk around it and then around her neck and … and jumped off.”
“The only way you can know this for certain is if you saw her do it,” Akitada commented.
Speechless, Koshiro shook his head.
The painter said, “It probably did happen that way. What makes you think it was murder, sir?”
“It may have happened that way, but things could also have been arranged to make her death look like suicide. Your refusal to talk about her and the others suggests that there were secrets you hoped to keep hidden. It’s suspicious.”
Koshiro rose. “I have nothing else to tell you. You may as well go away and talk to the others.”
The painter nodded. “I also have no secrets to tell. Perhaps Lady Ogata shared her thoughts with the nun. She wasn’t likely to confide in any of the men.” He smiled. “Trouble is, Seikan’s not here at the moment. Gone on a pilgrimage. Left just after Lady Ogata died. To pray for her soul.”
He and Koshiro exchanged a glance. They seemed to have overcome their resentment of each other and decided to stick together on this matter.
Akitada sighed and rose. “In that case, we’ll be back.”
Outside Koshiro’s house, Tora said, “I think they’re hiding something. We should’ve pressed them harder.”
“To what point? Let’s go home.”
Akitada felt the darkness descending again. He had done enough, at least for one day. There was no point in any of this beyond the fact that Tora and the others cared about him and it would have been heartless not to make the gesture. But what was there for him except the eventual return to a home that had become empty and a life that was purposeless?
It would be a relief to become like these people living here in obscurity, each alone, each without obligations to anyone but him- or herself. Whatever had brought them here, he thought, must have been painful. Well, who was he to rob them of their peace?
Tora walked a step or so behind, as was fitting. “Will we really come back?” he asked.
Akitada heard the fear in his voice. “Yes,” he said and stopped to look at Tora. Tora’s concern filled his face, having wiped away the usual bright smile for once. “Thank you for making me forget for a little while. But you must be patient with me.”
“I will. We all will, sir.”
Now there were tears in Tora’s eyes. Overcome by so much devotion, Akitada turned and walked more quickly, perhaps fleeing a burden he could not escape.
8
Talk of the Town
Saburo was thunderstruck by Shokichi’s behavior. For the first time in many years he had given a woman his love, and she had broken his heart. And for no good reason. He did not recall hearing about this Sachi before today, and yet Shokichi was ready to break off their relationship because he had not rushed in to free the blind woman from the police. Shokichi was too stupid to see that this would have led to more trouble for the girl, and would have got him arrested. But clearly she did not really care about what happened to him.
She had ended it by saying very clearly and loudly, so everyone could hear, “You and I are nothing to each other.”
And he had actually considered marrying the woman. He had finally allowed a female to get close to him. He had trusted her, and this was what she did to him. Over a blind shampoo girl!
When Shokichi walked away from him, leaving him standing in the street, Saburo turned and started walking home, anger in his heart and the conviction that he
would never find love or companionship.
The realization of what lay ahead in the Sugawara household depressed him further. He was still the outsider there. Both Tora and Genba had wives, and the master had at least his children. Only he, Saburo, had nothing.
Nothing but the raw pain of having been rejected again.
Then the thought of showing Shokichi what she had so casually thrown away occurred to him. Yes, he owed it to himself to prove that he was worth any number of her girlfriends. And the best way of doing this was to solve the murder of the moneylender Nakamura. Then Shokichi would be ashamed and would come to thank him and beg him to forgive her, and he would tell her quite coldly that she had been right all along: they had nothing in common and no future together.
Saburo walked back to the wine shop near the Daikoku-yu where he had intended to take his beloved only a few hours ago. Now he was a single man again, and there was no reason why he should be deprived of the meal and a few cups of wine while he thought about the moneylender.
After a bowl of tasty fish stew and some very decent sake, he had worked out a plan of sorts. His past training suggested surreptitious surveillance of suspects, but he had no suspects yet, merely suspicions.
Among those suspicions was that one of Nakamura’s customers had resorted to murder to close out a debt he could not pay. Another possibility concerned the heirs of a man who was, by all accounts, very wealthy.
Saburo had a low opinion of men who would lend money to the poor at very high interest. He considered them excessively greedy and assumed that their relatives were not much better.
Having paid for his food and wine, he set out briskly for the Daikoku-yu. By now it was the middle of the day, the slackest time for bathhouses and people who did not work. He was not surprised to see Jinzaemon standing outside, chatting with a couple. His expressions and gestures showed that the subject was the bloody murder committed on his premises.
Gossips gather at more places than wells, Saburo thought, and they were not all women. In this case, they were an old man and a middle-aged housewife. He sidled up and listened.
“Four years she’s worked here off and on,” Jinzaemon said to the old man who was leaning on his stick, listening avidly. “Four years I let her make money from my customers, and this is what she does to me? Nakamura was one of my best customers, regular like clockwork every morning for his shave and shampoo, and regular every night for his bath. Not many men take such good care of themselves.”
“I bet he came to ogle the women,” said the woman, who was quite fat and unattractive. “Some men cannot get enough. And that blind girl was young.”
The old man chortled. “And couldn’t see what an ugly bastard he was.”
Jinzaemon frowned at this. “Now hold it right there. There was never anything like that between them. I keep a decent place.”
His listeners burst out laughing. Even Saburo laughed. This caused Jinzaemon to notice him.
“You’re back again?” he said sourly but decided he now had a witness to the damage he had suffered. He told his listeners, “This man was here this morning when the police came. He saw Nakamura’s body and what the room looked like. We scrubbed for hours to get it looking halfway decent again.” He pulled Saburo forward. “Tell Genzo and Mrs. Ozaki about all the blood. Tell them what that stupid girl did. They won’t believe me.”
The old man and the fat woman looked at Saburo expectantly.
“There was a lot of blood,” Saburo acknowledged, “but the blind girl said she didn’t kill him. I’m for keeping an open mind. What do you think happened?”
Jinzaemon snorted his disgust, but the woman had thought the matter over. “You’re right. Sachi’s a slight little thing. No meat on her bones. Not much strength either. I don’t see her killing him. A woman needs strength to deal with men.”
The old man cackled. “What’s she need strength for? She had a sharp knife in her hand and her hand on his neck.”
She rounded on him. “Why would the blind girl ruin herself by killing a customer?”
He said, “ Nakamura’s a man and he’s got eyes. And hands. And something else. He could see she was young and pretty. A girl doesn’t need eyes to make love. Most of you wait until it’s dark anyway. A man can always find what he’s looking for. Even in a dark garden, the jade warrior can find the cinnabar cave, right?” The old man winked at Saburo.
The woman gave him a push that sent him stumbling. “You’ve got a dirty mouth, Genzo. Maybe that Sachi’s a good girl. She didn’t want to sell herself.”
Jinzaemon snorted. “A good girl, you say? She thought she was too good for a man like Nakamura-san. Maybe he tried to get a little feel, and she cut him? Has that occurred to you?”
The woman blinked, and Saburo seized the opening. “So this Nakamura chased the girls? Did he make a point of asking for Sachi?”
Jinzaemon flushed. “Nothing of the sort. He’d heard she was good at massaging the scalp and wanted to try her.”
The old man guffawed. “His scalp? Is that what they call it now?” He skipped aside when the woman slapped at him.
The bathhouse owner glared. “What if Nakamura did have an eye for girls? What if he wanted something extra now and then? He always tipped the girls. They were glad enough to make themselves pleasant. But not this one. Oh, no!”
“I take it,” said Saburo, “that it was the first time Sachi … er … waited on him?”
Jinzaemon chewed his lip. “I wish I’d sent for someone else, but I thought she could use a bit extra. Who would think that a blind shampoo girl would kill a grown man?”
“So did this Nakamura expect special services from the shampoo girl?”
“Of course, he did,” cried the old man gleefully. “That one never missed a chance. In the quarter, they call him a champion. He’s a real bull, that man.”
That meant Nakamura was a steady and well-known customer in the amusement quarter. Apparently, his interest in women carried over to bathhouses.
The fat woman gave the old man another push. “Men are all alike,” she said, making a face. “Their minds are always in the gutter. A real bull? That skinny runt wasn’t young enough to get it up, let alone get a reputation.”
Her companion rubbed his arm. “What do you know, woman? Do you spend time in the quarter? Do you listen to the women talking? I tell you, he was always there. Every day! He has his favorites and goes regularly to some of the houses. He’s got the money. Why shouldn’t he?”
The conversation was getting away from Sachi. Saburo said, “Come on, Jinzaemon. You haven’t answered. Did Nakamura ask for Sachi because he wanted her to perform sexual services?”
The bathhouse owner said sullenly, “He asked for her. I don’t know what he wanted. I told you, I run a decent establishment.”
The other two promptly giggled again. The old man told Saburo, “Jinzaemon has an arrangement with some of the women from the quarter. If one of his customers asks for something special—he waggled his eyebrows—he sends for them and puts them in a private room. The girls share their fees with him, and the customers tip him generously.”
Jinzaemon flushed with anger. “That’s a lie, Genzo! Don’t you go about telling such tales, you sorry piece of shit!”
He started for the old man, but Saburo caught his arm. “Hold on. Jinzaemon. You don’t need any more trouble today.”
Jinzaemon glared, muttered something, and went back into his place of business. The old man and the woman looked pleased with themselves. They had come for a gossip and had enjoyed it. No doubt, they would carry the information with them to entertain friends and neighbors. And gradually the story would become ever more outrageous. Saburo almost felt sorry for Jinzaemon.
Still, those two had little to fill their days. The old man could not work any longer and spent his time talking to the women in the amusement quarter, no doubt a vicarious pleasure at his age. And the woman probably had a daughter-in-law or two at home and could leave the housework
to them. It is said, if you gossip about a person, his shadow will appear. In this case, they knew a good deal about the victim, and Saburo wanted information about Nakamura. He asked, “Where did this Nakamura live?”
“Above his shop on Gojo-Bomon,” the woman said promptly. “He’s a curio dealer, but that’s mostly just for show. Why do you want to know?”
Saburo saw rekindled interest in her eyes and laughed. “Maybe I just want to see where the famous bull resided. Or maybe I want to pick up some tips on getting women.”
They chuckled. Genzo said slyly, “My throat got dry from all this talking on a hot day. What say we have a cup of wine?”
Saburo agreed eagerly. “I’m pretty dry myself. Allow me to invite both of you.”
They looked at each other and grinned. The threesome walked to the same wine shop where Saburo has eaten and sat down outside on one of the benches.
They proved how parched they were from all the talking by consuming three flasks of strong sake each, but the wine oiled their tongues amazingly. Putting aside their squabbles, they took pleasure in regaling Saburo with Nakamura’s habits, background, family, and business methods.
The picture that emerged was very unpleasant. Saburo developed an intense hostility toward Nakamura. Men like that deserved killing. In fact, the killer had done his fellow citizens a big favor by ridding the world of the man. Perhaps a few, like Jinzaemon and a handful of aunties and harlots regretted his passing, but for the rest things must be looking up.
And even the women in the quarter might feel a relief. According to Genzo. Nakamura had enjoyed inflicting pain. Mrs. Ozaki was well-informed about Nakamura’s household. He lived in the fourth quarter in a fine merchant’s house he had bought a few years ago. A small curio shop in the front catered to the nobility by offering high-priced art objects, but Nakamura’s money mostly came from the loans he extended to people.
“Any chance he might have creditors among the good people?” Saburo asked Mrs. Ozaki.
