by I. J. Parker
“Sometimes wrestlers enjoy the attentions of male patrons. Could that have been the case here?”
“Not him. He was always going on about women. His latest lady love is supposed to be a great beauty. At least Ando claims she is.”
“Ando?”
“One of the other fellows. A raw youngster, but he’s a talented painter and he was nagging Kiyomura about this girlfriend. Wanted to paint her as the goddess Kannon.” Tora chuckled. “Ando’s at the age where every pretty face looks like a goddess. Kiyomura was his hero. But he treated the poor kid like a stray dog. Come to think of it, Ando was supposed to walk Kiyomura home. Kiyomura was drunk when I left.”
“Might Ando have had a reason to kill his idol?”
“Oh, come on! He’s just a boy. But Kiyomura had a cruel streak, especially when he was drinking. He made fun of Ando who was getting pretty sensitive.” Tora shook his head. “No, I’ll never believe it. For that matter, Kiyomura quarrelled with just about everybody last night.”
“Oh?”
“Well, he made Saemon and Hiraga angry. Saemon’s a pharmacist with a shop in the city near the bridge, but most of his custom comes from the River Village. He does a wonderful business in aphrodisiacs, ointments, massages, needle therapy and moxa.” Tora shuddered. “Never could understand people who like to be stuck with needles or have herbal pills burned on their backs. Hiraga’s a sword smith. What’s the matter?”
Akitada’s brows had shot up. “A sword smith? Is he a good one?”
“The best! A real craftsman. I’ve wondered why he bothered with the rest of us. He has a large family, and he’s more serious and settled. Of course, Saemon’s married, but Saemon has a beautiful young wife and no children. Ugly fellow, Saemon, but he saved up and bought out one of the top courtesans in the village. Kiyomura never misses a chance to rib Saemon.”
“So Kiyomura managed to insult the painter Ando and this Saemon last night. What about the sword smith?”
“He did worse than that with Hiraga. He slapped him. I thought Hiraga would kill him then and there.” Tora broke off in dismay. “Forget that. Hiraga calmed down and Kiyomura apologized.”
“I don’t suppose Hiraga had one of his swords with him?”
Tora looked uncomfortable. “Well, he always carries a short sword. Used to drive Kiyomura crazy. Kiyomura wanted to buy it, but Hiraga wouldn’t sell to him. Told him to stick to wrestling; swords were for swordsmen.”
“Hmm.” Akitada pulled his earlobe and thought for a moment. Then he got up. “Luckily that inspector does not seem to suspect you any longer, but I don’t like this case. I’ll have you released, and you’ll take me to talk to your friends.”
As the inspector was seeing them out with ill-concealed relief, they met a constable walking in with a slight, sallow-faced man in a plain dark blue robe.
“Saemon,” cried Tora, “What are you doing here?”
The pharmacist had a long, lantern-jawed face and sparse ill-kept hair, but the black eyes were sharp and intelligent and moved instantly from Tora to Akitada. There was a flicker of interest, and then the man was bowing very humbly.
Tora made the introductions, adding, “Saemon can testify to Kiyomura’s temper last night. Is that why you’re here, Saemon? To give a statement?”
“No, no, Tora. I was called to examine the bodies. My place is just across the bridge, and I happened to be home. A terrible thing, but I’m afraid I know nothing about it. I left the restaurant hours before the rest of you.” Saemon clutched his bamboo case of medicines and instruments with long, sinewy fingers and looked at the inspector.
“If you’ll excuse us?” The inspector pointedly held the door open for Akitada and Tora and bowed them out.
“So the pharmacist lives nearby,” Akitada remarked as they were walking away from the warden’s office.
“Yes. Look!” Tora pointed at a stand of willows on the river bank where a huddle of locals stood talking and staring at a dark-stained patch of weeds. “That’s where it happened.”
Akitada nodded without much interest, glancing briefly at the rain barrel of the first house they passed. “Let’s talk to the young painter first,” he said.
Ando lived in the city, not far from the bridge, in a narrow tenement where he shared quarters with other single people of modest means. Many of them clearly kept late hours, for the doors were closed and sounds of snoring filled the narrow, dark hallways. A slatternly young female, no more than a child, but with smudged paint staining her lips and round cheeks, blinked sleepily at them from a doorway.
“Ando?” she said vaguely. “Oh, he’s down that way. The last room on the right.” She called after them, “Stop by on your way out! I can show you something better than pictures.”
They found the painter, his failed attempt at growing a mustache emphasizing his boyish looks, in a frenzy of destruction. He was ripping apart a scroll of ink sketches, balling up the pieces, and flinging them violently about the room. The room was perfectly bare except for a large painting of a goddess and a box of paints. The goddess was impressive but faceless.
When he saw his visitors, a look of panic replaced his scowl. “Tora. What do you want?” He dropped the shredded sketchbook and kicked the pieces into a corner. Akitada picked one up and straightened it out.
“Please don’t look at it, sir,” cried the painter. “Here, give it to me. They’re just old scribbles. I have better stuff, if you’re interested.”
The sketch showed the face of a young woman, her hair coiled behind her head and a small caste mark between her eyes in the manner of Buddhist deities. Akitada glanced at the painting. “I think it’s a charming face for your Kannon,” he said. “Most of the paintings of the goddess depict round-faced Chinese matrons. I like this Japanese beauty very much better.”
The young painter snatched at the sketch. “No, it’s all wrong!”
“Ando, relax,” said Tora. “This is my master and we’re not here about your painting. Kiyomura was killed last night on the other side of the river.”
“Kiyomura dead?” Ando’s arms dropped to his sides. “I had nothing to do with it.”
“We did not imply that you did,” said Akitada, putting the sketch into his sleeve. “But you were to accompany your friend home last night. What happened?”
Ando paled. “I didn’t. He sent me away. He was quite well when I left. I swear it.”
“Don’t be a cursed fool, Ando!” said Tora. “He wasn’t well when I left. He was drunk and mean, and you know it. How did you expect him to get home in that state?”
Ando’s livid features flushed. “And why should I care?” he cried. “The bastard has never had a word of thanks for anything I’ve ever done. Just, ‘Hey, boy, fetch me some wine from the wine shop. I’ll pay you later!’ or ‘Stop hanging around like some hungry cur!’ or ‘When’s the last time your mother gave you suck, you baby?’ When I …” He broke off, and turned to the painting of the goddess. Picking up a small knife used to trim brushes, he slashed at the goddess’s elegant robes and veils, her dainty hands and feet, and the coiled dark hair on her bejewelled but faceless head. “I’m not a child!” he wept. “I’m a man! I’ll show him! I’ll show them all!”
“In the name of Buddha, Ando,” cried Tora.
“Come, Tora,” said Akitada, taking his arm. “He needs to be alone.”
Outside Tora said, “We should have kept at him. I’ve never seen him so upset. I bet there’s a woman behind it. Kiyomura’s latest courtesan, I expect.”
Akitada stopped abruptly. “Courtesan,” he muttered. “Perhaps … the motive is there … and it would explain … but how to prove it?” He shook his head in puzzlement.
At that moment they were rudely interrupted by two constables who ran up, twisted Tora’s arms behind his back, and tied them with chains before either of them could protest.
“Sorry, sir,” cried the inspector, panting up behind them, “but we must arrest your servant again. New information.”
“What, in the name of the ten judges of hell …?” snarled Tora, struggling between the scowling constables and getting viciously prodded with their steel rods.
“You were heard to threaten the victim,” said the inspector, catching his breath.
“That cursed Saemon! I might have known he’d make trouble.”
The inspector looked at Akitada, shook his head regretfully and said with feeling, “Believe me, sir, I’d do anything to avoid this. But your servant was found on the scene, his robe blood-stained,”—he cast a glance at Tora’s sleeve which did show some rust-colored splotches—”and now we have two witnesses who say that he was threatening the victim’s life only hours before the murder.”
Akitada looked at Tora, who had paled and mumbled, “We had a small disagreement at the Phoenix Pavilion. The waitress must’ve heard. And I checked Kiyomura’s body. That’s how I got his blood on me.”
“You should have told me. What did you argue about?”
Tora looked away. “He said some things about you, sir.”
Akitada bit his lip. The gossip about his fascination with crime was not flattering. Turning to the inspector, he pleaded, “Why not wait till you finish your investigation? What about the identity of the second man or the owner of the sword?”
The inspector stepped back. “The investigation is in the hands of the Metropolitan Police, sir,” he said in an official tone.
“Inspector, it is essential that a very careful autopsy be performed on the second victim.”
The inspector’s face stiffened. “Autopsies have been performed and confirmed earlier findings. That is all I may tell you at this time.” He turned his back on Akitada and motioned to his constables to proceed with their prisoner.
“Wait! I must have a word with my servant before you leave.”
“Are you not coming with us, sir?” Tora asked in a low voice.
“No, Tora. I think my time is better spent solving this mystery. How do I find the sword smith’s place?”
Tora explained, adding loudly, for the benefit of the inspector and the constables, “Don’t worry about me, sir. I know you’ll be back with the name of the real killer in no time at all.”
Akitada tried one last appeal to the inspector. “The so-called beggar’s identity must be verified…” he began, but they were already moving away from him.
Neither his certainty that Tora was innocent, nor his virtual certainty about the killer was particularly reassuring at this moment. Knowing a thing was not the same as proving it. Moreover, as Tora was now officially charged with murder, questioning would begin immediately, and this involved vicious beatings until the suspect’s resistance was broken and he confessed. The situation had suddenly turned ominous.
Hiraga lived in a street of prosperous craftsmen, but his home was modest. From inside Akitada could hear children’s voices and the sound of metal striking metal. As soon as he opened the creaking bamboo gate, a small boy appeared and was joined immediately by three others, each slightly bigger than the first. They stood and stared at him.
Akitada’s face broke into a big smile. “Good morning!”
The boys blushed furiously and retreated. The smallest took off running, shouting for his mother, a short chubby woman, who appeared, flustered, with a baby strapped to her back, and wiping wet hands on her apron.
“Welcome to this humble house.” She bowed several times, waking the baby which blinked at the bright sunlight and set up a wail. Its mother jiggled it, saying, “Please come in and forgive my rude children. If you have come to place an order, my husband will soon be free.”
“Mrs. Hiraga?” Akitada asked, slipping off his shoes and stepping up to the oiled wooden floor in his white socks. He smiled at the squalling child.
“Yes.” She blushed and touched her apron. “Please forgive my dirty clothes. There’s much work with the children. We have eight of them and they’re a constant shame to their parents.”
“On the contrary, you are blessed.” Akitada took out his flute and blew a few notes. The baby fell silent, gulped, and stared with open mouth.
Akitada exchanged a smile with its mother. “Your husband is a lucky man.”
She blushed with pleasure. “Five unmannerly boys and three useless girls,” she sighed. “We are a great burden to him.”
The noise in the back of the house had ceased abruptly, and the sword smith appeared.
“Welcome to my humble home,” he said with a bow, sliding open a door, and nodding to his wife. Akitada entered a large room that contained nothing but two or three cushions and many swords of all sizes displayed on carved wood stands or on hooks on the walls, some in beautifully worked scabbards, others showing their naked blades of bluish steel. Akitada admired them, taking one or two to test their weight and balance. He complimented Hiraga on his superb workmanship.
“I have far to go in my craft,” the sword smith said. “Is the gentleman a swordsman?”
“My name is Sugawara, and I’m here on another matter.”
Hiraga indicated the cushions, and Akitada seated himself. Hiraga joined him, looking politely expectant, while Mrs. Hiraga, without baby, brought wine and a plate of pickled vegetables. She served them and seated herself near the door.
Akitada praised the wine and then said, “The wrestler Kiyomura was murdered last night.”
“Kiyomura murdered?” Hiraga started up, then knelt and bowed. “Forgive me, sir. How stupid of me. You must be Tora’s master. What happened?”
“Please be seated. Tora has been arrested. He found the body, and a man called Saemon told the authorities that Tora threatened the victim’s life.”
“Saemon’s a fool.” Hiraga made a face. “Kiyomura was very drunk and made all of us angry last night. It meant nothing. How did he die?”
“He was stabbed several times on his way home, probably with a short sword found in a rain barrel nearby.”
Hiraga stiffened. “A short sword?”
“Yes. Possibly one of yours. The handle is very dark, almost black, with an inlay of golden reeds on the grip and sword guard.”
There was a loud gasp from the door.
Hiraga said nothing but rose and left the room. When Akitada turned to look after him, he caught an expression of abject terror on the wife’s face. Hiraga, however, returned in a moment, carrying another short sword. He extended it to Akitada, saying, “This is the one I carried last night.”
Akitada received it with a ceremonious bow. It was beautiful and very similar to the murder weapon, except that grip and hilt were ornamented with a silver filigree of leaves and flowers. Its blade, like those on display, had a fine blue sheen lacking in the sword found by the police. Akitada commented on this.
“Water damages the metal. No true swordsman would throw a fine blade into a rain barrel.” Hiraga’s voice was tight with anger or nerves. “That’s why I don’t sell my swords into improper hands. The other sword … It may be one of mine, but I didn’t have it last night.” There was an awkward pause, during which he glanced at his wife, then he added, “However, you said Kiyomura was stabbed. You will notice that the blade of a sword is bent slightly upward. The sharpness is underneath. It is not effective for stabbing, as anyone familiar with swords will tell you.”
Akitada nodded. “You’re quite right. Still, would it be possible to kill a man using this sword like a knife?”
“Yes. But only someone completely unfamiliar with swords would do such a thing.” Hiraga glanced again toward his wife who seemed to have become smaller, to have shrunk into herself.
“Or a man who wished others to think so,” Akitada said softly.
“As you say, my Lord.” The sword smith’s face was expressionless.
There was a soft sob, and the sound of the door closing.
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.” Akitada got up, followed by his host. In the hallway they passed a hanging calligraphy scroll with a Chinese verse. It read, “Alive man is a passing tra
veller—dead, a man come home. One brief journey between heaven and earth.” Akitada paused and said, “It’s true that man’s life is short and uncertain, but his greatest blessing is his family.”
For a moment Hiraga looked surprised; then he nodded slowly and bowed.
The pharmacist’s house was on the river bank, two doors down river from the bridge. A large sign advertised all sorts of cures and treatments. An older woman with a suspicious look answered Akitada’s knock at the peeling door. “The doctor’s been called away, and his wife’s still abed,” she said sharply.
“I’ll wait till he returns. Please let your mistress know I’m here.”
“I’m the doctor’s sister,” she snapped, leading him to a room with dirty mats and a tattered screen decorated with garish flowers and birds. She muttered under her breath, “Mistress! That one? Honest women rise with the dawn and serve their husbands, but not this one. A harlot once, a harlot forever. Singing lewd songs, gallivanting about till all hours, and then sleeping the day away.” She tossed a cushion on the floor for him and flounced out of the room, leaving Akitada to bide his time.
Women’s voices, raised in lengthy and angry argument, assaulted his ears. Finally the door opened again.
The former courtesan surprised Akitada. She lacked the vulgarity he had expected. A slender young woman in a pale blue silk gown, she came in quietly, carrying a flask and two cups, and greeted him with the relaxed informality found only in upper class courtesans.
“Forgive the wine, your Honor,” she said in a melodious voice, giving him a practiced glance from under long lashes. “I’m afraid it’s not what you are used to.”
“Your company will more than make up for it,” Akitada said with a smile.
“My husband will return soon. I hope your Honor is not in ill health?”
“No. no. Tell me, do you know the painter Ando?”
She frowned prettily. “I don’t think so.”
Akitada pulled the sketch from his sleeve. “He drew this for the head of a painting of Kannon. It looks like you.”
She looked, smiled, shook her head. “You flatter me, sir,”—another sidelong glance and smile—”but it’s not of me. Only the hairstyle is similar.” Her hand touched the coil of glossy hair on her neck with practiced grace.
