by I. J. Parker
The object was to kick the ball from player to player without letting it touch the ground. Yori, not yet four years old, was already amazingly adept at the game, and the others lost points rapidly. Akitada called for time out to remove his heavy outer robe, and noticed Tamako and Yoshiko on the veranda. Tamako was smiling, but his. sister still looked pale and dispirited.
Akitada’s performance gradually improved. It had been a long time since he had played the game. Once he had been very good at it. He took great care to make it easy for his young son, but Yori had the energy of ten and threw his whole small body into each effort. Tora and Genba, unaccustomed to this pastime of the “good people,” caused Yori to burst into gales of laughter at their clumsy efforts.
When they finally broke off, the adults were breathless and perspiring, while Yori, declared the winner, raced about the courtyard, shouting, “I won! I won!” as Seimei and the ladies applauded. In a sudden glow of happiness, Akitada caught up his son and swung him high into the air. Yori shrieked with delight and flung his small arms about his father’s neck. Akitada had not felt so well, so whole, in many months, and, hugging the child to him, he made a courtly bow toward the veranda.
Back in his office, his newly found optimism still with him, he called for his outdoor clothes. “I am going to pay another call on Nagaoka,” he told Seimei, who helped him dress. “There must be any number of things the man has not told. I did not pry into his relations with his wife last time, but her personality is the most intriguing mystery in her death. It now seems to me he avoided the subject.”
Seimei pursed his lips. “In autumn there is no need for a fan. From what you said, Mr. Nagaoka was too old for his wife. He may feel great relief.”
Seimei was a terrible misogynist, but Akitada considered the possibility that Nagaoka might have tired of an immature and expensive wife. He said dubiously, “From all accounts, she was very beautiful and he loved her.”
Seimei shook his head. “An angel outside often hides a demon inside.” He recalled himself quickly. “Of course, there are exceptions to this rule.”
Akitada, on his way out, chuckled.
* * * *
A short walk brought him to the tree-lined street where Nagaoka lived. Once again he was struck by the quiet gentility of the wealthier merchants’ lifestyle. The trees were completely bare now, and it was possible to see many roofs beyond Nagaoka’s wall. A well-to-do antiquarian might easily live as luxuriously as a member of the imperial family, forever changing the displays in his house from goods stored away for sale or trade.
Nagaoka’s gate stood wide open, a fact which puzzled Akitada, considering his train of thought. Who was guarding the valuable contents of the residence? Last time he had seen only a single disgruntled servant; this time even that slovenly individual was absent.
He strolled in. The courtyard had not been swept in days and reminded him of his first visit. He called out, but no one answered. Taking this as an invitation to look around, he walked past the entrance of the main house and into the rear courtyards and gardens. Everywhere he went, he saw the same neglect. Furthermore, back here, away from visitors’ eyes, the buildings were in poor repair and the gardens as overgrown as his own. Paint peeled off the lacquered eaves and railings. A stair step had warped out of place. Shutters hung crookedly. There had been times when the Sugawara property had looked something like this because they had been too poor to fix the damage of time. But would a wealthy man allow his home to become run-down like this?
And the place was deserted. Where were the servants to look after things? Could Nagaoka have taken flight because he was afraid he would be implicated in the murder?
Akitada passed quickly through a small garden, its fishpond choked with leaves and empty of koi, and entered the service courtyard. In its center stood a large storehouse. Unlike the residence, it was built of stone and plaster and had a tile roof. Such storehouses stood in all the compounds of wealthier families for safekeeping of valuables and heirlooms from the many fires which plagued the wooden buildings of the capital. Nagaoka’s treasure-house stood open like his gate.
Akitada stepped on the large slab of rock at the door and peered in. The shelves which stretched along the windowless walls inside were bare except for a few small bags of what looked like rice or beans, a small pile of turnips, and some chestnuts. An earthenware pitcher and a sake barrel sat next to a large basket. Stepping inside, Akitada looked into the basket. It contained charcoal. He raised the pitcher and smelled its mouth: cheap oil. The sake barrel was empty, the dregs in the bottom as clouded and sour-smelling as the most inferior brew. Against the back wall stood some metal-bound wooden chests, their locks unfastened. He looked inside. They were empty except for remnants of packing material. Where were all of Nagaoka’s antiques?
Akitada reemerged and stood for a few moments in the courtyard, digesting the discovery and wondering about its significance. His first fear, that there had been some strong-armed robbery, possibly resulting in the death of the owner and his servants, was proved wrong by the fact that the storehouse had been put to use as a sort of pantry after its costlier contents had been removed. The types of foods stored were hardly what one expected to content the palate of a wealthy merchant, but someone seemed to have been living here since the treasures had disappeared.
Thoughtfully Akitada retraced his steps to the front of the house and pounded on the door.
“Stop that racket,” a voice shouted from the street. “I’m coming. Can’t a man have even a moment’s peace in this forsaken place?” The figure of the servant rounded the open gateway. He was walking in a leisurely fashion, perhaps a little unsteadily, and carried a slightly steaming bundle which looked like a hot meal from some eatery. His appearance had deteriorated further since last time. He had not bothered to tie up his hair or shaved in days, and his robe was filthy.
When he saw Akitada, he stopped, narrowed his eyes, and peered blearily at him. “Oh, it’s you again,” he finally said rudely. “What do you want this time? He’s not been home for days, and I have work to do.”
“Mind your manners,” Akitada snapped. “Where is your master?”
The man scowled. “Who knows? Took his money and ran, is my guess. Either that or he’s jumped off a bridge and is explaining his sins to the judge of the underworld. Leaving me behind with nothing to eat or drink, not to mention without my pay.”
Akitada regarded the man suspiciously. His appearance and behavior showed that he did not expect his master to return very soon. He said brusquely, “It is cold out here. You may take me to your master’s room and answer some questions.”
The servant bristled. “I don’t see why. Him not being here, I’m not allowed into the house.”
“What is in that parcel?” Akitada asked, narrowing his eyes.
“Just some food. A man’s got to eat.”
“And where did you get the money for it? You said you had not been paid.”
The servant’s bluster faltered. “I had some saved up,” he muttered sullenly.
Akitada glared. “You are a liar! I think you stole the money from your master. I shall inform the police.” Stepping down into the courtyard, he approached the man threateningly. “In fact, I don’t believe your master has left. Why should he do so, with his wife recently dead and his brother in jail and about to go on trial? Perhaps you murdered him. What have you done with him? Come on, you lout! Speak up!”
The servant, turning pale, backed away so suddenly that he dropped his parcel. An unappetizing mess of glutinous morsels spilled onto the gravel. Its smell and the man’s strong odor of sour wine and unwashed skin turned Akitada’s stomach.
“I told the truth,” the man wailed. “He went off last week, looking terrible, all white like a ghost. He never said a word. Just walked past me out the door. And he never came back. Maybe he is dead someplace, but I didn’t lay a hand on him.”
Akitada looked at him long and hard. “We shall see. Open the door to
the house!”
The door was unlocked, as had been the gate, the storehouse, and the chests.
“Why are you not guarding this house better?” Akitada growled as he followed the fellow down the dark hallway to the room where he had last spoken with Nagaoka.
“What for? There’s nothing left to steal.”
And there was not. Akitada looked around the dim room, and went to throw the wooden shutters open. There were no picture scrolls on the walls, the shelves were empty, even the heavy carved desk was gone. Only the thick floor mats remained and the two cushions they had sat on during his last visit. “What happened to your master’s goods and furniture?” he asked, looking about him in surprise.
“He sold ‘em.”
“Everything? All his antiques? His stock as well as his own possessions?”
The servant nodded. “Every stick of it.”
“Why would he do a thing like that?”
“Business hasn’t been exactly flourishing for a long time, and her ladyship had to have fine clothes, maids, and baubles, not to mention what he paid for her to start with. The master just kept selling off stuff to pay for it all.” The man’s tone became increasingly resentful. “He paid that snooty maidservant of hers and the lazy cook better’n me. The maid took off the minute she heard of the murder. And the cook went when she saw that the master hardly had money left for a decent funeral. They knew the good life was over. Guess who got stuck with all the work and no pay? Call me the biggest fool, for hanging around!”
“I told you once to watch your tongue!” Akitada snapped. “I won’t do it again. You have eaten your master’s rice and owe him respect and loyalty.”
“More like millet and beans of late,” grumbled the man.
“When did your master begin to liquidate his property?”
The servant stared at him. “Liquid what? He didn’t drink. Not like that brother of his!”
“I meant, when did he begin selling off everything?”
The man chewed on his lower lip. “He started selling the last of the antiques right after it happened. The buyers went away grinning. I guess word got around, for after that more and more people came, and then he sold all his wife’s things. Good riddance, I thought! We had a bit of fish with our rice after that, and the wine barrel was filled with better stuff.”
Akitada recalled Nagaoka handling the bugaku mask during his last visit. He had been planning to sell it below its value. In retrospect, he should have wondered then what would cause a shrewd antiquarian to sell a rare object at a loss. “Go on!” he told the servant. “When were the other things sold, his personal things?”
“After the visit of his wife’s father, I suppose. He lost his spirit. I guess it finally sank in that she was gone. And when that police officer came again to tell my master to stop visiting his brother in jail, that was the final straw. The very next day, people came and carried away the rest of the furniture, and when they were done, my master sat right there, on his cushion, looking around the empty room like a dying man. The next morning he left.”
“How long has he been gone?”
The servant pondered. Using his fingers to count off the days, he said, “Seven days, maybe.”
Seven days! What could have happened to Nagaoka? Had Kobe threatened him and sent him into a panic? Nagaoka had not seemed the kind of man who would leave a servant to look after a house without money for food.
The servant suggested, “Maybe he really killed himself.”
Akitada rejected that explanation. Having systematically sold all his things and taken whatever money he received for them, he was surely not planning to commit suicide. Unless ... Perhaps he had left his affairs in the hands of another before ending his life.
“Does he have any family or friends whom he might visit?”
“Only his brother in jail.”
The other possibility was, of course, that Nagaoka, afraid of a murder charge, had made his escape, leaving his brother to his fate. Akitada did not want to believe this.
“When your master left here, was he carrying anything? A box, or bundle of clothes? Was he dressed for a long journey? Boots for riding? A warm robe?”
“He carried a bag, the kind you’d strap to a saddle. And boots on his feet and his best quilted robe.” The servant squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. “I think I saw the handle of a short sword in his sash, too.” Opening his eyes in wonder, he cried, “So the old b------ he went off on a trip after all! How about that?”
“Where would he have gone? Does he have property in the country?”
“Just his brother’s place. At Fushimi. He’d hardly be going to see his father-in-law.” He guffawed.
Akitada raised his brows. “And why not?”
“They had a quarrel right after the funeral. You never heard such shouting! The master all but threw him out, and the old man left shaking his fist at him.”
“Really?” Akitada was intrigued. “Where does his father-in-law live?”
“He’s got a farm someplace near the brother’s. Gives himself airs like a gentleman but wears a patched robe and straw boots.”
“Hmm.” The servant seemed to have run out of useful information, and Akitada turned to leave. “Very well. I shall check
your story. If you have lied to me, I’ll have you arrested. Meanwhile, you had better straighten up the place in case your master returns.”
Greatly relieved, the servant promised to get started immediately, but Akitada had a strong premonition that Nagaoka would not return to this empty shell of a house.
* * * *
SIXTEEN
Yin and Yang
“It’s too late now,” grumbled Tora, when he and Genba returned to the stable from the game of football and Genba suggested he go to see Gold. “No telling what she’ll think of me for standing her up. She hated the idea of going to the pleasure quarter to meet me.”
“Well, why don’t you go and explain? Buy her something pretty and apologize.”
Tora brightened a little. He never lacked confidence when it came to women. “You going, too?” he asked tentatively. Their peace was still recent, and bad feelings might linger.
Genba shook his head. “No. I think I’ll exercise the horses.” He slapped the rump of Akitada’s gray, who snorted playfully and danced about on his rope.
Tora hesitated. “I’m sorry for what I said about, you know, the lady.”
“I know.” Genba busied himself with one of the saddles.
“She was really good with the bamboo staves. No fear at all.”
“I know.”
“D’you suppose she wrestles, too?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“I didn’t like getting beaten by a female. Would you wrestle with her?”
Genba placed the saddle on the back of the gray and pulled the leather straps tight. Then he leaned on it to look at Tora. “After what she did to you? No.” He grinned slowly.
Tora returned the grin. “Well, remember what you told me. Don’t be discouraged. There are lots of ways to get close to a woman. Tell her you’re afraid of hurting a delicate creature in a real bout. Then show her other uses for holds and clinches.”
Genba smiled a little sadly. “She doesn’t like me. She likes you.”
“That’s because you haven’t sweet-talked her. Tell her how pretty she is, and how bright her eyes are, and how sweet her voice sounds.”
Genba made a face. “She’s an intelligent woman, not a silly young girl. We talk about important things.”
“That’s where you make your mistake. Women like it when you talk about their beauty and make soulful eyes at them. It’s their nature. A woman who doesn’t like pretty speeches is as rare as a square egg. You want me to stay and teach you some good lines?”
“No, thanks. I’ll do my own courting. Go on and find your girl.”
Relieved that all seemed to be well between him and Genba, Tora walked into the city in a more cheerful mood. The su
n was already high; it was time for the midday rice. Gold would hardly be at the training hall except at night, and then only on their practice nights. He remembered that she stayed at the Golden Phoenix Inn, but his first stop was the Willow Quarter, on the off chance that she might still be waiting.
In broad daylight the quarter looked shabby and deserted. A few elderly maids swept doorways and porters delivered supplies to the restaurants and wineshops. The house he was looking for was in a backstreet and quite small, squeezed between two more substantial neighbors. It had a tiny entrance courtyard behind a wicker gate. A morning glory vine grew here in summer, but now the wooden posts were bare. Tora opened the gate and quickly walked the few stepping-stones to the door. A small bell with a wooden clapper hung there and he rang it vigorously. When there was no immediate answer, he pushed the door open and stepped into the small, dirt-floored entry, shouting, “Ho! Mitsuko?”
