The Death Ceremony

by James Melville

  "There aren't as many guests here as I'd imagined there would be," Otani said as the Governor of Hyogo Prefecture, having completed his speech of welcome, nodded benignly at the envoys, poised as they were for the snip, and flashbulbs began to pop. It was not well done. About half of the team managed to cut through the ribbon more or less at the same time, but one fat man contrived to wedge the material in his scissors and thus pull it out of those of his neighbours on either side. Sir Rodney Hurtling dropped his altogether and, slightly flushed, cut his ribbon length a good half minute later, after his Miss Kobe had retrieved them for him, and by which time the ripple of applause had largely subsided and the majority of the guests were making for the abundant refreshments laid out on long tables at one side of the exhibition area.

  "A lot will come for the food and drink now that the speeches are finished," Kimura predicted confidently. "Even so, I think the riskiest time is over now. All invitation cards are being thoroughly checked at the reception desk, and Press photographers with bulky equipment have all been searched. Quite apart from that, we've got over a dozen plain-clothesmen in here as well as a few men on the roof and around the building. Nothing really that can be done about a gunman who doesn't care if he's caught, but judging by the Kyoto performance that's not our man's' style."

  Otani nodded again, reflecting that at least Kimura was right about the late arrivals. The crowd was already half as large again as it had been during the speeches, and it was becoming difficult to get at any of the food for the crush at the tables. He looked in the direction of the British Ambassador and was reassured to see that two tough-looking men in dark suits were keeping close to him and looking around warily as he talked animatedly to the Governor.

  "You know, I really get the impression that he's almost enjoying having to have all this protection," Kimura said at Otani's elbow. "He seemed in a perfectly good mood when I spoke to him earlier."

  Otani had hardly realised that Kimura had been away, and was pleasantly surprised to see that he was now being offered a plate of sushi by him. In spite of his feeling of malaise, his mouth watered as he took it and looked at the five mouthfuls of seasoned rice, including one topped with shrimp, one with octopus tentacle and one with eel. "You even remembered the ginger pickle," Otani said gratefully as he accepted the pair of chopsticks Kimura now took in their paper wrapper from his breast pocket and handed over.

  "I've got a German sausage and sauerkraut," Kimura replied, showing his superior the peculiar-looking contents of his own plate. "I'm afraid you'll have to get your own drink if you want one, though."

  Otani could see several people he knew, including three members of his own Rotary Club, but doubted if anyone of his acquaintance would approach him, since he was in uniform. Although not entirely happy about eating in the circumstances, he thought he was fairly safe for a few minutes and in any case was quite unable to resist the sushi.

  Once he had disposed of it, he straightened his tunic and resumed his most official face. "What will they do now, Kimura?" he asked, savouring the aftertaste of die pungent green horseradish paste used to bring out the flavour of the fish. "Go round the exhibits?"

  "You really ought to try some of the other food," Kimura said. "I'm quite surprised that they actually had sushi. It's mainly European, you see, for obvious reasons. Ravioli from Italy, snails from France, smoked salmon from Britain, the German sausages, and so on."

  Otani drew himself up. "Inspector Kimura, may I remind you that we are here on duty? If you're still hungry when we leave, I will personally buy you some lunch. It's not even eleven yet."

  Kimura was not really crushed, but looked slightly embarrassed as he hastily put his plate down on a nearby table and cleared his throat. "Ah. Yes, of course. Well. The British Ambassador is supposed to leave here at eleven-fifteen. I imagine he'll take a quick turn round the exhibition soon, but of course all the VIPs saw it in the half-hour before the opening. Then straight to Osaka Airport and back to Tokyo by plane, as you know. His own car is already on the way back to Tokyo on the highway. The Governor has made transport available all the way to the airport and of course our people will be escorting the cars. The Frenchman and the Italian are going back on the same plane. Incidentally, the Italian Ambassador's wife is a real stunner. That's her—the blonde over there."

  "The Osaka police have of course been alerted?" There was iron in Otani's quiet voice, and Kimura cleared his throat again.

  "Yes, sir," he replied soberly. "Naturally. I was in touch with Ambassador Atsugi's office earlier, and he'll be seeing the ambassadors off. Osaka police have maximum security coverage at Itami airport, even though I somehow doubt if any attempt will be made on Sir Rodney there. After all, the travelling arrangements weren't publicised, whereas this opening ceremony here is getting the full Press treatment."

  Otani looked around him. There were still far more people clustered round the tables laden with exotic titbits than looking round the exhibits, but already numbers of guests were making their way towards the exits having eaten their fill. Three photographers remained of the troop who had been there to cover the actual ribbon-cutting ceremony, and they were dogging the movements of the more senior ambassadors and of the undoubtedly beauteous Italian lady, snapping them in conversation with local commercial and political notables.

  All at once Otani felt that he was wasting his time amid this colourful tomfoolery, and wanted to be off. He turned to Kimura. "I'll leave you to finish up the food," he said, noticing his hungry gaze fixed on the tables, by no means yet denuded of their burden. "I'm going back to the office. Let me know when the ambassador is safely out of Hyogo Prefecture. Then I think I'll go to Kyoto again."

  Kimura was surprised, and it showed on his face. "Oh?"

  "Yes. I've got a murder to investigate. Perhaps you'd ;

  forgotten." Otani immediately regretted his tart manner and smiled at Kimura. "Sorry. I shouldn't snap at you. You've done a good job here, Kimura-kun. But it's struck me that I should have paid more attention to what Ambassador Atsugi pointed out. The British Ambassador spends most of his time in Tokyo, you see."

  Kimura fingered the exquisite knot of his silk tie from the Turnbull and Asser boutique in the Seibu Department Store in Tokyo. "Well, obviously he does," he said in some bewilderment.

  Otani stared at him. "Well, then. Why go to all the trouble to arrange an exceedingly complicated assassination—a blind assassination, in a sense—in Kyoto, or here in Kobe for that matter, when it would be a lot easier to mark his movements in Tokyo?"

  Kimura shrugged his expensively-tailored shoulders. Now that Otani had announced his intention of leaving, he wished he would go. Quite apart from the food which remained, Kimura was anxious to make the acquaintance of one or two foreign girls in various styles of national dress who were in attendance, and if possible pay his respects to the Italian Ambassadress. "I really couldn't say. Presumably the Metropolitan Police have pretty effective protection arrangements up there. Easier to get him in Kyoto, especially with this fellow Casey in place to help with the proceedings."

  Otani sighed. "You may be right. Anyway, I leave it to you to take charge here and see the Ambassador safely away.''

  As he turned aside, the receiver in his tunic pocket emitted a bleeping sound, and Otani hastily made for a corner of the big exhibition hall, positioning himself unobtrusively behind a pillar as he fixed the small speaker into his ear and took out the instrument to acknowledge the call signal. It was of the newest type, no bigger than a packet of cigarettes, and the fine cord to the earpiece served as its aerial. There were other uniformed officers here and there in the hall in addition to the plain-clothesmen, and these were openly equipped with the larger, conventional walkie-talkies and earpieces.

  The message from prefectural police headquarters for Otani was very simple, and consisted of two parts. First, he was informed that Patrick Casey had not slept at his modest hotel in Kyoto the previous night, and that his key was still in its pigeon
hole at the reception desk. Second, that he was requested to call a certain number urgently.

  The number, he knew, would be that of a public telephone from which Woman Detective Junko Migishima wished to report to him personally, as he had instructed her to do early that morning. The departure of Inspector Sakamoto had made it not only very easy but indeed perfectly logical for Otani to assume personal charge of the Criminal Investigation Section and to assign the members of its staff to such duties as he thought fit, without the necessity to confide in either Noguchi or Kimura.

  That they would find out sooner or later was of no importance. What was important was that Otani should have Rosie Winchmore tailed from the time she left their house at Rokko. If she met Patrick Casey, he would have to take certain disagreeable steps. If she didn't, it would be a great relief.

  Otani hastened to the nearest red public telephone in the entrance lobby, fumbling for some ten-yen coins as he did so.

  Chapter 14

  OTANI HAD NEVER BEEN MUCH OF A ONE FOR NIGHT life, and since achieving lonely eminence as officer commanding the Hyogo Prefectural Police Force could probably have counted on the fingers of his two hands the number of times he had been out in the evening in sociable company with colleagues. Even those occasions were usually in Tokyo where he went several times a year for conferences or briefings at the National Police Agency and was sometimes prevailed upon to make the rounds of a few bars with some of his old acquaintances working in the Agency or in the Metropolitan force.

  Even now, he told himself, he was really on duty, but nevertheless looked around him with lively interest as Noguchi proceeded in a stately way down the street known as Kiyamachi in the central entertainment area of Kyoto, a stone's throw from the Pontocho geisha quarter. In spite of the pleasantly unpolluted stream fringed with willow trees which ran alongside the street, the establishments which lined the other side were a far cry from the discreet and exclusive geisha houses in Pontocho itself or in the equally well-known Gion area fifteen minutes walk to the southwest.

  It was just before nine in the evening, and the touts in their sharp dinner suits were in full cry outside almost every building, most of which housed anything from two or three to a dozen or more bars or so-called cabarets and pink salons. Otani was perfectly well aware of what went on in the last-named, staffed by amateur "hostesses" who might be anything from bored or hard-up married women to high-school girls. Every large city had plenty of pink salons, which occupied a position very near the end of the market and which provided at modest cost gaudy facilities and complaisant women for boozy groping, quite unlike the stylish but expensive elegance of the best type of bar. Nevertheless, it was the first time Otani could recall having been in Kyoto by night, and even the cheap and tawdry side of Kiyamachi had a certain air to it which marked it off as different from Kobe.

  "Off your hands, then, is he?" Noguchi had been silent for quite a long time, and it took Otani a moment to decide whether his old friend was referring to the British Ambassador or perhaps to Inspector Sakamoto. He inferred that it must be the former.

  "Yes. Kimura reported that the departure from Osaka Airport was completely uneventful. Just before I left to come here I had a call from Atsugi at the Foreign Ministry Liaison Office in Osaka to say that the Ambassador was safely back in Tokyo. It seems he has no plans to come this way again for some months, so at least we can concentrate on one thing at a time from now on."

  Otani had changed into civilian clothes but still made a sharp contrast to the disreputable Noguchi, and the touts outside the buildings tended to fall temporarily silent and look at them warily as they passed.

  "Had anything to eat?"

  "Don't worry," Otani reassured him hastily, knowing the sort of place Noguchi usually patronised. ''Where are we meeting this contact of yours?" They had arrived at the Shijo boulevard, still alive with traffic and pedestrians even though the shutters were beginning to go up outside the big shops as they closed.

  "Not far now." They waited for the traffic lights to change and crossed the busy street, still heading south, and continued down Kiyamachi, which became almost immediately darker, quieter and somehow more secretive than at its brassy northern end. There were fewer people about, and although there were for the first couple of hundred metres still a few restaurants and bars, the eating-houses were drab and cheap, and the bars were just that: simple counters at which customers stood, presided over by a middle-aged or elderly man or woman and devoted solely to the business of drinking.

  A little way further down, Noguchi turned into a side alley barely wide enough to admit his bulk, and then at once into the entrance to an inn. It was a small, unpretentious inn in spite of its resounding name, which was the Pavilion of the Bamboo Dream, and obviously catered for low-budget travellers. Like the vast majority of Japanese, Otani was oblivious to the poetry of place names, surnames and names of business establishments, and found the Pavilion of the Bamboo Dream as a name no more noteworthy than a Londoner finds names like Cheapside, Earl's Court or Chalk Farm.

  He was, however, relieved to see that the inn looked perfectly clean and decent, for all its modesty, and would not particularly have minded staying there. That would not be necessary, though, since before leaving Kobe he had telephoned to book himself into the Station Hotel, overcoming his prejudice against Western-style accommodation for the sake of the anonymity and freedom to come and go which could not be found in a Japanese inn. Hanae had been surprised and not best pleased to learn that he was intending to stay overnight in Kyoto anyway, and supposed that a desire to avoid another encounter with Rosie might have been a factor. Otani had not bothered to disabuse her.

  Otani and Noguchi were met in the entrance to the inn by the proprietor, a bright-eyed woman whom Otani judged to be in her middle fifties. She was among the increasing minority of elderly Japanese of both sexes who scorn the use of dye to keep the hair black, and had a fine head of grey hair drawn back into a simple knot. Her kimono was of good quality and seemed to be in a subtle shade of grey-blue, but that might have been a trick of the dim light of the entrance.

  Somewhat to Otani's surprise, Noguchi did not appear to know her, and introduced both himself and Otani by name but not rank or profession, addressing her politely as oyanushi-san.

  "I was expecting you about now," she replied in a friendly way, displaying no trace of being intimidated by Noguchi's tough appearance. "My name is Uemura, at your service. This way, please."

  The two men took off their shoes and followed her up a flight of polished wooden stairs to an upstairs room. It was of eight mats, a fair size, and was furnished with a low table of imitation lacquer and a pile of zabuton cushions in one corner. Mrs Uemura placed three of them round the table and gestured Otani to the place of honour in front of the rudimentary tokonoma alcove which had in it an arrangement of twigs in a flat dish that Otani guessed was in accordance with the style of the Sogetsu school of "flower arrangement" which in fact generally dispensed with the use of actual flowers. Its tastefulness struck him, but not so much as the fact that Mrs Uemura herself took the third cushion, kneeling formally on it with easy grace.

  Noguchi had not specified the sex of his "contact" but on arrival at the inn Otani had quite expected to find someone other than the proprietor waiting to talk to them. "We won't be disturbed," she said. "Business is very quiet at this time of the year. There are only two guests staying here tonight and they've both gone to bed already, downstairs." Otani rather doubted it, since he could hear the sound of a television set coming from somewhere below, but in principle nine-fifteen was not an unreasonable time for people staying at a Japanese inn to have had their bath and evening meal and be settling down for the night.

  In contradiction of Mrs Uemura's words, they were immediately disturbed, but only by a young maid with rosy cheeks, quite obviously fresh from the country, who brought a tray on which were a large vacuum flask of hot water, a canister of tea, a pot, three cups and three tiny plates, on each
of which was a bean-jam cake wrapped in tissue paper. Mrs Uemura deftly made and served the tea as the girl withdrew and slid the fusuma door closed behind her, then fixed her attention on Noguchi.

  "So," she said. "It has been a long time since police officers have entered this inn. My nephew says he owes you a favour, so you are welcome all the same." Noguchi, still seemingly on his best behaviour, gruffly disclaimed having been of any particular service to her nephew, and apologised for troubling her so late in the evening. Otani was at a loss how to proceed in what at best seemed likely to be a very tricky conversation, and was momentarily irritated with Noguchi for not having briefed him properly in advance, as well as with himself for not having asked any questions. He was given a lead by Mrs Uemura herself.

  "So Fujiwara's in some kind of trouble," she said thoughtfully. "I'd never have supposed something that happened so long ago would come back to haunt him. Until I heard about the Iemoto being killed, that is." It took all of Otani's self-control to sip quietly at his tea, betraying nothing of the excitement he felt: Noguchi for his part had obviously withdrawn into a purely listening role and was unlikely to speak, though Otani knew that he would if necessary be able to repeat verbatim everything the woman said.

  "How did you hear about it? Television? The papers?" Otani's question was put in a casual, matter-of-fact way, but seemed to amuse Mrs Uemura.

  "What do you think? Why, I was one of the first to know. My baby tells me everything, and he was on the phone within an hour or so."