“I remember that some of your elaborate practical jokes toppled over from their own weight. I also remember that you would stoop to anything to gain favor from your master. It was a clever idea to murder Lord Fujikawa and arrange to have the blame fall on the Mt. Hiei monk. In that way you would be getting rid of two of Nobunaga’s enemies with one blow. But why bring in the Portuguese at all?”
“I could never have convinced the shogun or Kagemasa if I accused the monks directly,” replied Hambei. “It was much more convincing when the suspicion fell on the Portuguese first and then an objective outsider—that’s where you came in—proved them to be innocent. Kagemasa is a very shrewd judge of character, and he has no doubts about your honesty. We originally planned to have you present the tuft clue to him, but this way will do as well.”
“But weren’t you taking a risk when you chose me as your objective outsider?” asked Zenta. “I knew your tricky character from the old days, and I would be very likely to suspect you.”
Hambei’s teeth showed in a smile that for once contained no humor. “Ah, but your part in the scheme was what appealed to me most. I did have a much simpler plot at first, but when I saw you by the eel stand the other day, I changed my mind. I simply couldn’t resist the temptation of making you the instrument of Mt. Hiei’s destruction. Tomorrow morning news will reach us that while looking for additional clues, you were discovered by the monks and promptly executed. This will convince Kagemasa of their guilt, and the way will be open for Nobunaga’s campaign against them.” Hambei’s eyes glittered as he added softly, “You see, I hate you. I have always hated you.”
Zenta glanced involuntarily at the door leading to the garden. Where was Matsuzo? What was keeping him?
Hambei saw the glance. “Waiting for help to come? Matsuzo is enjoying the Gion Festival with Chiyo. She has him infatuated, and I instructed her to keep him occupied for a long time. Pedro is away also, looking for Father Luis. Nor will Maria come to provide distraction, because she caught me taking this gun, and I had to silence her. She seemed fanatically devoted to Pedro. Could she actually be in love with a long-nosed devil?”
“You’ve killed Maria?” cried Zenta. Up to that moment, his feeling towards Hambei had been largely indifference, with some disgust for his morals and some amusement at his constant scheming. But now Hambei’s callous tone induced a flare of hatred.
“I didn’t kill her,” said Hambei carelessly. “That would anger Pedro, and Nobunaga wants us to cultivate the friendship of the Portuguese. No, I just stunned her and tied her up.”
Zenta dropped his right hand on the go board and pretended to play idly with the black and white stones. He let his left hand fall unobtrusively under the table. When it was out of sight he gripped one leg of the low, heavy wooden table.
“I don’t understand why you hate me,” he murmured. “ I have done you no injury. Your career has been a string of successes, and I have never tried to compete with you for any position or any lord’s favor.”
“I hate you because you didn’t!” cried Hambei. Every trace of the fun-loving joker was gone. Resentment and jealousy, all the more violent from having been suppressed for so long, poured out of him in a poisonous stream. “I’ve had my successes, but all my rewards, money, rank, and even women, turned worthless when I saw that you didn’t desire any of them!”
Speechless with surprise, Zenta stared at this old acquaintance who had turned into a stranger. Never once had he suspected Hambei of jealousy, not even when Matsuzo had hinted at it. In spite of his naive appearance, his young friend had more insight into people’s characters than expected.
“I hate your smug moral superiority,” continued Hambei. “But more than anything else, I hate your arrogance.”
“Arrogance!” exclaimed Zenta. He knew that nothing he could say would persuade Hambei to spare him, but the sheer injustice of the accusation made him protest. “I’m not arrogant!”
“I grant that you’re not one of those loud, boastful swordsmen who enjoy pushing smaller men down,” said Hambei. “Your arrogance goes much deeper. In your heart you despise all those lords you’ve served, and you think yourself better than any of them. That’s why you refuse to perform any duty which offends your nice scruples. You simply leave, knowing that with your abilities, you can find another position elsewhere.”
Zenta was reminded of the warlord whose methods of collecting taxes he had disliked. When he had decided to leave rather than continue serving the man, Hambei had elected to stay. Hambei had performed unsavory tasks for his masters, always despising himself for doing them, and always hating Zenta for having the courage to refuse.
Looking at the other man’s hate-contorted face, Zenta knew that he had only one hope: He himself had to choose when Hambei was to fire his gun. “It’s strange to hear you talk about scruples,” he said, smiling contemptuously. “You’ve never had a scruple in your life.”
And Zenta hurled the go table just as Hambei fired. The deafening report of the gun drowned the clatter of the little black and white stones showering the room.
Zenta felt a sharp pain in his upper leg, and for a moment he thought that his plan to intercept the bullet had failed. He looked down and saw that it was not a bullet, but a large, jagged piece of the shattered go table that had pierced his thigh. With shaking hands he gave a sharp tug and pulled out the piece of wood.
It was a bad mistake. Blood poured from the wound, and he pressed down on it desperately. He felt a wave of nausea at the pain. Dimly he knew that something had to be done quickly since Hambei was already working to reload the gun. With a red and sticky hand Zenta groped for his sword. He found to his despair that he needed both hands to wield it. “Amusing, isn’t it?” said Hambei. “You can’t hold your sword and staunch the bleeding at the same time. I don’t even have to shoot again. I can just stand here and watch you bleed to death.”
“You won’t be doing that,” said a deep and accented voice. “Drop the gun and stand back.” Neither man had noticed Pedro’s arrival.
He was standing on the narrow wooden veranda outside the sliding door. To Zenta’s blurring eyes, he appeared as a silhouette with the sun behind him. Only the naked rapier in his hand caught the light and shone like a silver thread.
Pedro turned to Zenta. “I went to look for Father Luis at Nobunaga’s residence, but found that he had already left. When I got home the first person I saw was Maria, lying unconscious, bound, and gagged. I had to make sure that she wasn’t badly hurt.” “I wouldn’t hurt Maria, you must believe me!” said Hambei. “I only wanted to prevent her from interfering.”
“You . . .” For a moment Pedro’s Japanese seemed to fail him, and the word he spat out was in Portuguese. But its meaning was clear. Then he drew a deep breath and said, “You are a murderer. You killed Lord Fujikawa and then Kotaro. Next you tried to put the blame on the monks of Mt. Hiei.”
Hambei opened his mouth, but Pedro cut him off. “Don’t bother to deny anything. When I told you about finding Kotaro’s body, I didn’t say how he had died. Yet you knew that he had not committed suicide, but had been struck down from behind.”
Zenta felt his hands weakening. Already the lower part of his kimono was soaked with blood. To his ears the voices of the other two men seemed to be receding, and he wasn’t sure whether he had heard Pedro correctly. “You found Kotaro’s body? Where was it?”
“It was thrown down into our well,” replied Pedro. “Kotaro was killed when he tried to escape here.” He turned his eyes back to Hambei. “But I was only telling you about Kotaro’s body to test you, because by then I had already suspected you of Lord Fujikawa’s murder. You see, the stolen gun was the one with a rifled bore. This is a new invention, and there are very few models, even in Europe. I had paid a lot of money for this one and was saving it to present to Nobunaga. And yet when we discussed how the murderer was able to aim so accurately, you already knew that the gun which fired the shot had a rifled bore.”
Ha
mbei must have realized that it was useless to deny Pedro’s words. He merely nodded and said, “You have no reason to regret the deaths of Lord Fujikawa and Kotaro. They both tried to injure you at every opportunity. The Mt. Hiei monks, too, are your enemies. You should even be grateful to me.”
“What about Zenta?” asked Pedro.
“He is only a bodyguard,” said Hambei quickly. “We are already rid of Lord Fujikawa, and once we bring about the downfall of Mt. Hiei, you will have no further need for bodyguards. We can still say that Zenta was killed by the monks. Only you and I will know the truth.”
Pedro advanced one step into the room. The rapier in his hand made a faint swish. “You samurai are always talking about honor!” he said. Although Pedro’s voice seemed to come from a great distance, Zenta could hear it ring with anger. “Don’t you realize that we Europeans have our honor also?”
Zenta saw Hambei’s hand move to his sword, and he shouted a warning. It was unnecessary. Pedro went flat out into a lunge which stretched his body almost horizontal.
Just before he lost consciousness, Zenta’s last thought was, “So that’s the proper way to use a rapier!”
Chapter 13
For the tenth time that day Pedro wished himself back in Lisbon. He now had on his hands one unconscious man and two corpses. In this hot weather the corpses would soon become an acute problem. One corpse was polluting the household well, and the other corpse had been a favorite henchman of the most powerful warlord in Japan. To be sure Nobunaga, when he learned the full truth, would grant that Hambei’s death was justified. But the warlord had a temper like a typhoon, and Pedro didn’t look forward to meeting the initial furious blast when he announced the news.
The family that Pedro had left behind in Portugal consisted of a father, who was a bitter failure; a mother, who was a whining invalid; and an older brother, who was a domineering bully. They lived in a huge broken-down mansion which was dark and evil-smelling by Japanese standards, and yet the thought of it gave Pedro a violent attack of homesickness.
At least Maria turned out to be a source of comfort. When Pedro showed her the bloody shambles in Zenta’s room, he expected her to faint from shock. Instead she asked him, in a tolerably firm voice, what he wanted her to do. She efficiently tore up strips of cloth and bandaged Zenta’s wound. It would need to be stitched, but Father Luis, who was very skilled in medicine, would see to that.
Then the two of them carried Hambei’s body into the storeroom and placed a folding screen in front of it, shutting it out of view, if not out of mind. Watching Maria at the gruesome task, Pedro decided that Japanese women were tougher than they looked. Maria made light of the rope burns on her wrists and the bruise on her temple, although they looked very painful to Pedro. Her only sign of fear was that she followed him like a shadow, as if reluctant to let him out of her sight.
After a while Pedro said jokingly, “If you follow me like this, I shall have to marry you.” Maria blushed like a peony, and Pedro saw that what he had said in fun might be taken seriously by the girl. He then realized that he wanted her to take his words seriously. For a long moment they stood and looked at each other. Then the sound of voices reached them, and seconds later there was a knocking at the gate.
“That must be some of our people coming back,” murmured Maria. She turned away, but not before Pedro caught sight of a faint smile on her lips.
The two men who returned were enthusiastic about the festivities, and they gave Maria a detailed account of all the things she had missed. On their heels came Father Luis, escorted home in style by Nobunaga’s men.
The priest looked pleased with himself. “After the banquet we went to a Zen Buddhist temple where Nobunaga staged a debate between myself and a Buddhist priest. Forgive my vanity, Pedro, but I must say that I did rather well. The Buddhist priest looked so foolish that he became furious. Nobunaga and the others roared with laughter.”
“Uh, Father . . .” Pedro began.
But Father Luis was not listening. “I have to give much credit to the interpreter, a nice lad and a recent convert. Of course, nobody interprets as well as you, Pedro.”
“Father Luis, while you were away, a few things have been happening here,” said Pedro.
Still paying no attention, Father Luis continued. “But my best news is this: Nobunaga is coming to pay us a visit!”
Pedro choked. The Jesuit mistook his reaction as shock from the great honor. “Nobunaga wants to look at some of our scientific instruments,” he said happily. “Perhaps you can demonstrate the alarm clock to him.”
Pedro finally found his tongue. “Father, there is something you should know immediately.” Without wasting words, he gave his account, beginning with Hambei’s arrival and ending with Hambei’s present resting place in the storeroom.
Father Luis was a mild, peaceful man, but he had been trained in a hard school, and he took the news calmly. “Oh dear, then Nobunaga’s visit at this time is not very convenient, is it?”
“Not convenient!” sputtered Pedro. He fought down an urge to laugh hysterically. “Perhaps we should tell him to come back another day, when we’ve had the chance to do a little housework.”
“There is no need to be facetious, Pedro!” said Father Luis.
“I’m sorry, Father,” muttered Pedro. “Especially since my actions may cause Nobunaga to turn against all foreigners.”
“You only did what your conscience told you to do, and no man can do better,” said Father Luis. “You couldn’t permit Hambei to carry on his monstrous deception, and you couldn’t stand by and see him butcher Zenta in cold blood.”
“But what shall we tell Nobunaga?” asked Pedro.
“We must tell him the truth. He will find out sooner or later, and he will be grateful to discover the sort of man Hambei was. Why, we may have saved him a campaign against Mt. Hiei that could have cost thousands of lives.”
Knowing how much Nobunaga hated the Mt. Hiei monks, Pedro didn’t think that the warlord would be particularly happy at calling off the campaign. But at least he should be glad to rid his staff of a man who was a scheming liar and a murderer.
Pedro began to get the house ready for the warlord’s visit. First, he called the two men who had returned, and with their help, raised Kotaro’s body from the well and placed it next to that of Hambei’s in the storeroom. When that grisly task was done, he made the two men promise to keep silent. He was afraid that the news of the discovery might spread next door. At the moment there was a fragile truce between the Portuguese and Lord Fujikawa’s men, but he wasn’t at all sure how they would react to the news that their leader’s body had been found in the foreigners’ well.
More of the staff returned, and Pedro set them to work dusting their best cushions and sweeping the sand in the front courtyard. The fight between Zenta and Lord Fujikawa’s men seemed long, long ago. Pedro was surprised to realize that there hadn’t even been time to call in a carpenter to repair the damaged gate.
Next Pedro considered the problem of refreshments. He knew that there would be no time to prepare anything elaborate. Fortunately they had some sponge cake made from eggs. It was the European food that had found the most favor with the Japanese. He was a little worried about what drink to serve. They had the saké which he and Hambei had been drinking, but it was of a quality too poor to offer to someone like Nobunaga. With a sigh he brought out some of the precious red wine from home that he had been saving for special occasions and emergencies. Well, this was an emergency.
On the other side of the city Matsuzo was pushing through the thick crowd with Chiyo. He thought over Kagemasa’s parting words. “I wonder what he meant. That remark about needing refuge from powerful enemies sounded ominous.”
They were approaching an intersection of two major streets. It was blocked with holidaymakers. Instead of replying, Chiyo suddenly pulled Matsuzo behind a family consisting of father, mother and two children. Matsuzo snatched his sleeve away from the sticky hands of the younger
child, who was eating a sweet. Behind the glaze of syrup, her fat, moon-shaped face was the homeliest that he had ever seen.
“Why are you trying to get us adopted into this family?” he asked, annoyed.
Chiyo hurriedly quieted him. “I saw several of Nobunaga’s men here. Don’t let them see us.” “Why not?” he demanded. “We haven’t done anything to offend Nobunaga. It’s Hambei who is our enemy. And besides, they don’t even know my face.”
“Some of the men know my face, since they’ve seen me with Hambei,” explained Chiyo. “From that they can guess who you are, and they might be under orders from Hambei to treat you as dangerous.”
Their progress in crossing the city became slow and nerve-racking as they tried to merge with the holiday crowd and escape the notice of Nobunaga’s men who were vigilantly patrolling all the major intersections. On the previous day, Matsuzo had thought the trip to Kagemasa’s house agonizingly slow. But the return was taking twice as long. By the time they approached the street of the Portuguese, he felt hot, tired, and disheveled. He saw that Chiyo looked little better, although he had tried to shield her from the buffeting.
Just before they turned into their side street, they were overtaken by a procession of horsemen. Chiyo abruptly stooped down as if to adjust her sandal strap.
Matsuzo didn’t notice her action, for he was looking at the leading horseman. From the reaction of the bystanders, he guessed that the man was a great warlord. He couldn’t see much of the face because a wide hat covered most of the upper half. What he could see, the arrogant chin and the tightly compressed lips, indicated a formidable will.
When the last of the horsemen had passed them, Chiyo straightened. “That was Nobunaga and his men,” she told Matsuzo.
“What?” cried Matsuzo. He turned to look again at the leading horseman, but could see only the retreating back.
“Look!” cried Chiyo, pointing. “They are going down our street!”
The Samurai and the Long-Nosed Devils Page 11
