Claws of the Cat

by Susan Spann

  “A lovely arrangement,” he said.

  Mayuri sniffed. “Riko might amount to something if she tried, but she doesn’t apply herself to flower arrangement. That vase should hold two stalks, not one.”

  She tilted her head slightly. “But we were not discussing flowers. What is your purpose here? My cooperation does not extend to you creeping around my teahouse and listening at doors.”

  “Does it extend to explaining your activities on the night of Hideyoshi’s murder?” Hiro paused. “I wanted to ask you privately, in deference to your status as the owner of this establishment. If you prefer, we can conduct this interview publicly.”

  Mayuri raised a hand and patted the back of her elaborately coiffed hair. She forced an embarrassed smile. “This will do, thank you, though I find your question both objectionable and foolish. Why would I have a man killed in my own teahouse?”

  “I haven’t accused you,” Hiro said. “I just asked where you were that night.”

  “As I believe I mentioned yesterday, I was in this office all evening. I settle each month’s accounts on the middle day of the following month. On another night I might have been anywhere, but, since the night in question was the middle of the month, I was here with my ledgers all night.”

  Hiro found that suspiciously convenient.

  “Do you always do your accounting here?” he asked.

  “Yes.” She gestured to the box beside the writing desk. “I keep all of my records in one place.”

  “Were you alone all night?”

  “Okiya brought me tea and rice before she went upstairs. She can attest that I was here all evening. The only time I left this room was when Sayuri asked me to speak with Hideyoshi.”

  “Did you speak with him?” Hiro wondered which version of Sayuri’s tale Mayuri would confirm.

  “I did not.” She paused. “When Sayuri came to me, I told her we could not force a paying customer to leave. I intended to leave her to handle the situation, but I heard her crying as she passed the window on her way to the latrine.”

  Mayuri gestured toward the slatted window near the roofline.

  “I decided to speak with Hideyoshi, but I finished totaling a column first so I wouldn’t lose my place in the ledger. It took several minutes longer than I expected.

  “When I reached Sayuri’s room I saw a pair of silhouettes on the door.”

  She fluttered her fingers in imitation of the flickering shadows cast by a candle flame.

  “Hideyoshi was lying on the floor and Sayuri was kneeling over him. She wasn’t struggling or complaining, and he was … moaning.” She tilted her head knowingly. “I left at once, without opening the door. I didn’t want to disturb them.”

  “Was Hideyoshi Sayuri’s patron?” Hiro asked. “She claims he was not.”

  Mayuri stared at him. “Do you know the purchase price of a high-ranked artist’s favors?” A slow smile crept over her face. “The price is even higher when patronage is not negotiated in advance.”

  Her greedy smile reinforced Hiro’s silent condemnation of her character. The shinobi had no issue with a voluntary trade of money for sexual favors. Teahouses and the women who worked there played a vital social role. But a woman who saw her entertainers as mere commodities, who would knowingly abandon a girl Sayuri’s age to a lecherous patron when another man wanted her as a wife—such a woman could easily commit murder, though Hiro doubted she would wield the blade herself. Hiro considered her callousness the lowest kind of crime. Lower, because it was not a crime at all.

  “I see your displeasure,” Mayuri said, “but you do not understand our world. Hideyoshi was a good customer and he had the money to pay for what he wanted.”

  “And his brother?” Hiro asked.

  “I thought Hidetaro might plead his case to you,” Mayuri said. “This would not be the first time a poor man failed to obtain what he could not afford.”

  “Indeed, it would not.” Hiro bobbed his head. “Thank you for your time.”

  * * *

  “What now?” Father Mateo asked as they left the teahouse. “Every time we try to eliminate a potential murderer, we add someone else to the list.”

  “Two more,” Hiro said. “I spoke with Mayuri also.”

  When they reached the bridge, Hiro started across the river. Father Mateo followed.

  “We’re not going home?” the Jesuit asked.

  “No. We’re going to find out why Hidetaro lied about staying home the night his brother died.”

  Father Mateo looked confused.

  “He claimed he was home alone all night, but Yoshiko says he visited with her father in the evening and the mud on his sandals says he was out in the rain.”

  “He could have walked in mud the following morning,” the priest said.

  “It rained hard at midnight, but not for long. The ground had absorbed the water by morning and most of the puddles had dried. Hidetaro might have found a deep one that left some mud on his sandals, but the hem of his robe was soaked with dirty water too. That had to happen at night when the streets were wet.”

  “Why didn’t you mention that to him before?”

  “Several reasons. Until a short time ago, I thought the assassin was a spy for Lord Oda. Now I wonder if that spy exists at all.”

  “Several people saw him,” Father Mateo said. “Including the entertainers, who would have known Hidetaro on sight.”

  “Unless he wore a disguise,” Hiro pointed out. “Hidetaro served as a courier for the shogun. His training would have included the use of disguises.”

  “But the spy bought weapons from Luis. Where did Hidetaro get the money?”

  “I haven’t worked that piece out yet,” Hiro admitted.

  “Besides, murdering his brother would make Hidetaro a pauper.”

  “Would it? Yoshiko intends to obey her father’s will, which instructs her to continue her uncle’s support.”

  “But he loved Sayuri,” Father Mateo insisted. “Even if you’re correct about the rest, why would Hidetaro murder his brother under circumstances that made the girl a suspect?”

  “What if he didn’t?” Hiro asked. “What if we have the timing wrong?”

  “I don’t understand.” Father Mateo shook his head and shrugged.

  “I believe Hideyoshi was dead when Sayuri returned from the latrine.”

  Chapter 33

  “Sayuri said Hideyoshi was alive when she returned to the room,” Father Mateo protested. “Why would she lie?”

  “Because she knows Hidetaro killed him,” Hiro explained.

  “But why would Hidetaro kill his brother?” Father Mateo said.

  “Yoshiko said they argued about money earlier that evening. I think they did, but they also fought about Sayuri. Hidetaro asked his brother for money to pay off the contract, not realizing Mayuri raised the price because Hideyoshi wanted Sayuri too. When Hideyoshi refused his brother’s request, he also explained exactly what he intended to do with the girl Hidetaro loved.”

  “So Hidetaro followed him to the teahouse and killed him.”

  “Something very much like that, yes.”

  * * *

  A monk at Tofuku-ji told them how to find Hidetaro’s house, which lay just north of the temple compound and east of the Kamo River, at the end of an unpaved earthen road studded with fist-sized stones.

  The tiny wooden house sat on a raised foundation with a veranda of split bamboo that had long ago lost its shine. The walls were clean but aging, and where the original timbers had rotted through, replacement boards shone unnaturally bright beside their weathered neighbors.

  The buildings on either side were similarly small but in worse repair, likely the homes of servants who worked too hard in their masters’ houses to spend much time on their own. It was not the sort of neighborhood where Hiro expected to find a samurai. That, combined with Hidetaro’s courier training, reminded Hiro again to make no assumptions.

  A pair of nicely pruned cherry trees stood in the yard
of Hidetaro’s home and framed the front steps with their branches. A worn dirt path connected the road to the house, though instead of a lawn or a garden the front yard was covered with knee-high thistles and weeds.

  Hiro was surprised by the disarray. He would have expected a would-be monk to keep the yard tidy and neat.

  The priest and the shinobi walked up the path and knocked on the wooden door. Hidetaro opened it almost at once. He must have seen them coming.

  “Have you identified Yoshi’s killer?” he asked.

  “We hope to, if you will help us,” Hiro said.

  Hidetaro stepped back from the door. “Of course, please come inside.”

  As they stepped up into the house he asked, “Would you like some tea?”

  “No thank you,” Hiro said. “We won’t be long.”

  The house was too small to have a separate entry. The front door opened directly into the central and only room. An alcove in the east corner held a large wooden chest that probably contained Hidetaro’s bedding, while his futon would be folded and stored in the built-in closet immediately to the right. The north wall had a combination writing alcove and tokonoma, and the hearth sat almost in the center of the room. In all, the entire house measured barely six mats in size, little larger than Hiro’s bedroom at the church.

  The house smelled of pine boards and the smoke of pine-fueled fires. A hint of incense lingered in the air, probably brought in on Hidetaro’s clothes when he returned from meditation. Hiro inhaled deeply but caught no scent of food or grease or decay, no uncleanliness at all.

  The smell reminded Hiro of the training house at Iga that young shinobi used to practice stealth and infiltration. The house was not inhabited by people or permeated by human smells. Hiro had often sneaked inside to sleep there as a child, surrounded by the comforting scents of cedar, paper, and pine.

  It was not the way he expected a murderer’s house to smell.

  Hidetaro led them to the hearth. Hiro deferred to Father Mateo, and the priest took the seat of honor directly to Hidetaro’s right. Hiro knelt on the far side of the priest.

  “How can I help you?” Hidetaro asked.

  Hiro’s eyebrows raised at his host’s directness.

  “Sayuri’s time is running out,” Hidetaro said. “This is not the time for manners.”

  “Very well,” Hiro said. “When did you learn Hideyoshi intended to become Sayuri’s exclusive patron?”

  Hidetaro blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Hiro knew he could not learn the truth through questions. The shogunate had trained Hidetaro to dissemble when his life was on the line. The samurai would expect politeness.

  Hiro gave him the opposite.

  “I think you do,” Hiro said. “I know you argued with Hideyoshi the night he died, and your stained robe says you were out in the rain, not home asleep as you claimed. I know that you wanted Sayuri for your wife and that Mayuri changed the contract price the very day your brother died. She changed it because Hideyoshi wanted Sayuri for himself, but not as a wife—he already had one of those. He wanted her for his whore, and that made you furious, even more because he only wanted her to injure you.”

  Hidetaro clenched his jaw, inhaled deeply, and released the tension as he exhaled.

  “How much more proof would Nobuhide need to find you guilty?” Hiro asked. “Or would you rather let Sayuri take the blame?”

  “Tell Nobuhide what you know,” Hidetaro said, as calmly as if responding to an inquiry about the weather. “Sayuri will live. I am prepared to die.”

  Hiro felt a flash of victory that instantly changed to doubt. Hidetaro intended to take responsibility, but his confession was not made in earnest. Guilty men rarely welcomed death so stoically, particularly for crimes of passion, yet Hidetaro looked like one of Father Mateo’s much-heralded martyrs marching to his pyre.

  The priest apparently thought so too.

  “I don’t think you killed him,” Father Mateo said. “What did you really do that night?”

  “I killed my brother,” Hidetaro said. “You caught me. In the morning I will confess to Nobuhide, and Sayuri will live. Tonight, I have nothing more to say.”

  Hidetaro’s confession would save Father Mateo, the Sakura, and perhaps even the shogunate, but the words made Hiro angry instead of pleased. Suspicion of Hidetaro’s innocence chewed at Hiro’s conscience like a dog at a butcher’s bone, and for the first time in his life as a shinobi, Hiro found himself caring more about the truth than about success.

  His chest burned with frustration, as much with himself as with Hidetaro. He wanted to accept the confession and walk away, successful as always. Hiro did not fail. He succeeded at any cost. No life, no expense, no principle ever stood in his way … except for one.

  Hiro would not let an innocent life pay a guilty man’s debt.

  He realized with bitter irony that a similar choice had landed him in Kyoto, punished with an assignment to protect the foreign priest. It had been the only failure in his spectacular career—and that failure, too, had been spectacular in its way.

  Hiro had agreed to help Sayuri only to save the Jesuit’s life, but he had also agreed to help find Hideyoshi’s killer. He had given his word. That goal was secondary to his oath to protect the priest, but once the shinobi accepted a mission, he did not and would not fail. He couldn’t just find a person to take the blame. Until Hiro found Hideyoshi’s murderer his conscience would not release him from his pledge.

  That didn’t keep him from hoping his instincts were wrong, and that Hidetaro really did kill Hideyoshi. Because if Hidetaro wasn’t guilty, Hiro had less than eighteen hours to learn who did. And despite Hidetaro’s noble offer to take Sayuri’s place, Hiro was not convinced that Nobuhide would accept his uncle’s claims of responsibility.

  In fact, he found it more likely that Hidetaro’s “confession” would trigger the very executions the noble gesture was intended to prevent.

  Chapter 34

  “Tell us how you killed Hideyoshi,” Hiro said.

  Father Mateo glared. “Can’t you tell he only confessed to save Sayuri’s life?”

  “If he wants to take the blame he can explain how he committed the crime.” Hiro looked at Hidetaro. “Or, if he wants us to find the real murderer, he can explain what really happened the night his brother died.”

  Hidetaro breathed in and out at a measured pace that Hiro recognized as a Zen technique for reducing stress and clearing a cluttered mind. The samurai did not fidget, or even move, but the breathing revealed his internal conflict.

  Hiro gave him time to make up his mind.

  At last Hidetaro nodded. “I will help you for the remainder of today. Tomorrow, if you have not found the killer, I will confess in order to save Sayuri’s life.”

  “You love her enough to die for her?” Hiro wondered what that felt like.

  “All men die,” Hidetaro said, “most, for no valid reason. At least this death will not be meaningless.”

  “But you may not need to die at all,” Father Mateo said. “Tell us what happened the night your brother died.”

  “That story begins earlier in the day,” Hidetaro said. “The day before yesterday, in the morning, I visited the Sakura Teahouse to make a payment on Sayuri’s contract. It was the middle day of the month, and I always made my payments on the middle day and the last day.”

  He gave an embarrassed smile, like a little boy caught in a lie. “I originally told you that I made that payment the morning my brother died, which wasn’t true, though I did go to the teahouse that morning. Mayuri told me about the murder—though it wasn’t Mayuri I expected to see.”

  He paused. “It’s better if I continue in proper order.

  “On the morning before Hideyoshi died I went to the teahouse to make a payment. Mayuri would not accept my silver. She said another man had offered a much larger sum for patronage alone. Mayuri intended to keep the girl in the teahouse after all.

  “I demande
d to know the patron’s identity and the amount he had offered to pay. She named an astronomical sum—a thousand gold koban.”

  Hiro’s eyes widened in surprise. Father Mateo looked confused, so Hiro explained. “One koban is the equivalent of three koku of rice. A thousand koban would feed an army for a year.”

  “Mayuri had to be lying,” Hidetaro said. “No man would pay so much for a woman’s favors.”

  “I agree,” Hiro said, “but why would Mayuri lie?”

  “I think she needed to make the sum so high that I couldn’t match it. Even so, I decided I had to try. I spent the day meditating in order to crush my pride, and in the evening I went to see Yoshi. We spoke in private, in his personal armory. I knelt before him and asked him to buy Sayuri’s contract for me. I swore that if he granted this request I would never ask him for anything again, not even a grain of rice.”

  “But Hideyoshi didn’t have that kind of wealth,” Father Mateo said.

  Hidetaro drew back in surprise. “He must have had it. He was the patron whose name Mayuri wouldn’t mention.”

  “How did you learn that?” Hiro asked.

  “Yoshi didn’t just deny my request for help. He laughed in my face and called me a fool for falling in love with a prostitute.

  “That was his word,” Hidetaro added quickly, “not ever mine.”

  Father Mateo nodded in understanding as the samurai continued. “Yoshi told me he had bought Sayuri’s favors for himself. He said he would think of me when he deflowered her.”

  Hidetaro’s fists clenched at his sides. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing again. He did not speak until his demeanor and voice were calm.

  “When Yoshi finished laughing he handed me a dagger from his collection. He suggested I use it to commit seppuku, since it was the last thing I would ever receive from his hand.”

  “Did you find a better use for it than ritual suicide?” Hiro asked.

  “I wanted to, and if Yoshi were not my brother I would have killed him on the spot, but I didn’t. I threw the knife away as hard as I could.

  “It struck the tokonoma and knocked over the display.” Hidetaro gave a bitter laugh at the memory. “The neko-te flew everywhere and the tessen fell to the floor. Yoshi started cursing and I heard Nobuhide laugh, but I left the room and didn’t look back.”