That was the standard punishment for survivors of love suicide pacts. As Reiko studied his bleak posture, she realized that Kanai still mourned his beloved. “I’m sorry. Maybe if I put in a good word for you with my father, he’ll pardon you.”
“Thanks, but don’t bother,” Kanai said, his expression morose as he faced her. “My sentence was one year. I can leave any time I want. I choose to stay.”
“Why?” Reiko couldn’t believe that anyone would voluntarily live here.
“I was too much a coward to die. What kind of poor excuse for a samurai does that make me?” Kanai’s tone was scathing. “She’s dead. I’m alive. Staying here is my punishment.”
With a visible effort he donned his usual, indifferent attitude. “But you didn’t come here to listen to my pitiful story. Come with me—I’ll introduce you to Yugao’s neighbors.” As they exited the hovel, he said, “There’s one lesson you can learn from my example, that you should keep in mind while you investigate these murders: Some people accused of crimes truly are guilty.”
* * *
11
Cannons and gunshots blasted around Hirata. He stood alone on a battlefield, his body clothed in armor, his sword in his hand. Amid clouds of smoke and mist, shadowy figures engaged in fierce combat. Their cries rang above the blare of conch trumpets and the thunder of war drums. A soldier on horseback galloped through the mist, his lance aimed at Hirata. Hirata dodged and swung his sword. It cut the soldier across the belly. The soldier dropped from his mount, spurting blood. A swordsman charged Hirata from the rear. Hirata whirled; his blade lashed open the man’s throat. More soldiers assailed Hirata. He slew them with effortless grace. His blade seemed an extension of his will to win. Exhilaration filled him.
Suddenly the battle sounds faded; the armies dissolved in the mist. Hirata awakened to find himself lying in bed, his wounded leg throbbing. The war-cries became the chatter of servants in his estate; the gunfire emanated from the Edo Castle shooting range. Morning sunlight from the window stabbed his eyes. His head ached and his stomach was sour—after-effects of his sleeping potion. Every night he dreamed that he was whole and strong; every morning he awakened to the nightmare of his true existence. But he stoically heaved himself out of bed. He had important work to do, and he’d already slept too long.
“Midori!” he called.
After she helped him dress and coaxed him to eat some rice gruel and fish, he went into his office and sent for his detectives. He assigned men to take charge of ongoing investigations, dismissed them, and told Arai and Inoue to stay.
“Today we’ll investigate the previous deaths that Lord Matsudaira thinks were murders,” he said.
“That would be Ono Shinnosukc, the supervisor of court ceremony, Highway Commissioner Sasamura Tomoya, and Treasury Minister Moriwaki?” said Arai.
Hirata nodded. “We’ll try to find out whether they were victims of dim-mak. If so, we’ll look for suspects.”
“Where do we start?” said Inoue.
“At their homes. That’s where Ono and Sasamura died.”
All three men had lived in estates in the Hibiya administrative district. Hirata hoped he wouldn’t have to travel any farther. The pain was especially severe this morning, due to yesterday’s exertions. Maybe he could connect the previous deaths to Chief Ejima’s and uncover some leads before his strength gave out. He tucked a vial of opium under his sash in case he should need relief.
Two hours later, he and the detectives walked out the gate of Treasury Minister Moriwaki’s residence. They mounted their horses while clerks, officials in palanquins, and foot-soldiers streamed past them in the street.
“Another dead end,” Inoue said regretfully.
“It’s too bad that no one here, or at the court supervisor’s or the highway commissioner’s estates, noticed a fingerprint-shaped bruise on any of the victims,” Arai said.
Hirata had questioned the men’s families, retainers, and servants, to no avail. Because the bodies had been cremated, they couldn’t be examined. “Moriwaki’s wife did tell us some interesting facts about what happened after he died,” Hirata remarked.
“But we’ve learned nothing to prove that Ono and Sasamura didn’t die natural deaths in their sleep,” said Inoue.
“Maybe Ejima’s murder was an isolated incident and there’s no conspiracy against Lord Matsudaira,” Arai said.
“In which case, this list of people that the men saw during the two days before they died won’t do us much good because there’s no reason why the name of Ejima’s killer would appear on it.” Hirata tucked the scroll in his saddlebag. He felt sick and weak, as well as frustrated.
“What do we do now?” Inoue said.
Hirata didn’t want to give up and return empty-handed to Sano. “Treasury Minister Moriwaki’s case is different from the other two. He wasn’t found dead in bed at home. And our list of his contacts and places he went is incomplete.” Moriwaki’s former secretary had said that the treasury minister had been an eccentric, secretive man who’d liked to arrange his own appointments and go off by himself. “Maybe if we trace his movements, we’ll turn up some evidence that he was murdered, and some clues as to who killed Chief Ejima as well as him.”
Even though the stiffness in Hirata’s leg had eased somewhat, he spoke with as much reluctance to take another journey as anticipation of success: “The one place we know for sure that Moriwaki went is the bathhouse where he died. We’ll go there.”
The journey took Hirata to the Nihonbashi merchant district. The canals that traversed the neighborhoods brimmed with spring rain. Into them, willows trailed their boughs like girls washing their hair. Plum trees blossomed in pots outside doorways and on balconies. Hirata and his men rode past a funeral procession of lantern-bearers; priests ringing bells, beating drums, and chanting prayers; and white-robed mourners who accompanied a coffin decorated with flowers. Funerals were a disturbingly common sight since the war.
The bathhouse was located in a half-timbered building with a gleaming tile roof. It occupied an entire block in a neighborhood composed of stately houses near shops that sold expensive art objects. Clean indigo curtains, printed with the white symbol for “hot water,” hung over the entrance. Pretty maids dressed in neat kimonos stood there to welcome customers. When Hirata and his detectives dismounted outside, servants hurried to tend their horses. He deduced that the place catered to folk who were wealthy enough to have bath chambers at home but came here for other reasons besides washing themselves.
A samurai strode out the door. He was tall, with a muscular build and arrogant bearing; he wore opulent silk robes, a fancy armor tunic, and two elaborate swords. Two samurai attendants followed him. As he caught sight of Hirata, a sneer appeared on his handsome, angular face.
“Well, if it isn’t the sōsakan-sama,” he said.
Hirata bristled at the man’s insulting tone. “Greetings, Police Commissioner Hoshina.”
The police commissioner had been the lover of Yanagisawa, and a staunch ally of his faction, until a bitter quarrel had split them up. Hoshina had then taken revenge by joining Lord Matsudaira and thus kept his position at the head of the police force. He was a longtime enemy of Sano, and their bad blood extended to Hirata.
“I’m surprised to see you. The last I heard, you were on your deathbed.” Hoshina’s insolent gaze raked Hirata. “I think you got up a little too soon.”
Hirata found it humiliating to stand withered and frail before his strong, healthy adversary. “I’m just as surprised to see you,” he retorted. “The last I heard, you and Lord Matsudaira were like this.” He held up two crossed fingers. “Why aren’t you with him? Have you fallen out of his favor?”
Hoshina’s jaw tightened, and Hirata was gratified to sec that he’d hit the mark. “What are you doing here?” Hoshina said, then raised his palms. “Don’t tell me: You’ve come to investigate the death of Treasury Minister Moriwaki. Chamberlain Sano is too important to do it himself, so he sent hi
s faithful dog.”
“I bet you’re here for the same reason.” Hirata controlled his temper with difficulty. As Hoshina nodded, Hirata recalled the facts that the treasury minister’s wife had told him. “But didn’t you already investigate his death? Didn’t you arrest somebody who was executed for murdering him?”
Sullen silence was Hoshina’s reply. His attendants looked abashed for his sake.
“Then Chief Ejima died,” Hirata went on. “Now it appears that he may have been murdered by the same person who killed the treasury minister and you made a mistake.”
“So what if I did?” Hoshina said, flustered and defensive. “Anyone else might have done the same.”
“But you were the unlucky one. That’s why you’re in disgrace with Lord Matsudaira. The instant he heard that Ejima was dead and realized he’d just lost another high official, he knew you’d botched the investigation and he threw you out of his inner circle. My condolences.” Hirata pitied Hoshina not at all. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to do a proper investigation of Treasury Minister Moriwaki’s death.”
He and his detectives started toward the bathhouse door, but Hoshina blocked their way. “You’re wasting your time,” Hoshina said. “I’ve already reexamined the scene of death.”
“What, are you trying to correct your mistake by going over the same ground where you slipped up?” Hirata said.
Hoshina scowled. “There’s nothing to see in there,” he insisted, which convinced Hirata that the bathhouse contained important clues. Hirata and his men kept walking. Hoshina followed them into the bathhouse. Inside a vestibule, a woman dressed in a gray and white floral kimono knelt on a platform. Racks on the walls contained towels and cloth bags of rice-bran soap.
“Good day, masters,” she said, bowing to Hirata and the detectives. She looked to be in her fifties, stooped and slight, her hair dyed an unnatural shade of black, her face heavily powdered and rouged. But her eyes were bright, her features still pretty. When she saw Hoshina, her smile faded. “Back again so soon? Haven’t you caused enough trouble here already?”
She was the type of older woman who spoke her mind, even to male social superiors, who were probably intimidated because she reminded them of their strict mothers or childhood nursemaids. Now, as Hoshina glowered, she said to Hirata, “Welcome to my establishment. You and your men can undress in there.” She pointed to an adjacent room behind a curtain, where dressing gowns hung on hooks, clothes were folded into compartments on the wall, and shoes stood on racks.
“Thank you, but we don’t want a bath.” Hirata introduced himself, then said, “We’re here to investigate the death of one of your customers—Treasury Minister Moriwaki.”
The proprietress flicked her shrewd gaze from Hirata to Hoshina. “I’m glad somebody else has taken charge. How may I help you?”
“You can show me where the treasury minister died.”
“Come right this way.” Stepping off the platform, she smiled at Hirata and cut her eyes at Hoshina.
Hirata and his men followed her through a curtained doorway and along a corridor. Steamy air and splashing noises issued from chambers divided by lattice-and-paper partitions. Each contained a large, square sunken tub surrounded by a raised floor made of wooden slats. Naked men soaked in the tubs or crouched beside them. Female attendants scrubbed backs, poured buckets of water over the men, or sat naked beside them in the tubs. Some of the doors were closed; from these issued giggles and moans. Hirata knew that bathhouse prostitution was illegal but common, and the proprietress surely must pay the police to let her operate outside the law.
She opened a partition. “This is it.” The tub was empty, the floor dry. She stepped inside and opened the bamboo blinds. Dust motes glistened in the sunshine. “We haven’t used this room since Moriwaki-san died. None of the girls will work in here. They think it’s haunted by his ghost.”
“Were you on the premises when he died?” Hirata asked.
“Yes. I told him what happened.” The proprietress cast a baleful look at Hoshina. “But he wouldn’t listen.”
Hoshina slouched against the wall, his hands in his armpits, his expression stormy. But Hirata knew he’d stick around to see if Hirata would turn up something he’d missed, which he could use to get back in Lord Matsudaira’s good graces. He was the sort of man who would rather take credit for someone else’s work than take pains to do his job right in the first place.
“I’ll listen,” Hirata said. “Tell me.”
“I was out front when Moriwaki came for his bath,” the woman explained. “He was a regular customer. Came in almost every day. I called Yuki to wait on him. She was his favorite girl. She brought him in here. After a while, I heard a loud crash. Yuki screamed. I ran to see what was wrong. I found Moriwaki-sanlying there, naked.” She pointed at the floor beside the tub. “Yuki said he’d fallen down. His head was bloody where it had hit the floor.”
She pursed her lips. “First time a customer ever died here. Very bad for business. But it was an accident.”
Hirata observed that this sounded just like Chief Ejima, suddenly dropping dead for no clear-cut reason. Had the treasury minister been another victim of dim-mak?
“I sent a message to Moriwaki’s family. His retainers came and told Yuki and me not to worry; they didn’t blame us. They took his body home. But the next day, he showed up.” She shot a bitter glance at Hoshina. “He took Yuki into a room and asked her what had happened to Moriwaki. When she tried to tell him she hadn’t done anything wrong, he called her a liar. I heard him hitting her. I heard her crying.”
“That’s enough,” Hoshina interrupted angrily.
“Go on,” Hirata said.
The woman gave Hoshina a vindictive smirk. “He thought Yuki had pushed Moriwaki. He made her say so. He arrested her and took her to jail, even though I told him Yuki was a good girl who’d never hurt a fly. Next day, her head was cut off.”
Hirata regarded the police commissioner with disgust. “That was good, quick detective work.”
Nettled, Hoshina hurried to justify himself. “It was standard procedure.” Torture of suspects was legal and often used to obtain confessions. The disadvantage was that it tended to produce as many false confessions as true ones.
“And today he comes back,” the woman said. “It’s plain to see that he’s found out that Yuki didn’t kill the treasury minister, because he’s poking around again, looking for some other innocent person to blame.”
“Shut up, old woman!” Hoshina said, goaded to a rage. “I’ll close down your bathhouse, or—”
Fists clenched, he advanced on her. Hirata’s detectives pushed him away. Hirata said, “This woman is an important witness, and if you do anything to hurt her, you’ll be in more trouble than you already are.”
Hoshina subsided, impotent but seething. Hirata took a petty pleasure in making Hoshina pay for insulting him today and sabotaging Sano in the past. He addressed the woman: “I intend to see that the real killer is caught. I need to ask you some questions about Treasury Minister Moriwaki.”
Smug under his protection, the woman said, “Go right ahead.”
“Did Moriwaki have any unusual bruises that you saw?”
“As a matter of fact, he did.”
Hoshina spoke through gritted teeth: “I ordered you to keep quiet about everything pertaining to this investigation.”
“I can’t refuse to talk to the shogun’s detective, can I?” The woman feigned helpless innocence. She told Hirata, “He had a bruise right here,” and pointed to a spot near her temple.
Hirata felt a ripple of excitement. “What did it look like?”
“It was blue. Oval-shaped. Kind of like a fingerprint.”
At last Hirata had definite evidence that connected one of the previous murders to Chief Ejima’s. Hoshina looked displeased; obviously, he’d wanted to hoard this important fact for his own use.
“When did you see the bruise?” Hirata said.
“Ri
ght after Moriwaki died. I washed the blood off him before his retainers took him home.” She added, “Whenever I bathed him, he would suckle on my breasts while we sat in the tub. Some men his age like to do that, you know. I’d spent so much time looking down at his head that I couldn’t help but notice the bruise because it hadn’t been there before.”
That was more detail than Hirata needed, but it added veracity to her statement. “You said the treasury minister was a regular customer. Had he come here during the two days previous to his death?”
Hoshina made angry, shushing gestures. The woman ignored him. “As a matter of fact, he was here just the day before.”
Now Hirata could account tor some of the time Moriwaki had spent away from Edo Castle. “Did you see anyone with him that day?”
“I already asked her that,” Hoshina interrupted. “She doesn’t know anything. She’s inventing lies to please you.”
The woman put her hands on her hips while her eyes shot angry sparks at Hoshina. “I’m not a liar. And if you think I am, then why were you so excited when I told you who I’d seen with Moriwaki?”
Hoshina spat out a breath of frustration. Amused, Hirata said, “Tell me what you told the police commissioner.”
“A samurai came into the bathhouse with Moriwaki. He begged to talk to him. Moriwaki said he was busy, but the samurai followed him into the dressing room. They started arguing. I didn’t notice what they said, but I think the samurai wanted a favor. Moriwaki told him to leave. He did.”
Hirata sensed that he was on the verge of learning something critical. “Do you know who this samurai was?”
“Yes. I asked Moriwaki, ‘Who was that rude fellow?’ He said it was a Captain Nakai, from the Tokugawa army.” She grinned triumphantly at Hoshina.
Sano Ichiro 10 The Assassin's Touch (2005) Page 10
