“Hai,” he agreed. “Hanami. You know hanami? Pickanick, hai? Under sakura—cherry. Every year, big parties. Much sake!” He laughed.
A picnic with a few thousand intimate friends under the flowering trees. After days spent among the bamboo-covered hills, the cacophony was dizzying. No less, the hotel.
“Good heavens.”
The taxi driver heard my astonishment, if not the reason behind it. “Yes, yes!” he exclaimed. “Imperial Hotel! Open day before earthquake—you know earthquake? No hurt at all. Everyone come here for help, after. American build it, light. Fank royd light.” I had grown accustomed to the inability of the Japanese tongue to distinguish between the L sound and an R, but it took me a few moments to sort out the driver’s words. A name: Frank Lloyd Wright. I’d vaguely heard of him, a small man with a large ego.
And, it would appear, an imaginative view of Japanese architecture. The compound was built from an unlikely mix of yellowish brick and rugged lava-stone slabs of a peculiarly greenish tint, combining the roofline of a Japanese farm house with a right-angle Illinois sensibility and the brutality of a Mayan temple. Over this uneasy mix lay a heavy dusting of Moorish detail, apparent as we drew near, circling an enormous sunken pond. Our driver slowed so we could admire it, pointing out that the water it held was designed to fight the fires after a quake. The low, rectangular pond, half-covered with shiny new lotus leaves, somehow brought to mind a Yucatan sacrificial arena.
The foyer was a similar giddy blend of East and West, with vast Navajo-esque carpets stretching to walls made of children’s stone building-blocks. When we reached the desk, I was almost disappointed not to be greeted by men in buckskin and feathers.
Dared I hope that the kitchen of this ethnic hotchpotch contained an English tea pot?
Our rooms, we were told, were ready. Our trunks had been forwarded from the ship. And yes, a tray of English tea would arrive immediately.
I was relieved to find the rooms somewhat less frenetic than the exterior. They looked out onto a Midwesterner’s version of a Japanese garden, and my bones cried out in joy at the sight of an actual bed. I will say, however, that using a bar of soap inside the porcelain tub felt distinctly wrong, and my skin did not feel entirely clean as I climbed out of the murky water. Nor did the clothing I took from the trunks seem to have been designed for my body, being too loose in some places and too snug in others.
I studied the Western woman in the glass, absently trying to adjust the buttoned blouse to lie correctly. “I need a haircut,” I told Holmes. Something on the farther edge of fashionable, like that of the late, lamented Miss Roland. “And I’m afraid I’ll have to have my nails done.”
“Stop tugging at your clothes,” he ordered.
“Stretching out wrinkles,” I quoted, “I make my coat suitable/For a snow-viewing.”
“Call down for a maid,” he suggested.
I laughed. “Wrinkles aren’t the problem.” After all my complaints to Haruki-san, my belly missed the firm grasp of the obi. Although, interestingly, I thought it would be easier to set aside the learned habit of bowing at every greeting, introduction, and encounter when I wore a frock instead of Japanese attire. Apparel oft proclaims the man—or rather, clothes make the manners. However, it was not just the clothes: “I’ll need to find a salon right away, if we’re to make an impression.”
“While you are submitting to the womanly arts, I shall hunt down a Thomas Cook and restore our funds.”
“You might also make enquiries as to the Darleys. Shall we meet in the bar around six? I’ll definitely need a drink by then.”
The Darley party was on Friday night; today was Tuesday. That left us little time to trail our skirts in front of the earl and his lady and achieve an invitation. I could do little about my wardrobe tonight, but I did have two frocks that had spent the voyage in the ship’s hold, as well as an exotic, heavily-embroidered silk tunic given to me in India. All of them had been ironed and hung in the wardrobe awaiting our arrival. Those clothes, along with a fresh haircut and my mother’s emeralds, would catch the eyes of the fashionable set: even in a city of a million souls, I had no doubt that the Darleys’ circle would be exclusive, and not given to stray travelling companions with uncontrolled hair and rice-planters’ cuticles.
By six, I was a different woman—one who tossed down her lurid cocktail with aplomb. One who crossed her silk-covered ankles with little regard for the length of her hemline. One who accepted a light by cupping her much-older husband’s hands against the end of her cigarette, before slumping back with a dramatic flourish of the garish enamelled holder.
Much-older husband was one of Holmes’ least favourite rôles, but he manfully concealed his distaste, pasting on an expression of proprietary approval.
We drank, I flirted, he beamed, all the while surveying the room. We were hoping for the Darleys, who (as Holmes had confirmed during the afternoon) were guests in the hotel. When they failed to appear, we shifted our attention to the type of person Lord Darley would have migrated towards, whether his interest lay in promoting his friend’s china-wares, or in the darker realm of the blackmailer: moneyed, assured, and young enough to mis-behave.
One group we discarded because the men were mostly Japanese. Another because their raucous behaviour implied sins too openly indulged for a blackmailer’s attentions. There was a trio seated in the bar’s most desirable corner, but they, too, were not ideal: two Japanese Flappers wearing far too much makeup and a highly-polished Englishman in his thirties. As my eye surveyed the room, I found him surveying back. I gave him a polite smile over my cocktail glass, and moved on—or, was about to move on, when one of the girls at his side bounced a little and gave an exuberant wave towards the door.
Aha: Thomas, Viscount Darley and his blaring pal, Monty Pike-Elton.
They did not notice us as they went past. We gave them time to order a round of drinks, then rose to make our way towards the dining room—with a sideways loop to greet our old shipmates.
Neither recognised me, although they stood somewhat warily to greet Holmes. Then he gestured in my direction with a faintly owlish, “You remember my wife, Mary?” Both young men gave me a look that could only be called appraising.
“Well, well,” said Tommy. “You’ve certainly polished the diamond.”
It was said in a manner that would have made a lesser woman smack him, and a lesser man than Holmes knock him down. But both of us just upped the wattage of our beams, and as I leaned over the table to shake various hands, I loosed a stream of chatter.
“It’s such a relief to be off that ship and be ourselves again, don’t you find it so? (How d’you do, Kiko, Mina.) I mean, ships can be so incredibly tedious with the sorts of people (Eugene—oh, sorry, Gene, good to meet you.) one is trapped with, the only thing one can do is either spend the whole trip tipsy or just go grey and dull like the others. I swear, we haven’t been completely sober since we got off—and the first thing I did was go and spend some of Bobby’s money!”
Robert Russell spoke up from my side. “One thing my Mary’s good at is spending money.”
In fact, while I was submitting to torture in the salon that afternoon, it had been Holmes who rounded up half a dozen expensive sparklies. I held one of them out now, an ornate snarl of silver, pearls, jade, and enamel weighing down my right wrist. The two girls oohed over it while the three men calculated its worth. Holmes and I preened over the monstrosity for a while, then stood back.
“Well, it was lovely to see you again,” I gushed at Tommy, following it with an inclusive smile at the others. “We’re off to eat—isn’t it nice to have something other than rice! Why, even Prince Chichi—”
Perfectly on beat, Holmes cut in. “Mary, let’s be a bit discreet about throwing names around.”
I made a little exclamation of mingled irritation and embarrassment, doing my best to summon a faint blush. “Sorry, sweetie, he was just—oh, there I go again! Never mind,” I said to the others. “I hope yo
u’ve been having as grand a time here as we have. Perhaps we shall meet again, if you’re staying at the Imperial?”
“Of course. Some of us, anyway,” said Tommy. “Gene’s a permanent fixture here, has a flat in the city. Say, I don’t suppose you’d like to accompany us to a club, later?”
“Oh, I’d love—” I began, at the same time that Holmes let loose a repressive grumble.
“After today, I’m a bit tired,” he complained.
It was time to distance myself from the man who had humiliated the aristocratic card shark. I turned to Holmes, making my eyes wide in the fashion of Clara Bow. “But I’m not, and you promised me … Would you mind, if I went along with them? Just for a little?”
“I want my dinner,” he stated.
“Well, me, too.” I turned to Tommy again. “Where were you thinking of going? I could maybe catch you up, if …”
The polished Gene replied. “I thought they’d like a visit to the Caramel Box. It’s a new jazz club just off the Ginza, very popular with young people and foreigners.”
In the end, I said that I’d join them there for a time if my energy hadn’t lagged (meaning: if my fuddy-duddy of a husband didn’t stop me) and we passed on to the dining room, into a realm of tables laden with more meat than I had seen in weeks.
“Holmes, your grin is slipping,” I murmured.
“Part of the act,” he replied. He intercepted the waiter, to pull out my chair, although he did allow the fellow to drape me with the table napkin.
Wine where my palate had grown accustomed to clean tea; meat where I wished for rice and pickle; conviviality when I craved a peaceful turn through the garden, or curling up with one of the books from which I had long been separated. But we played our act to the hilt, and attracted the amused smiles of those around us, and were rewarded, just as I laid a hand on Holmes’ arm to deliver a loving gaze, to see our would-be friends pass by the door: I caught the eyes of both Tommy and Gene, before withdrawing my hand and using it to raise my wine glass to Holmes.
How we both got through the meal without gagging, I do not know.
Even with a determined sleight of hand—tiny sips, tinier top-ups of the glass, a heavy meal, and three outright exchanges of my full glass for Holmes’ empty one—I was fairly pie-eyed at the end of the meal. Holmes, having taken the brunt of the two bottles, had no need to feign inebriation. We walked from the room more or less holding each other upright. Once behind closed doors, he dropped heavily onto the bed and ran a hand over his face.
“I am out of training when it comes to wit … withstanding alcohol,” he said, his voice precise.
“You’ll have a head on you tomorrow, Holmes. I’d better go, before they decide to move on. Will you be all right?”
“Shall I ask you the same question when you roll through the door in the wee hours?”
“I’ll try not to wake you.” I fetched my coat, settled my good hat over my crisp hair-do, and opened the door.
“Watch your back, Russell,” he warned.
There was greater risk of him falling out of bed than in me falling into dangerous company, but I did not say so: he was Holmes, so he would let me go. At the same time, he was Holmes, and he would worry.
I rolled in, as Holmes had it, well after three, trying to tip-toe until I tripped over a carpet and sent shoes and handbag flying from my hands. The room’s snores stopped for a moment, then resumed.
In the morning, both of us were bleary with headache and hoarse from our attempts at ridding our stomachs of excess.
Tea—Japanese—and rice were all we could manage until noon.
I dug through my trunks, finally uncovering the pair of glasses with smoked lenses, and we crept down to the dining room, valiantly concealing our every wince at the noisy hotel. The day was distressingly bright. We chose the dimmest corner possible in which to nurse ourselves back to some semblance of cheer.
Holmes, having stopped his intake some hours earlier than I, was in slightly better condition, but even he passed up the noisy salad to concentrate on soup. When I had plumbed the depths of the bowl, I felt almost human. Laying down my spoon, a vague memory pushed to the surface.
“I think I may have agreed to go somewhere with those girls. Shopping, was it?” I frowned, then shook my head—stopping abruptly as it set my skull to spinning. “Can’t remember.”
“ ‘Shopping’ to them would mean dresses and makeup rather than books or art,” he noted.
“Makeup—that’s it!”
“You agreed to accompany two Japanese Flappers to buy makeup?”
“Not quite. One of them—Mina, the one who speaks English”—the other one, Kiko, being merely the proud possessor of many English words—“has a sister who works as a geisha. She thought I’d like to see the process they go through, getting dressed for the evening.” A plate of food had appeared before me, although I couldn’t remember having requested it. I picked up my utensils with a somewhat grim determination.
“You remember we have a meeting with Miss Sato today?” he asked.
“I do—and I did. The problem is, I must have more clothing, if we are going to spend the next few days looking fashionable. I may have to give up one meeting or the other.”
“I will have some free hours, if you wish me to order you some frocks.” My knife and fork paused. Certainly he knew my measurements down to the half-inch, but he was a man—and moreover, a man who had come of age when women wore bustles. “You need not trust my taste,” he added. “Any dress-shop recommended by this hotel will provide the sort of clothing you need.”
“Since it’s more a matter of disguise than of taste, I’m sure that a disinterested party would come up with more suitable raiment than either of us. I’ll give you a list of what I’ll need. If you don’t mind spending your afternoon among ladies’ fashion,” I added.
“It is a new rôle for me,” he remarked serenely. “That of poodle-faker.”
I nearly spewed a mouthful of peas across the tablecloth.
How one dresses here!
Jewels and silken glitter, or
Blossoms in the hair?
Before leaving the village, Holmes and I had sat down with Haruki-san and her father to design a campaign for the invasion of Lord Darley’s party and a retrieval of the Prince Regent’s book. Specific details would have to wait until we had compiled information—hence today’s meeting with Haruki-san.
Had it been a different sort of party, other members of the Sato clan could have filtered in. However, Darley’s purpose—his ostensible purpose—was to court the Imperial family and a collection of influential Japanese and Western businessmen, politicians, newspaper owners, aristocrats, and what-have-you. The owner of a small onsen in the hills and a young woman with a severely limited ship-board wardrobe held little chance of an invitation. Presentable Europeans, however, might be welcomed, to fill out the kind of amiable, Western setting Darley desired.
We followed Haruki-san’s instructions to the meeting-place, making sure we were not followed. The designated shop appeared to sell nothing but jars in the shape of cats, with minor varieties of size and colour. The tiny dried-apple of a woman behind the counter bowed, sucked in her breath past toothless gums, and ushered us through a low door half-covered by fabric (also printed with cats).
The back room was marginally larger than the front, and seemed to be the living quarters for the shopkeeper and her family. The old woman’s grandson was hunched before the tiny fire—but no.
“Haruki-san,” I exclaimed. “That’s a very effective disguise.”
She grinned, demonstrating the over-large front teeth beneath the thin moustache, and removed the round glasses of a caricature Oriental, leaving the slicked-back hair, dumpy black suit, and highly polished shoes so ill-fitting, they could only be hand-me-downs.
“You look like a poor student hunting for a job.”
“Would you give me one?” she asked curiously.
Frankly, I thought, as a prospe
ctive employer I would avoid a candidate with that much intelligence and mischief in her eyes. “If I did, I would be certain that I had your loyalty for life.”
“Good. Tea?”
We knelt on the thin mats to enjoy the pale, hot drink. When she had poured our second cups, she began.
“There has been an interesting development. I had a letter from Lady Darley yesterday, asking if I might be available to translate at the party.”
“Ah,” said Holmes.
“That puts a rather different light on things,” I said, trying to hide my disappointment. The only reason Holmes and I had become involved was because of our chances of finagling invitations. If that had changed …
“Not necessarily,” she said, “although it does simplify matters a little. We had intended to slip one or two of our people inside—as hotel staff of one kind or another. My being invited within means I can infiltrate openly, rather than having to take a position as a maid.”
“Are you assigned a specific person to translate for?” I asked.
“I am there for His Highness the Prince Regent.”
“Do you think that a good idea?” Holmes’ tone indicated that he did not. “You and your father wished to avoid a direct connexion with His Highness during this episode.”
“As we have. My invitation comes from Lady Darley, after two of her planned-for translators fell ill.”
“Convenient. And unnecessary.”
“I agree with my father, that one of us ought to be there. We had considered having His Highness recommend his favourite juggler to entertain the Darleys’ guests, but this is not that sort of a party.”
“Nor is Darley stupid enough to allow free rein to a blackmail victim,” I noted. “Anyone openly requested by the Prince Regent would be highly suspect. One would not want your father handed a poisoned cup the moment he appeared.”
“You have others there,” Holmes said, not a question.
She shook her head. “If we do, it is best you not know.”
Dreaming Spies: A novel of suspense featuring Mary Russell and Sherlock Holmes Page 19
