Shadows of Tokyo (Reiko Watanabe / Inspector Aizawa Book 1)

by Matthew Legare

  “Inspector Aizawa,” he answered.

  “If Onishi isn’t dead yet,” a husky female voice said, “then don’t let him leave through the west exit. There’s an assassin in the building across from the Maru-Biru.”

  “Who is this?”

  The line went dead and the woman faded back into anonymity. An operator came through with a perky, “Moshi moshi?”

  Aizawa slammed the receiver down, startling the secretary. He gave an apologetic bow before walking toward the window and stared out at the nondescript office building across the street. Dusk was setting in and it was almost impossible to examine any silhouettes in the windows, all tightly shuttered. All except one on the fifth floor. An open window on a cold day was unusual but given his mysterious informant’s call, it now looked downright sinister.

  Calling for reinforcements was unlikely since he’d have to obtain approval from Superintendent Shimura. All he could do was get the Baron to safety, and that meant sneaking him out the back door. After all, the voice had said nothing about other assassins lurking about. Then he would be free to confront this shadowy enemy face-to-face.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Aizawa marched back to the heavy oak doors, where the discussion had shifted from Manchuria to the depression.

  “Baron, trade with America is the lifeblood of our economy,” Takano’s irritated voice seeped through the crack between the doors.

  “My position is firm on both issues, Takano-san,” Onishi said. “Relying on trade with America has nearly ruined us. It was their Smoot-Hawley Tariff that exported the depression to our shores. And as for devaluing the yen, gold is the only stable commodity in an unstable market.”

  With the grace of an alley cat, Aizawa slid into the room and shut the door behind him. The four men looked up, but only General Sakamoto showed visible annoyance.

  “I sincerely apologize,” Aizawa said after bowing. “But I must speak to the Baron.”

  Onishi stood up. “Pardon me, gentlemen.” He spun around and met Aizawa outside of the office.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Baron,” Aizawa said, lowering his voice.

  Onishi held up a hand. “Not at all. I should thank you for ending my pain.”

  The meeting must have been truly terrible for the Baron to accept such loss of face.

  “You need to leave now. But not the same way we entered. I’ll have your chauffeur bring the car around to the east exit,” Aizawa said. “I’ll come to your place immediately after.”

  Baron Onishi nodded. There was no need to go into detail. Not now at least. Onishi dug into his pocket, retrieved his own meishi card, scribbled something on the back, and handed it to Aizawa.

  “Here’s my address and telephone number. I’ll await your arrival at my estate. Please excuse me while I say goodbye to these…gentlemen,” the Baron said before returning to Takano’s office.

  Aizawa made a brisk walk to the exit. He hated leaving the Baron unguarded but if things went well, he’d arrest Ryusaki’s assassin and put an end to this madness for good. Of course, he’d have to handle the coming moments with skill in order to avoid a bullet in his brain.

  *****

  Cramped in his sniper’s nest, Lieutenant Nakajima gripped the Arisaka rifle like a statue. Staring out its scope with an unblinking eye, he surveyed the area outside of the Maru-Biru. The only movement came from Onishi’s chauffeur, smoking a cigarette near the gleaming Rolls-Royce.

  There. That’s where he would kill him. Soon that polished Rolls-Royce would be soaked in Baron Onishi’s poisonous blood and become his hearse. With that enemy vanquished, Nakajima would quickly dispose of the Arisaka and report back to General Sakamoto before transferring to the Manchurian front. His only wish was to arrive before the fighting was over.

  Suddenly, the Maru-Biru’s main entrance opened. The chauffeur flicked his cigarette away and stood at attention. Nakajima curled his finger around the rifle’s trigger and waited for the Baron’s distinctive top hat and silver mustache to appear.

  But only Inspector Aizawa emerged and walked over to the chauffeur. After a brief conversation, the chauffeur entered the Rolls-Royce and sped away. No! His mission couldn’t end in such inglorious failure! Had the Inspector spotted him in the sniper’s nest?

  Frantically, Nakajima scanned the area in hopes of spotting Baron Onishi sneaking away but there was no sign of him. He moved his rifle scope across to the Maru-Biru’s third floor, where the offices of Takano Bank were. Maybe he could still get a shot. He could barely make out General Sakamoto in his brown uniform and glinting medals, along with Takano and Inukai in their three-piece suits, but the Baron was nowhere to be found.

  Even more troubling, Aizawa advanced across the street. He zigzagged, making it impossible to draw a bead on him. In mere minutes, the Inspector would be here to arrest him. Such failure demanded suicide. If only he’d shot Onishi when he had the chance. If only…but it was too late for self-pity.

  Lieutenant Nakajima fought a nausea rising in his stomach and set the rifle down. With a trembling hand, he drew his saber. While it wouldn’t have the dignity that ritual suicide did, self-impalement was still an honorable death. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  “Hajime,” a voice from the darkness called out.

  Startled, Nakajima opened his eyes. He looked around but nobody was there. Suddenly, a small figure of light in a white kimono floated from out of the corner and approached him. It flickered in and out like a dimming light bulb, but its features grew more defined as it approached. Through the translucent skin, he recognized the eyes and soft cheeks of his older sister, his oneesan, Chitose.

  “You cannot die yet Hajime-kun,” she whispered. “Continue your mission.”

  Her image faded as quickly as it had appeared. Nakajima sank to his knees, trying to make sense of what happened. Suddenly, the world snapped into focus. The gods must have sent Chitose-oneesan to stop him. They still had use for this lowly rice farmer. The same corruption and evil that had killed his sister was now poisoning the entire nation. Only men like him could save Japan. His duty to the nation was more important than his own pitiful life. Death could wait. He sheathed the saber and vowed that he would not fail again. But first, he had to deal with Inspector Aizawa.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Aizawa entered the office building’s lobby and scanned a nearby directory. Most were ordinary businesses: insurance companies and accounting firms. However, the Army Recruitment Station-Marunouchi District in Suite 505 stood out. Aizawa took the stairs, adrenaline propelling him forward. Reaching the fifth floor, he caught his breath and made his way down the hall. Many offices were empty, more casualties of the depression, but 505 still looked occupied.

  Aizawa stopped in front of the Army Recruiting Station, drew his Colt automatic and knocked. No answer. A small sign on the door listed 0700 to 1700 as operational hours. Perhaps they had gone home? He slowly opened the door and scanned the darkened room. Lights from across the street cast gloomy, elongated shadows on recruiting posters of gallant-looking soldiers in steel helmets.

  He took a few cautious steps in, allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The door slammed shut behind him. Aizawa swept his pistol around but before he could get a bead, a rifle butt came into view right before it slammed into his stomach, deflating him like a popped balloon. The pistol tumbled out of his hand and bounced on the floor. Air shot out of Aizawa’s lungs as he collapsed to his knees.

  Steadying himself on his hands, Aizawa looked up and saw the outline of an Army uniform in the last bit of light from outside; peaked service cap, brown tunic, and white gloves. The man’s face was obscured not only by shadow and darkness but also by the rifle held in firing position. Aizawa’s breaths grew tighter, knowing each one could be his last.

  “Lie down,” the Army officer said in a low and obviously disguised voice that couldn’t hide traces of a Tohoku accent.

  Aizawa was in no position to argue and flattened himself on
the floor. The officer walked backward out of the office, slamming the door shut behind him. Aizawa leaped to his feet, retrieved the Colt, and ran after his attacker. After only a few steps, a sharp pain throbbed in his gut, almost doubling him over. Aizawa leaned against the wall and steadied himself. The hallway was deserted but heavy footsteps going down the stairwell were still audible.

  Aizawa took several deep breaths until the pain subsided. He was in no shape to pursue any further. Instead, he reviewed the man’s accent and remembered that Army officer from yesterday; Lieutenant Nakajima…General Sakamoto’s adjutant. Although he’d caught his breath, Aizawa felt a tightness renew in his chest.

  General Yori Sakamoto was the shadowy wire-puller behind Masaru Ryusaki. But that presented a whole new problem. How could a callow police inspector arrest a general who was on his way to becoming the next army minister?

  The answer was that he couldn’t. Not only was Sakamoto too high up, he was also an Army man, which meant the Metropolitan Police had little authority over him. Aizawa would have to enlist the help of the Kempeitai, whose loyalty would probably lie with the General rather than the law. If he went to the press, the Police would force any newspaper that published the story to quickly retract it. The only hope was to keep Baron Onishi alive long enough so that if he did become prime minister, he could have General Sakamoto transferred far away or forcibly retired.

  He needed to get to Onishi’s estate before Nakajima got there first.

  *****

  Nakajima slammed the taxicab door shut and snapped, “The Army Ministry. As fast as you can!”

  “Y-yes sir,” the driver said, putting the cab into gear. Within moments they sped off and Nakajima watched the Marunouchi Building shrink in the rear window and expelled a relieved sigh.

  “Shipping out to Manchuria?”

  Nakajima was taken aback. How did this cabbie know his orders?

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your rifle…I just assumed…”

  Nakajima looked down at the Arisaka practically glued into his hands. Thankfully, a soldier carrying a rifle wasn’t too out of the ordinary.

  “Keep driving,” he snapped. The cabbie nodded and went quiet.

  Nakajima leaned his head back and gathered his thoughts. Somehow, Aizawa had seen him in that sniper’s nest. How could he be so careless? A vocal, ruthless part of him wished he’d opened fire while Aizawa was lying on the ground. But such an execution was unworthy of an honorable man simply obeying his duty. But if Aizawa interfered again, Nakajima might not have the luxury of being so merciful.

  Ryusaki-sensei would know what to do next, as always. Now, he just needed to reach him. Earlier in the morning, Ryusaki-sensei had confided that he would be at that den of decadence, Harlem. Taking advantage of his need for an alibi, Reiko Watanabe had suggested it. The thought of that corrupt woman sucking money out of Ryusaki-sensei like some bloated tick made him shudder. Masaru Ryusaki was a great man, but he had weaknesses. It was times like this that Nakajima was thankful for never giving into cravings for flesh, satiating himself through prayer and patriotism.

  When they were well out of Marunouchi, he said, “Pull over at the next phone booth. I need to make a call.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Reiko watched Masaru tap his foot to “Sing Me a Song of Araby” with unrepressed glee. She smiled as the jazz cleansed him of evil spirits. A few more songs and he’d be back to his old self. Polishing off the last of her gimlet, she savored the sweet taste and her victory over Lieutenant Nakajima. She’d tear Masaru away from his grip, saving Japan and herself in the process. That country monkey would be transferred to the barren wilderness of Manchuria, leaving her and Masaru to spend the rest of the days at Harlem just like they were always meant to.

  “Excuse me,” the waitress interrupted, “but are you Ryusaki-san?”

  Masaru stopped tapping his foot and nodded.

  “There is a telephone call for you,” she said. Masaru stood and followed her to the side where he took the receiver. She couldn’t hear any of the conversation over the music, but a dark cloud swept over his handsome face, leaving him agitated and sullen. No, not yet. Not when she was so close to finally having the happy life she’d been denied for so long. She cursed the gods for being so cruel.

  Masaru hung up and stalked back to the table. “We have to leave,” he snapped.

  Reiko forced a smile. “One more dance? I’ll ask them to play ‘The Japanese Sandman.’”

  He shook his head. Any traces of the mobo were fading fast.

  She gripped his hand. “Masaru, please...”

  “Get your things or I’m leaving without you.” He shook her hand away and slammed a few yen on the table. Reiko followed him as they donned their coats and hats, silently saying farewell to her old friends. Hopefully, she’d see them again one day.

  They exited out into the alley and made their way to the main street. Ginza was now bathed in neon lights advertising Lion Dental Cream, Meiji Milk Chocolate, Yamasa Soy Sauce, and Ramune Soda. Banners proclaiming a sale hung from the same multi-storied Matsuya Department Store where Masaru had bought her countless outfits before. They’d walked happily down this street many times before, but now it seemed like a funeral procession.

  “Masaru what’s wrong? Who was that?”

  He said nothing until they stopped in front of the telephone booth where she’d called Inspector Aizawa.

  “That was Nakajima-san…Baron Onishi has escaped again.”

  Perhaps the gods hadn’t abandoned her.

  “This is a sign,” Reiko said. “Forget about the Baron and Nakajima. Forget about everyone except us.”

  After a moment of heavy silence, Masaru said, “I can’t ignore my duty.”

  An intoxicating anger pulsed through Reiko. It burned in her belly and leaped from her mouth. “Your duty? What about your duty to me? What happens if you’re thrown in prison…or killed? I’ll be out on the street or in a brothel with a broken heart!”

  Crying wasn’t easy for her but Reiko dug deep. She remembered every cut and blister she got while sewing in that textile mill her parents called their home, when the Great Earthquake turned Tokyo into ash, and when she saw Louise Brooks in Diary of a Lost Girl for the first time. Most importantly, she pictured the bleak future unfolding before her. Tears soon moistened her cheeks.

  “Reiko,” Masaru said with softening eyes.

  “I’m worried about you,” she said, sinking to knees, “and for us.”

  Even with stockings on, the cold pavement stung her legs. But Masaru soon knelt down and placed a hand on her wet cheek, warming her a little.

  “Reiko…I had no idea you were so concerned.”

  “Please Masaru, don’t leave me. I just want our old life back.”

  “I won’t ever leave you, Reiko…” The mobo shone briefly behind those round glasses. “But I must save Japan…”

  “Masaru, you’re not like them. You’re not a murderer. Turn your back on Nakajima, Sakamoto, and their plots. We’ll hide in our own little world where nobody can find us.”

  His gaze darted between her and the telephone booth, like a child torn between two parents. She sympathized. In Japan there were few things more shameful than selfish individualism. As the old saying went, “The nail that sticks up should be hammered back down.” Soon, Masaru’s eyes were also bleary and his face contorted in turmoil. Two Masaru Ryusakis inhabited her lover and she was witnessing one of them die. Wiping his eyes, he took his hand away and stood up.

  “I’m sorry Reiko…but I cannot turn back now.”

  He stepped past her and into the telephone booth.

  “Hello, Metropolitan Police Department?” she heard him say. “Get me Superintendent Shimura.”

  Reiko couldn’t hold back another flood of tears that turned Ginza’s neon lights into a shimmering blur.

  *****

  Lieutenant Nakajima marched through the halls of the Army Ministry with heavy footst
eps, passing by an open conference room. Staff officers in dark brown uniforms crowded around an enormous map of Manchuria that detailed the latest enemy troop movements. Only a few took notice of the Arisaka rifle in his hands but none protested.

  He halted outside of General Sakamoto’s office and announced, “Lieutenant Nakajima entering!”

  “Get in here now,” the General’s voice boomed from behind the door.

  Nakajima entered, set the rifle to the side, and snapped to attention. As with most top brass, Sakamoto’s office was Spartan and dull, with a pair of crisscrossed Rising Sun flags the only island of color in a gray lake. The General stood behind his desk, arms crossed and brow furrowed.

  “What the hell happened back there?” Sakamoto demanded. “All of a sudden, Baron Onishi left the meeting, saying he had ‘urgent business’ to attend to!”

  “Sir, Inspector Aizawa sabotaged our plans!”

  Sakamoto’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “He nearly caught me at the Recruiting Office…but I escaped.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No, sir…”

  “Did he see your face?”

  “I…I don’t think so…it was dark…”

  General Sakamoto slammed his fist down. “You fool! He must have spotted you in the window!”

  Shame forced Nakajima to droop his head. “I’m sorry sir…but I called Ryusaki-zensei. He is arranging for Aizawa’s superior, Superintendent Shimura, to take him off the case.”

  Sakamoto gave a skeptical look. “A police officer?”

  Nakajima nodded. “He aided our cause back in March. In exchange for his help now, Ryusaki-zensei promised to appoint him superintendent-general of the entire Metropolitan Police after the Showa Restoration.”

  A renewed glee softened Sakamoto’s face. “Excellent! That will leave Baron Onishi unguarded! I’ll secure a staff car for tonight. You’ll drive out to Baron Onishi’s estate in the Azabu Ward and deal with him once and for all.” He rummaged through a desk drawer and withdrew a Nambu automatic pistol. “Take this for tonight. It’s less cumbersome than a rifle.”