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

by Matthew Legare

  “This morning, one of Ryusaki’s men visited the Water Temple and gave me that,” Demon said. “Apparently, they thought I might be interested in politics. I’m honoring our agreement to keep you informed, Inspector.”

  Aizawa set the pamphlet on his desk, next to the pornographic prints. “Thank you, Demon-san. That will be all.”

  Demon smiled and gave another placating bow. He scurried out the door, like a roach retreating to a crevice. Aizawa glanced at the pamphlet and let his mind wander. Even back in March, the Kusanagi Society never numbered more than a few members. Ryusaki had planned on the support of the many other patriotic societies in Tokyo to aid his plot. But now, here he was holding an open recruiting rally. It made sense. Ryusaki would need plenty of foot soldiers to overthrow the government.

  He returned to the manila folder. An innocuous label read: “Photographic Evidence-Onishi Estate.” Aizawa braced himself and opened the folder. Three ghosts stared out from black and white photos. Sergeant Toru Murayama was sprawled out on the floor and clutched his stomach. A gaping hole split his forehead open. The Onishis held each other in a gory embrace. The Baron stared back at the camera, despite bullet wounds taking a good chunk of his face away.

  Disgusted, Aizawa closed the folder. Dark thoughts clouded his mind. Sergeant Murayama’s widow and children without a provider. Baron Onishi’s unsuspecting son receiving a late-night telegram. General Sakamoto convening a special session of the Diet to announce martial law. Where would Kenji Aizawa be in the New Japan? Probably on his knees and with his neck stretched out, waiting for Ryusaki’s blade to fall.

  No, there was still time left. Even if he couldn’t arrest Ryusaki, he’d drop by Ueno Park to see who turned out to listen to him rant. Such harassment might even cause him to lose face in front of his followers, sabotaging his plot before it even started. If he was really lucky, he might even shame Ryusaki into confessing. But some leverage was needed. He opened the folder back up. The photographs would do nicely.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Despite the sunny day, Ueno Park was cold and ugly. Although beautiful in springtime with forests of cherry blossoms, its trees were now gnarled by a glaze of ice and snow. But the park still had its visitors. Many were homeless who used the public benches and steps as makeshift beds. However, Sunday was the one day of the week most Japanese had off and Ueno Park was filled with children, families, and couples out for a stroll.

  Aizawa walked south and passed a diamond field where two teams of teenagers played baseball. He fought off an urge to watch and kept moving. Baseball was so ingrained in the national psyche that it seemed almost unpatriotic not to like this foreign sport. Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, and Lefty O’Doul were held in as much esteem as the generals who commanded the Kwantung Army in Manchuria. If there ever was a war with America, hopefully it would be settled on the baseball field.

  After passing Kiyomizu Temple on his right, the unmistakable, pudgy figure of the great samurai, Takamori Saigo came into view. This simple statue of Saigo walking his dog had become inseparable from Ueno Park and a beloved icon of Tokyoites. Aizawa remembered how after the Great Earthquake, people plastered the statue with missing persons notices, desperately trying to locate their loved ones. Today, however, a sizeable crowd had clustered around it, but there was no sign of Ryusaki. He glanced at his watch: 12:58.

  A few minutes later, cheers and “banzais” erupted through the crowd as Masaru Ryusaki made his way to the statue. He had changed out of his fancy Western suit and into a dark blue kimono with gray hakama pants, held up by his slender, spidery frame. Dark eyes surveyed the crowd behind oval glasses and his spindly fingers clutched a full-sized katana, sheathed at his side. Rather than the sensei of a patriotic society, he looked more like a university student on his way to a samurai costume party. How old was he again? That’s right, they were the same age, thirty. What different paths they’d taken.

  Aizawa was soon swallowed up by the throng’s somber ranks. Here were the unfortunate orphans of layoffs and factory closings. Here were the Emperor’s forgotten children who had fallen through the cracks and into the Kusanagi Society. How many were there? Ninety? A hundred? A few of them looked familiar.

  A wall of seven men formed in front of Ryusaki. Underneath their flat caps and fedoras, Aizawa recognized their unshaven, grim faces. They were the same seven men who, months earlier, had helped Ryusaki found the Kusanagi Society. Now they looked like dutiful soldiers, conscripted again into another war.

  Ryusaki held up his sheathed katana and the crowd hushed.

  “Men of Yamato,” he began, using the archaic name for Japan. “Why are you here today? You are here because greedy men oversold stocks in Marunouchi and on Wall Street. You’re here because pretty ladies in New York, London, and Paris aren’t buying silk stockings grown by our farmers and made in our textile mills. You’re here because our leaders abandoned us.”

  Although Ryusaki looked like an adolescent playing dress up, there was an intensity to his voice matched only by politicians, Shinto priests, and yakuza bosses.

  “We cannot look to the politicians in the Diet for support. I served in the House of Representatives and know that the system is a farce. The Minsei Party and Seiyukai are both owned by the zaibatsu, despite the sham elections they hold. The government has become so plagued with these termites, that it should be the duty of every patriot to tear it down and rebuild it from scratch.”

  Throughout the crowd, many men nodded in agreement.

  “That’s what the great samurai, Takamori Saigo, attempted.” Ryusaki held his sheathed blade up, pointing its handle toward the statue. “He realized that although the Meiji Restoration had toppled the shogun, it had brought shadowy cliques of corrupt villains to power. In 1877, he led a civil war to purify the government…but was unsuccessful. Although he met defeat, our nation now honors him with a statue like the patriot he was.”

  Ryusaki brought the blade down, resting it by his side.

  “A true patriot acts on behalf of Japan and the Emperor. Corruption must be cleansed from our national body…with blood if necessary. Perhaps you heard that Baron Onishi met his end last night? Another sign from the gods.”

  Soft murmurs and grunts of approval echoed throughout the men.

  “Our empire is at a crossroads. Either build a New Japan founded on justice and patriotism…or else. We already received a warning of what our fate will be…in the form of the Great Kanto Earthquake.”

  That moistened several eyes. Everyone in Tokyo lost someone on that day. Aizawa couldn’t suppress his own memories of that sunny September morning from flooding back. Of the watermelon he and his little sister ate before he donned his white summer uniform. Of his parents who wished him well before he set off for the Police station. Of the thunderous roar that shook the entire Kanto region, especially Tokyo. Of the collapsed houses with pulverized bodies underneath. Of the flames that consumed the debris, turning the Imperial capital to ash. Of the mobs that murdered Korean immigrants and Communists, who they claimed were poisoning wells. Of seeing his own house, smashed, burned, and ground into dust. And how he couldn’t stop any of it.

  “The Great Kanto Earthquake was punishment from the gods for allowing Japan to fall so deeply into decadence. Should we allow our nation to continue down this corrupt path, an even greater punishment awaits us.”

  What could be worse than the Great Earthquake? Japan sinking into the sea? Still, the crowd nodded its understanding. If the claim was sincere enough, the Japanese would believe anything, especially the preposterous.

  “Fellow patriots, I need your help. This sword,” Ryusaki said, holding the katana high, “was forged by my ancestors during the era of civil wars. Now it symbolizes the Kusanagi, the invincible grass-cutting sword. As sensei of the Kusanagi Society, it is my sacred duty to carry out what Takamori Saigo began and save the nation from the evil men who rule it from the shadows. The New Japan will be born in one explosive act of patriotism! But I need yo
ur help. Will you come to Japan and the Emperor’s aid when they most need you?”

  The seven founding members threw up their arms and roared, “Masaru Ryusaki, banzai!”

  The crowd echoed back a triple banzai cheer. Ryusaki bowed to the sound of vociferous applause and descended into the welcoming arms of the throng. Making his way through the crowd, Aizawa made his presence known with a grin and a slight bow. Behind his glasses, Ryusaki’s eyes widened with surprise then narrowed with hate. Sensing an intruder, the crowd zeroed in on Aizawa and buzzed like hornets defending their queen.

  Swallowing hard, Ryusaki said, “A moment please.” The crowd bowed their respects, releasing him from their protection. Aizawa and Ryusaki walked away from the crowd and over to a nearby bench, occupied by a sleeping man with tattered clothes. After a gentle nudge, Ryusaki slid a few sen coins into the half-awake man’s pockets in exchange for the bench. The man bowed his gratitude and staggered away.

  “You’re generous, Ryusaki-san,” Aizawa said, taking a seat next to him.

  “Poverty is an evil I’m fighting against. Corrupt men with authority is another.”

  “Speaking of which,” Aizawa said, gesturing to the katana. “It’s in my authority to point out that it’s been illegal for civilians to carry swords in public ever since the Meiji Era.”

  “I have a permit,” Ryusaki said, staring straight ahead at the crowd, still gathered near Saigo’s statue.

  “I see…”

  Ryusaki cracked an arrogant smile. “Let’s drop the act. Can’t you see that I’ve won, Inspector?”

  “Judging from your speech it sounds as if you haven’t won just yet. Riots that justify martial law require lots of manpower. How many of those men over there do you think will join the Kusanagi Society? If the economy improves, they’ll go back to work and forget all about the New Japan.”

  “Are you here to arrest me or not?” Ryusaki snapped.

  “Actually, I thought you’d like to see your work up close.”

  Ryusaki grimaced as Aizawa pulled the photographs from his coat. He accepted the grisly pictures and examined them with a vapid expression. Aizawa could only hope that somewhere inside Ryusaki’s soul, there was still a spot susceptible to shame. But his heart sank when Ryusaki’s cold gaze turned into a triumphant smile.

  “The gods are kind. Japan is free from another corrupt, self-serving politician.”

  “And what about Sergeant Murayama? He had a wife and children,” Aizawa said, snatching the photographs back.

  “Acceptable causalities in pursuit of a just cause. Tell me Inspector, do you know how many innocents died during the Meiji Restoration?”

  So much for shame. He should have known someone as vainglorious as Masaru Ryusaki had long since moved past it.

  Ryusaki stood up and began to walk away. Aizawa tucked the photographs back into his coat, then sprang to his feet and followed.

  “Not so fast,” he said, grabbing Ryusaki’s shoulder and spinning him around. “I’m taking you back for questioning…at my home. Shimura can’t help you there.”

  Behind his horn-rimmed glasses, Ryusaki’s eyes widened in a combination of rage and fear.

  “Unhand me,” he said, slapping Aizawa away. He glanced back at the throng, huddled around Saigo’s statue. “Patriots of the Kusanagi Society…this man here is the personification of the corruption rotting our nation! He is Inspector Aizawa, the careerist watchdog for big business and politicians like Baron Onishi! Police officers like him keep the wealthy in power and the downtrodden in the gutter!”

  The crowd edged closer and soon formed a pincer movement around Aizawa, encircling him. He scolded himself for acting so rashly since, after all, he was deep in enemy territory. Saved by his loyal hornets, Ryusaki smiled and disappeared into their midst. Aizawa tried to force his way after him, but a fist slammed against his face. Stinging with pain, he fell to his knees and looked up. The crowd began shouting and cursing at him, the symbol of this corrupt system that had left them bitter, humiliated, and angry. Drawing closer and closer, they soon blocked out the afternoon sun entirely.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  A sharp kick dug into Aizawa’s back, forcing him back onto the ground. Through a steady buzz of insults, he could make out a few distinct jeers.

  “Zaibatsu mercenary!”

  “A tin sword for politicians!”

  “Enemy of patriotism!”

  Sporadic blows slammed against his ribs and into his back. Aizawa groaned in pain and fought to stand. It was unthinkable for most Japanese to kill a police officer, but these men looked angry enough to try. Like sharks in a feeding frenzy, the crowd grew wilder. As he scrambled to his feet, Aizawa ripped the Colt automatic out of the holster and held it high above his head.

  The faces in the crowd contorted in fear like devils struck with a Shinto charm. A moment later they scattered in all directions, most running down the staircase of the south entrance. No matter. In the distance he could still make out Masaru Ryusaki, running deeper into the park due north.

  Holstering his pistol, Aizawa gave chase on foot. He soon passed the Kiyomizu Temple and the baseball field. But there was no sign of Ryusaki. Doubling back, he sprinted across the path, passing a koban, a police box, on his left. He wanted to enlist a junsa’s help in searching the park but knew it was hopeless. There were just too many places to vanish in this damn park.

  Aizawa slowed to a walk and caught his breath. A nearby bench shimmered like an oasis. Off to its side, a large group of children had gathered near a kamishibai storyteller and his paper theater. He plopped down on the bench but the children paid him no attention, enthralled by the smiling old storyteller.

  “Who wants to hear the story of Peach Boy Taro?” he asked.

  A moan rang out from the children.

  “That’s an old one,” a little boy whined.

  “Ah, but this is a new version,” the storyteller said. “Have you heard about when Taro went to Manchuria?”

  No, the children hadn’t heard that story and begged for him to go on. The storyteller slid in the first paper frame. Taro was still born from a peach, but instead of sailing to an island to fight oni demons, he enlists in the Imperial Army and goes to the Manchurian front. A new slide showed Taro in uniform and snapping a salute. In the next frame he was joined, not by his usual friends (a dog, a monkey, and a pheasant) but rather a tank, an airplane, and a machine gun. In the final frame, Taro and his friends stormed the enemy stronghold, filled with oni wearing Chinese uniforms.

  “Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!” the children cheered, throwing their arms up. Aizawa wondered what other stories would become militarized next. He pictured future generations learning fairy tales about Masaru Ryusaki and his band of patriotic assassins outwitting corrupt villains in the Metropolitan Police.

  Aizawa concentrated on where that crafty spider Ryusaki could have crawled off to. He had many sympathizers throughout Tokyo, but men sometimes preferred a woman’s company in times of crisis. He could only pray that Reiko Watanabe would help him one more time.

  *****

  Lying back on her Western-style bed, Reiko stared blankly at the latest issue of Kinema Junpo. The articles and photographs of movie stars usually captured her attention, but it was impossible to concentrate today. With the Baron dead, the new prime minister would be announced any time now. Tsuyoshi Inukai would appoint General Sakamoto as army minister and, unknowingly, the future shogun of the Japanese Empire. She kept an ear to the Sharp radio near her bed for a special bulletin in between the marathon of jazz melodies.

  Reiko returned to the issue of Kinema Junpo and tried to focus. Several articles highlighted the major motion pictures of 1931, including The Public Enemy, which starred that flame-haired tough guy, James Cagney, as the gangster scourge of America. Her other redheaded idol, Clara Bow, was in two films this past year, both forgettable except for her performances. Charlie Chaplin was back in the comic-love story City Lights, which hadn’t been relea
sed in Japan yet. Neither had the monster movie Frankenstein, but Dracula had been playing since October. Japan had also contributed to the world of cinema with its first sound picture, The Neighbor’s Wife and Mine, a light-hearted comedy about a playwright dealing with a noisy jazz band next door. Masaru had taken her to see it at least a dozen times over the summer, along with the social satire Tokyo Chorus and Sword of Justice, a period picture about a samurai rescuing his daimyo lord’s kidnapped daughter from bandits.

  A loud knock banged at her door. The landlady perhaps? No, Masaru had already paid her rent this month. Reiko sprang out of bed and stole a quick glance in the mirror. She looked presentable enough in her dark blue sweater with white stripes and matching black fluted skirt, an outfit she’d copied from Anna May Wong in Piccadilly. It used to drive Masaru wild but now she wondered if she’d spend the rest of her life in a kimono.

  The knocking began again.

  “I’m coming,” she groaned before opening the door.

  Inspector Kenji Aizawa blocked the doorway, framed by a long black overcoat. He removed his black fedora, revealing a close-cropped head of dark hair that accentuated a pair of thick sideburns and eyebrows that hung over a stern, unblinking gaze. His squared jaw completed the look of a man on his way to audition for a gangster picture.

  Panic erupted inside her. The Inspector didn’t seem like a man who would beat a woman for information but everyone had their breaking point. And a tenseness on his face suggested that Aizawa had almost reached his.

  Without a bow, the Inspector forced his way inside and shut the door. Like a wild animal, he stalked around the room, looking under her bed and inside the closet. After an irritated grunt, he returned his attention to her and snapped, “Where is he? Where is Masaru Ryusaki?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector, but I suggest you leave before I call Superintendent Shimura and—”

  “I’m going to get right to the point, Watanabe-san,” he said, waving a hand. “I know the alibi you gave last night was a lie and that you’re the one who’s been informing me about Ryusaki’s plans.”