“Any luck?” Hirata said as he turned his mount and rode alongside Sano.
“Yes and no,” Sano said. “We located the place where my cousin Chiyo was dumped by her kidnapper. An oxcart was seen there, but we couldn’t find it.”
“When you don’t want oxcarts, they’re all around, blocking the streets and stinking up the city,” Marume said. “When you do, there’s not a single blessed one in sight.”
Sano had led his men back to the construction site where they’d seen oxcarts yesterday, only to find the site deserted due to the rain. Sano and his men had combed the Asakusa district, but all the oxcarts seemed to have vanished.
“We’ll have to go to the stables and track down the drivers who were working in Asakusa yesterday and when Chiyo was kidnapped,” Sano said.
“Maybe I can save you the trouble,” Hirata said.
Sano had figured that Hirata must have good news or he wouldn’t have come looking for him, but he was surprised nonetheless. “Don’t tell me the police actually investigated Chiyo’s kidnapping and turned up some suspects?”
“No,” Hirata said, “but their chief clerk says that two other women were kidnapped before your cousin was. Both were missing for a couple of days. Both were found near the places where they were taken.”
Sano felt a mixture of excitement and dismay. He hated the thought that two more women had suffered, but the other crimes might provide clues. “Who are these women?”
“One is an old nun named Tengu-in,” Hirata said. “She lives in a convent in the Zj Temple district.”
“Merciful gods,” Fukida said. “Who would rape a nun?”
“She was taken on the first day of the third month and found two days later,” Hirata said. “The other is a twelve-year-old girl.”
That shocked the detectives speechless. Sano, thinking of his own young daughter, felt sick with horror.
“She was kidnapped on the third day of last month, found two days later. Her name is Fumiko,” Hirata said. “I happen to know her father. His name is Jirocho.”
“The big gangster?” Sano said.
“None other.”
The gangster class had proliferated since the civil war era some hundred years ago, when samurai who’d lost their masters in battles had become rnin and wandered Japan, raiding the villages. Brave peasants had banded together to protect themselves. Today’s gangsters were descendants of these heroes. But times had changed. The Tokugawa government enforced law and order throughout Japan. No longer needed to protect the villages, the gangsters had turned to crime. Their ranks had swelled with thieves, con artists, and other dregs of society.
“When I was a police officer, I arrested Jirocho a few times,” Hirata said, “for extorting money from market vendors.” There were two distinct types of gangster—the bakuto, gamblers who ran illegal gambling dens, and the tekiya, who were associated with trade and sold illicit or stolen merchandise. Jirocho belonged to the latter type. “He made them pay him for not stealing their goods, driving their customers away, and beating them up.”
“Why’s he still on the loose?” Marume asked.
“Friends in high places,” Fukida said.
Hirata nodded. Sano knew that Jirocho and other gang bosses bribed government officials to let them carry out their business. As chamberlain, Sano tried to discourage this corrupt practice, but it was hard to catch the officials colluding with the gangsters, and the gangsters actually benefited the government. They helped to keep the growing merchant class under control and provided public services such as money-lending and security. Still, Sano thought this cooperation between government and gangsters boded ill for the future.
“Well, now Jirocho is a possible witness in a crime rather than the perpetrator,” Sano said. “Marume-san, you and Fukida-san will go to the stables and track down our oxcart driver. Hirata-san, you can question Jirocho and his daughter. I’ll take the nun.”
The Zj Temple district was a city within the city, home to forty-eight subsidiary temples, the Tokugawa mausoleum, and thousands of priests, nuns, monks, and novices. The high stone walls of Keiaiji Convent shut out the noises from the marketplace, the traffic of pilgrims and peddlers in the streets, and the chanting of prayers in nearby monasteries. Pine trees cleansed the air in spacious grounds landscaped with mossy boulders and raked white sand. The large building resembled a samurai mansion rather than the typical convent in which nuns lived in cramped, impoverished austerity. The abbess received Sano in a room furnished with a pristine tatami floor and a mural that showed Mount Fuji amid the clouds.
“I’ve come to inquire about Tengu-in, your nun who was kidnapped,” Sano said.
The abbess wore a plain gray hemp robe, the uniform of Buddhist holy women. Her head was shaved; her scalp glistened with a thin fuzz of silver hair. She was as short and sturdy as a peasant, with broad features set in a square face and an air of authority.
“Ah, yes. It was a dreadful thing to happen,” she said. “And to such a virtuous woman, yet.”
Sano inferred from her hushed tone that the nun had been raped as well as kidnapped. “My condolences to her, and to you and her sisters,” he said. “It must have been very upsetting for everyone here.”
The abbess shook her head in regret. “Yes, indeed, especially since Tengu-in was such a favorite.”
Her use of the past tense didn’t escape Sano. Had her community ostracized Tengu-in because she’d been violated? “Is she still here?”
“Yes, of course,” the abbess said. “She’s a member of our order for life. What happened to her doesn’t change that.”
But the abbess’s manner suggested that she’d become an unwanted burden, Sano thought.
“Tengu-in has been with us for eight years,” the abbess said. “She joined our order after her husband died. They had been married for forty-five years.”
Widows often did join convents, sometimes because they were devoutly religious, sometimes because their husbands’ deaths left them impoverished and homeless. Tengu-in must be in her sixties, Sano deduced. That someone would kidnap and rape a woman who was not only a nun but so elderly!
“Her husband was a high-ranking official in Lord Kuroda’s service,” the abbess went on. “She came to us with a very generous dowry.”
That explained how the order could afford such a nice home. When a rich woman entered a convent, she brought with her gold coins, silk robes, and expensive artifacts. This order had been lucky to get Tengu-in.
“But that isn’t why we were so fond of her,” the abbess hastened to say. “She is a good woman. She never expected special treatment because she was from high society. She always had a kind word for everyone.”
Sano pitied Tengu-in, who hadn’t deserved to suffer any more than Chiyo had. “Exactly where was she kidnapped?”
“Outside the main temple. Some of our nuns had gone there to worship. She got separated from the group. When it was time to go home, they couldn’t find her. All of us looked and looked, and I reported her missing to the police.”
Those circumstances sounded ominously familiar. “Where did she turn up?”
“Outside the temple’s main gate, early in the morning,” the abbess said. “Some monks found her. They brought her back to the convent.”
Sano thought of the oxcart seen in the alley where his cousin had been dumped. “On the day the nuns went to Zj Temple, were there any oxcarts in the area?”
“They didn’t mention it.”
“What about near the gate on the day Tengu-in was found?”
“I don’t know. But there has been work done on the temple buildings lately.”
The government supported religion and had probably furnished oxcarts to bring supplies for repairs to the temple. “The reason I’m interested in Tengu-in is that the same thing recently happened to my cousin. I suspect that the same man is responsible for both crimes. I want to catch him, and I need Tengu-in’s help. May I speak with her?”
“I’m afraid
she won’t tell you anything. She hasn’t even told me. She’s very upset.”
“That’s understandable,” Sano said, “but I must insist. She may be my only chance of catching the criminal.”
“Very well.” The abbess rose and said, “I’ll take you to her. But I beg you not to expect too much.”
Jirocho the gangster boss lived in Ueno, one of Edo’s three temple districts. Ueno was situated in the northeast corner of the capital, known as the unluckiest direction, the “devil’s gate.” Its temples were supposed to guard the city from bad influences, but evil existed there as well as every place else.
At first glance Jirocho’s street was no different from any other in an affluent merchant quarter. Between the neighborhood gates at either end stood rows of large two-story houses with tile roofs, their entrances recessed beneath overhanging eaves. Four men loitered, smoking pipes. A casual observer would never suspect that one of Edo’s notorious gang bosses lived here. But Hirata, riding up the street, spotted the signs.
The men were tattooed with blue and black designs that showed at the edges of their collars and sleeves. Once the tattoos had been used by the authorities to brand outlaws; now they were insignias that represented wealth, bravery, and other desirable traits. They declared which clan a gangster belonged to and were worn as proudly as samurai crests.
When Hirata dismounted outside the largest house, the gangsters converged on him. “Looking for something?” one gangster said. His manner was devoid of the respect usually shown by a commoner to a samurai. The tattoo on his chest depicted a dragon, symbol of Jirocho’s clan. He was probably one of its low-level soldiers.
“I want to see Jirocho,” Hirata said.
“What makes you think Jirocho would want to see you?”
“Tell him Hirata is here.”
They froze at the sound of Hirata’s name: His reputation had spread into the underworld. Gangsters hated to admit they were afraid of anybody; they would kill on the slightest provocation, and they fought savagely with rival gangs, but they were more inclined toward self-preservation than the samurai who constantly challenged Hirata. These four gangsters chuckled as if they’d been playing a joke on him. Three pretended an interest in reloading their pipes. The other ambled into the house. Soon he reemerged and beckoned Hirata inside.
Led down a corridor, Hirata saw rooms where gang members lounged, awaiting orders from their boss. They eyed him, silent and hostile. A group of them knelt in a circle, playing hana-fuda—the flower card game. They wore their kimonos down around their waists, displaying their tattoos. One man threw down his cards. The others laughed and exclaimed, “Ya-ku-za!”
Eight-nine-three. It was the worst hand possible, but the gangsters seemed to feel an affection for it. Maybe they thought it symbolized their no-good selves, Hirata speculated.
His escort left him in a reception room. The tatami floor mats were bound with embroidered ribbon and so thick that they felt like cushions under Hirata’s feet. The mural on the wall depicted a garden of brilliantly colored flowers beside a blue river highlighted with ripples of silver and gold paint. Black lacquer screens sported gold-inlaid birds. Brass lanterns suspended from the ceilings dangled gold pendants. Shelves held a collection of gold figurines. Hirata got the message: Jirocho was filthy rich. But he hid his wealth behind closed doors. Not even a top gangster boss dared violate the sumptuary laws that prohibited commoners from flaunting their wealth.
Two women brought refreshments to Hirata. They were as beautiful and stylishly dressed as the most expensive courtesans in the Yoshiwara licensed pleasure quarter. They wordlessly served the tea and food and departed. Hirata listened to the gangsters talking and joking at their card game. His keen ears also picked up the sound of distant sobs.
He followed the sound down a passage to a door that was open just enough for him to peer inside. He saw a young man kneeling and weeping, arms extended on the floor. Two older gangsters stood over him. “I hear you’ve been keeping some of the money you collected from the vendors,” said a deep, scratchy voice. Hirata couldn’t see the man who spoke, but he recognized the voice as Jirocho’s. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”
“I’m sorry,” the young man cried. “I shouldn’t have done it!”
Hirata knew that gangsters had a code of honor consisting of three rules: Don’t touch the wife of a fellow member; don’t reveal gang secrets to outsiders; and, above all, be loyal to the boss. If the boss says crows are white, you must agree, the saying went.
One of the two gangsters standing grabbed the young man and yanked him upright. The other shoved a heavy wooden table in front of him and offered him a cleaver. Even as he sobbed in fright, the young man took the cleaver in his left hand. He positioned his right hand with its little finger laid against the table, its others curled into a fist. He raised the cleaver, screamed, and hacked off the tip of his finger.
Hirata blinked. He’d seen many acts of violence, but this one shocked him even though he knew it was common among gangsters. One who broke the rules would lose a finger joint for each offense. Samurai who violated Bushido were punished by compulsory suicide, but Hirata thought this forced self-mutilation was bizarre.
Pale as death, the trembling young man accepted a white silk cloth from one of the other gangsters. He wrapped his severed finger in the cloth and offered the package to Jirocho.
“You’re forgiven this time,” Jirocho said. “Don’t let there be a next time.”
Hirata silently slipped away and returned to the reception room. Soon Jirocho entered. “Well, well, Hirata-san. This is a surprise.”
Now in his fifties, Jirocho had changed in the twelve or so years since he and Hirata had last met. Beneath the gaudy silk robes that he wore in private defiance of the sumptuary laws, his figure was pudgier because he sat around and gave orders instead of prowling the streets and fighting as he’d done in his youth. His hair had turned gray and he’d gone bald at the temples; his jowls sagged. But his sharp eyes gleamed with the familiar look of controlled aggression. His thick mouth wore the same predatory smile that Hirata remembered.
The biggest change had less to do with Jirocho than with Hirata’s own expanded perception.
For the first time Hirata saw Jirocho’s shield. It exuded a magnetic attraction as well as sheer ruthlessness. Once Hirata had wondered how Jirocho had climbed the ranks from petty thief to boss of his own gang. Now he knew. Jirocho drew weaker men like a magnet draws iron specks.
“Have you come to arrest me again?” Jirocho’s smile broadened: He knew he was safe, protected by the same government that Hirata served.
“Not today,” Hirata said. “I’m here about a crime, but not one that you committed.”
“What crime?”
“The kidnapping of your daughter.”
Jirocho’s smile vanished. He abruptly turned away. “I won’t talk about that.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to,” Hirata said. “Chamberlain Sano and I are investigating another kidnapping that may be related to your daughter’s. We need information.”
“You’ll have to get it somewhere else,” Jirocho said, his back turned, his voice cold.
“How about if I talk to your daughter?”
“My daughter Fumiko is dead.”
“What?” Hirata was surprised. “The police say she was found alive.”
“She’s dead to me.” Jirocho turned to face Hirata, who saw that his eyes were wet and ablaze with angry tears. “Some filthy monster ruined my girl. She was disgraced.”
Her kidnapping had one more thing in common with Sano’s cousin’s, Hirata realized. Fumiko, too, had been raped.
“I had to disown her, for the sake of my clan’s honor,” Jirocho said.
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. I threw her out of the house.”
“You threw a twelve-year-old girl out to fend for herself?” Hirata was horrified by Jirocho’s attitude.
Jirocho gave
him a hostile stare. “I loved Fumiko with all my heart, but things have changed. Wait until it happens to your daughter, then let’s see how you react.”
Hirata thought of little Taeko, whom he would always love and protect no matter what. But he wasn’t as bound by conventions as Jirocho was in spite of his outlaw background. And he shouldn’t criticize Jirocho if he wanted his cooperation.
“All right,” Hirata said, “I understand. But I still need your help. Perhaps you would let me talk to Fumiko’s mother?”
“Her mother died when she was a baby,” Jirocho said. “I raised her myself.”
Hirata made one last try. “Chamberlain Sano’s cousin was kidnapped and violated, perhaps by the same man as Fumiko. We’re seeking justice for her. Don’t you want to avenge your daughter?”
“Oh, indeed, I do. Make no mistake.” Jirocho spoke with a savagery that darkened his face. This was the man who forced his henchmen to cut off their own fingers as punishment for crossing him. He would never let anyone get away with violating his daughter, even though he’d forsaken her. “But I’ll do it myself, my way.”
Things had been bad enough when Major Kumazawa had conducted a search for his daughter, offending and threatening people wherever he went. Now Hirata was appalled by the idea of the gangster boss out for blood.
“You stay out of this,” he ordered Jirocho. “Let Chamberlain Sano and me handle it. Just tell me what you know about your daughter’s kidnapping.”
Jirocho’s face was stony, closed. “With all due respect to you and Chamberlain Sano, this score is mine to settle personally. Now please leave.”
The gangster who’d escorted Hirata into the house escorted him out. When they reached the street, Hirata asked, “Where can I find Jirocho’s daughter?”
“If Jirocho won’t tell you, neither will I,” the gangster said. “I don’t talk about his business.”
Hirata observed that the gangster’s energy shield was weak. This was the kind of man he could manipulate. “Where is she?” Hirata said, projecting the force of his will at the gangster.
The Cloud Pavilion Page 8
