Sano went to the reception room, and Hirata joined him, bringing two young samurai. They were tall, strong specimens of the warrior class, with intelligence written in the poise of their bodies as well as in the set of their facial features. But they looked utterly miserable.
Hirata introduced them as Kurita and Konoe. “They’re part of the team I assigned to watch the oxcart drivers.”
A bad feeling rippled through Sano. The men fell on their knees before him and confessed, “We lost them.”
They were clearly devastated because they’d failed in their duty. In truth, Sano didn’t feel much better about the fact that his suspects had escaped.
“On behalf of my men and myself, I apologize.” Hirata looked sober and humiliated because he’d let Sano down. “But I know that doesn’t do much good.”
Sano didn’t berate his friend; that wouldn’t do much good, either. “Just tell me what happened.”
“The two drivers went to work at a bridge that’s being built over a canal,” Kurita said. “While we were keeping watch on them, the bridge collapsed.”
“There were a lot of men on it,” said Konoe. “They fell in the water. The beams and posts fell on top of them. There was so much confusion as people were running to rescue them that we lost sight of the drivers.”
“When everything settled down, they were gone,” Kurita said.
“Honorable Chamberlain, we’ve betrayed your trust and our master’s,” Konoe said. He blinked furiously, but tears ran down his high cheekbones. “We’re ready to commit seppuku.”
“No,” Sano said, adamant. “I forbid it.” That would be wasting two lives for one mishap that could have befallen anyone. Sano thought that too many good men adhered too strictly to the samurai code of honor and killed themselves, while too many bad men broke its rules and lived happily ever after. “The important thing is to find the suspects.” He still believed they were connected with the kidnappings, and they were his only leads. “I need your help. Now is your chance to make up for your mistake.”
“Yes, Honorable Chamberlain,” the men said, chastened yet relieved.
Hirata gave Sano a grateful look, which Sano returned in kind. Hirata had once saved Sano’s life at serious, almost fatal cost to himself. That alone would excuse Hirata for a million mistakes.
“Where shall we start hunting?” Hirata asked.
Sano cast his mind across the city, which was riddled with places for the oxcart drivers to hide. Conducting a street-by-street search and closing off the highways that led out of town would take too much time. Logic offered a better solution.
“In our suspects’ home territory,” Sano said.
Instead of going home, Reiko had her escorts take her to Major Kumazawa’s estate, where she found Chiyo sitting in her chamber, combing Fumiko’s hair. Fumiko wore a fresh white kimono printed with pale blue irises, and her face was clean; Chiyo must have given her a bath. She was actually a pretty girl. She sat quietly while Chiyo worked the tangles out of her hair. Reiko smiled at the scene, which appeared as classic and timeless as one in a painting. She was glad that Chiyo and Fumiko seemed to have found some peace.
Then they looked up at her, and the illusion of peace shattered. Chiyo’s eyes were red and wet from crying. Fumiko regained the tense, furtive guise of a cornered animal. Neither of them had forgotten what had happened, not for a moment. Fumiko started to rise, primed to flee.
Chiyo said, “Don’t be afraid, it’s only Lady Reiko.” She smiled, with a painful effort, and bowed. “Welcome. Your company does us an honor. Won’t you join us?”
Reiko bowed, murmured her thanks, and sat. Chiyo offered refreshments, and after Reiko politely refused and then accepted, a servant brought tea and cakes. Reiko ate, finding herself surprisingly hungry after the terrible events of the morning. Fumiko wolfed down the food. Chiyo smiled indulgently and said, “She’s always ready to eat.”
She was making up for months of near-starvation, Reiko thought. “It’s good of you to feed her.”
Even when Chiyo smiled, the sadness never left her eyes. “Having her to take care of has done me good.” Reiko knew she was thinking of her children. “What brings you here today? Is there news?”
“Yes, but I’m afraid it’s bad.” Reiko told Chiyo about the nun’s suicide. She didn’t want to disturb Chiyo, but neither did she want Chiyo to hear the story via gossip.
Chiyo looked saddened. “That poor woman. I shall pray for her spirit.”
Fumiko didn’t seem to care. Chewing the last cake, she started to wipe her mouth on her sleeve. Chiyo gently stopped her and handed her a napkin. Fumiko scowled, but she used the napkin, then carefully folded it. Reiko was pleased to see Chiyo teaching the girl manners. Maybe they would do Fumiko good in her uncertain future.
“Has anything else happened?” Chiyo asked.
Reiko sensed how eager Chiyo was to hear that the kidnapper had been caught and that life would somehow return to normal. She hated to disappoint her. “My husband is pursuing some inquiries.” She couldn’t tell Chiyo what Sano was doing at Edo Morgue; not even his family could know the secret. “Tengu-in’s death may furnish new clues.”
There came the sounds of heavy footsteps and male voices from the front of the house. Fumiko sat up straight, her ears perked. “It’s my father!”
She jumped up and scurried out of the room.
“What can Jirocho be doing here?” Reiko said as she and Chiyo followed.
They went to the reception room, from which Jirocho’s and Major Kumazawa’s voices emanated. Fumiko would have rushed inside, but Chiyo held her back, gesturing her to be quiet. Reiko, Chiyo, and Fumiko cautiously peeked in the open door. Major Kumazawa was seated on the dais, Jirocho and his bodyguards on the floor below it. The women stepped back, so as not to be seen, and listened through the lattice-and-paper wall.
“Why have you come to call on me?” Major Kumazawa said in an unfriendly tone.
“Because you and I have common interests,” Jirocho said, unruffled by Major Kumazawa’s cold reception.
“What might those be?”
“We’ve both suffered insults to our clans.”
“A mere coincidence. It doesn’t justify relations between us.”
“We have something else in common,” Jirocho said. “Neither of us likes how Chamberlain Sano is conducting the investigation.”
“That hardly makes us comrades.” Sarcasm tinged Major Kumazawa’s voice. “Why impose on me to talk about it? State your business.”
“I’m here to make a proposition,” Jirocho said. “We join forces and hunt down the kidnapper ourselves.”
There was a short silence in which Reiko could sense Major Kumazawa’s surprise. Major Kumazawa said, “I’m conducting my own search. Why would I want to cooperate with you?”
“Because you haven’t managed to catch the bastard yet,” Jirocho said.
“You haven’t, either,” Major Kumazawa retorted.
“True,” Jirocho admitted. “I don’t have enough men to search the whole city. Neither do you. But if we put our troops together, we can cover twice as much area without going over the same ground twice.”
That would surely interfere with Sano’s inquiries. Reiko shuddered at the idea of Jirocho’s gang and Major Kumazawa’s troops rampaging through the city, more avid for vengeance than for the truth.
Major Kumazawa said, “That’s not a good enough reason. I know what you are, I know how you do business. Joining forces with you would bring me nothing but trouble.”
It might well, Reiko thought. Jirocho said, “Before you refuse, listen to this. Have you ever wondered why you haven’t been able to find out who kidnapped your daughter?”
“It’s only been a few days since she was taken,” Major Kumazawa said. “All I need is more time.”
“Have you ever stopped to think that maybe you’re not getting anywhere because there are places in the city that you don’t know and people who won’t talk to you?”
“I know the city like the palm of my own hand,” Major Kumazawa said, growing more irritable. “I can go everyplace, make everybody talk.”
“You’re mistaken,” Jirocho said evenly. “You high-ranking samurai live in your own little world. There are many people you never even see because they’re careful to stay out of your way. People in my world, for instance.”
Major Kumazawa laughed, a sound of pure, arrogant scorn. “Even if that’s true, it’s my problem. Why should you care?”
“Because I have the same problem. There are places that I can’t go, and people who won’t talk to me.” Jirocho added, “People of your class.”
Reiko risked another peek through the door. She saw Jirocho lean toward Major Kumazawa as he said, “It seems that there are two different kidnappers. One raped your daughter, the other, mine. What if the man you’re hunting is a commoner who’s hiding among other commoners, being protected by them? What if the man I’m hunting is a samurai that I can’t go near?” His tone grew urgent, intense. “Alone, we’re at a disadvantage. Together, we can get the vengeance we both want.”
“Oh, I see what this is about. It’s not that I can’t get vengeance without you; it’s that you can’t without me.” Disdain edged Major Kumazawa’s words. “Your offer is an insult. This conversation is finished. Get out.”
Jirocho didn’t reply, but Reiko could feel his anger and frustration, like heat from a fire burning on the other side of the wall. She and Chiyo pulled Fumiko down the passage, lest they be caught eavesdropping. But as Jirocho and his men stalked out the door, Fumiko called, “Father.”
His head turned; he saw her and halted. A strange expression came over his wolfish features. Fumiko didn’t run to her father, even though every line in her body strained toward him; she hesitated like a dog whipped too often. Chiyo held her in a protective embrace. Jirocho swallowed; his jaw shifted. His gaze absorbed her new clothes, her clean face. His men looked at him, awaiting his reaction. Beneath his surprise, Reiko detected other emotions she couldn’t identify.
Major Kumazawa appeared in the door of the reception room. Jirocho pointed at Fumiko and demanded, “What’s she doing here?”
“She lives in this house now.” Although Major Kumazawa was, as Reiko knew, far from happy with the arrangement, he seemed pleased to see Jirocho disconcerted.
“Why—how—?” The gangster’s face went blank and stupid with incomprehension.
“My daughter insisted on taking her in,” Major Kumazawa said. “Have you a problem with that?”
Jirocho didn’t speak or move for a moment. Reiko, ignored by everyone, could feel him floundering in unfamiliar waters. It was unheard of for the child of a notorious gangster to be virtually adopted by a high samurai official, and the clash he’d just had with Major Kumazawa obviously didn’t make Jirocho any more comfortable with the situation. Reiko watched Jirocho struggle to frame it in a way that made sense according to the laws of his world.
At last he blurted, “You stole my girl.”
“You threw her out,” Major Kumazawa reminded him. “Which means you haven’t any right to object to my giving her a home. But if you want her back, you’re welcome to take her.”
Reiko felt Fumiko holding her breath, tense with hope. Chiyo hugged the girl close. From the instant Jirocho had first laid eyes on his daughter he hadn’t taken his gaze off her, even while he spoke to Major Kumazawa. Now, without a word to her, he stalked away down the hall, his men following. Fumiko hid her face against Chiyo’s shoulder and sobbed.
“I’ll get my vengeance, and I’ll do it without your help,” Jirocho said over his shoulder to Major Kumazawa. “And I would wager my entire fortune that you’ll never be able to do the same without mine.”
The road to the oxcart stables led Sano, Hirata, and their entourage past poor tenements that clung to the outskirts of Edo like a dirty, ragged hem. It was twilight by the time Sano and his men arrived at the compound of wooden barns. The yard around them was muddy and trampled, pocked by hoof marks filled with rainwater. The area stank of urine and manure. The fenced and roofed enclosure for parking the carts was empty. Through the open doors of the barns Sano saw empty stalls and idle stable boys.
“I don’t suppose our suspects are hanging around waiting to be caught,” Sano said. “Their colleagues should be back soon, though. Maybe they can point us in the right direction.”
A distant sound of clattering wheels vibrated through the dusk. It grew louder and nearer, punctuated by bellows. The streets around the stables disgorged oxen pulling carts, drivers aboard, returning home for the night. They converged on the stables like a slow, malodorous, and rackety invading legion.
“Divide and conquer,” Sano told his men.
They circulated, asking the drivers if they knew the whereabouts of Jinshichi and Gombei. Drivers shook their heads. Finally, Sano’s luck changed for the better.
“Jinshichi and Gombei, what a pair of good-for-nothings,” said the eighth driver Sano questioned.
Naked except for a dirty loincloth, a rag tied over his head, and straw sandals on his feet, he had skin so tanned and leathery that one could have made a good saddle out of it. As he and his fellows parked their carts under the shelter, he spat on the ground in disgust.
“Why do you have such a poor opinion of Jinshichi and Gombei?” Sano asked.
“They’re lazy,” the driver said. “They show up late and keep everybody waiting.” He unyoked his ox. Other carts racketed into their places in long rows; oxen bellowed and snorted. “Sometimes they leave before the work’s done. Which means the rest of us have to haul extra loads. And for what?”
He spat again as he led his ox toward the stables and Sano followed. “No thanks from Jinshichi and Gombei. Lazy slobs!”
Sano was intrigued by this portrait of his suspects. “Where do they go when they’re supposed to be at work?”
“Don’t know. They keep it to themselves.”
Maybe they went hunting and kidnapping women, Sano thought.
“The boss keeps threatening to fire them,” the driver said.
“Why doesn’t he?”
The driver pantomimed jingling a string of coins. “Where do they get the money to pay him off?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.” The driver prodded his ox into a stall. “But they have more than the rest of us. They even brag about going to Yoshiwara.”
The Yoshiwara pleasure quarter was too expensive for ordinary oxcart drivers. Sano began to entertain different ideas about the nature of the crimes he was investigating.
“Can you tell me where I might find them?”
“Sorry.”
“Where do they live?”
“Same place as me.” The driver pointed toward a street of tenements. “But I haven’t seen them around there since yesterday.”
Sano thanked the man. As he turned his horse to go, the driver said, “Wait, master. I just remembered something. A while back, I ran into Jinshichi and Gombei at a teahouse called the Drum. I was driving past as they were coming out. Not the kind of place I’d have expected to see them.”
“Why not?”
“It’s for high-class folks. I was surprised that Jinshichi and Gombei got in. I wondered what they were doing there.”
So did Sano wonder.
The Drum Teahouse was located a block off the main street in the Nihonbashi merchant quarter, behind the popular dry goods store named Shirokiya. The shops around it were closed for the night, and no one was around except the watchmen guarding the gates at either end of the road. The teahouse occupied a building decorated with drum-shaped blue lanterns whose cold light reflected in the puddles and cast an eerie radiance into the darkening gloom.
Sano and Hirata left their troops and horses down the street. They entered the teahouse and found a spacious room lit by the blue light shining in through the paper windowpanes. Maids poured sake for the customers, all male, who sat on the floor. Along the walls were private encl
osures with curtains drawn across the entrances. The dim light gleamed on the shaved crowns of samurai and the oiled, glossy hair of rich commoners. The blue lanterns colored the men’s faces with a morbid glow. Conversation was quiet, minimal. Each man appeared to be alone.
The proprietor stepped out of the shadows. “Welcome, masters,” he said with a low, obsequious bow to Sano and Hirata. His hushed voice brought to Sano’s mind a lizard slithering under a rock. Dressed in a black robe, he had a narrow figure and a square-jawed head. His eyes had the feral gleam of a nocturnal animal; they didn’t blink as they assessed Sano and Hirata. “Please allow me to make you comfortable.”
He hustled them into an enclosure, fetched a sake decanter and cups, served Sano and Hirata, then drew the curtains. While they drank, he hovered.
Sano exchanged glances with Hirata: They both sensed something not right about the teahouse. The darkness, the quiet, the mix of samurai and commoners, and the lack of camaraderie were unusual, and there was an odd tension in the air. Sano wanted to know what was going on.
“Won’t you join us?” he asked the proprietor.
“It would be an honor.” The proprietor knelt beside Sano. As he refilled the cups, he murmured, “Might there be something else I can do for you?”
“There might,” Sano said. “What have you to offer?”
“It depends.”
“On what?” Hirata asked.
“On your particular situation.”
The proprietor paused, waiting for Sano and Hirata to answer. They waited for a cue from him. His greed for their business triumphed over caution. He whispered, “Is there somebody who’s making trouble for you? I can put you in contact with people who can teach him a lesson.”
“What if there is somebody?” Sano said. “What would your people do?”
The Cloud Pavilion Page 18
