Now our final destination would be Yokohama, the sprawling harbor city south of Tokyo where ships from all over the world were loading and unloading, bringing in coal and petroleum and taking away all sorts of manufactured goods and endless packing cases filled with exquisite and very expensive Japanese silk.
It was during this last segment of our sea journey that Holmes finally sat me down and expounded on what theories he had formed from the hundreds of pages of data he had read and re-read.
“It is always,” he said, and I knew what was coming, “a serious risk to form theories let alone conclusions before having all possible data in front of one. Nevertheless, such evidence as has been given to me, and it is quite extensive, is pointing suspiciously to the upstanding Christian missionary wife of our Envoy. The only possible conclusion is that she is leading a very curious double life. She is not behaving in a manner that is loyal to the Empire, and I daresay, not even a manner appropriate to a Christian wife.”
“Really, Holmes, explain how it is possible for anyone to have data, as you call it, on the private affairs of a respected American woman? What sort of Peeping Toms are we dealing with?”
“Oh, my dear doctor. Did you not listen when Mycroft explained that there is no such thing as a diplomat who is not a spy? Else, why would we pay them? The Ministers Resident in every legation, embassy or high commission are expected to report on the Envoy. The Chargés d’Affaires inform on the Ministers and on down the line. The attachés inform on their superiors, and all those who are not protected by diplomatic immunity, all those drivers and chefs and secretaries, inform on everyone. How else would we keep them honest? They are all quite brilliant and energetic young Englishmen and Lord only knows—and I would not be surprised if even He blushes from time to time—what mischief they could get themselves up to when they are ten thousand miles away from home. Why, if they thought they could get away with yielding to all manner of heathen temptations, every Embassy and High Commission in the Empire would crumble.”
“Even if,” I queried, “they were much happier places? Ah, not necessary to answer that one, Holmes. Back to our righteous Christian missionary lady, now the esteemed wife of His Excellency, our Envoy. What evidence is there that leads you to cast aspersions on her honor?”
For the next hour, he delivered a monologue consisting of an endless list of small actions that had been observed and that could not be fully explained. However, he saved the most damning items for the last.
“Once and sometimes even twice a week she sends off letters, written partially in indecipherable code, and partially in Russian, to an agent of the Czar who is using his appointment as an instructor in mathematics as his cover.”
“Do not the Japanese have their own math teachers?” I challenged. “These Oriental chaps are all supposed to be inhumanly talented in arithmetic.”
“He is teaching at the School for Girls run by the Society of Friends.”
“Ah ha, the peaceful Quakers imparting good manners and the Christian gospel, or at least their version of it, to obedient young Japanese women. A perfect cover indeed for a Russian spy.”
Chapter Three Have a Lovely Hanami
IT WAS THE TWENTY-EIGHTH OF MARCH when we arrived in port. The journey had taken just over three weeks. The Russian Fleet was reported to still be somewhere in the Indian Ocean, not having yet entered the Malacca Straits. The Japanese were already in control of Port Arthur on the Chinese mainland, having invaded back in February, and had recently taken over more and more slices of Manchuria. The Russians were not at all happy and whatever might happen next, anywhere in the world, was beyond imagining.
A couple of tugs brought us into one of the piers in Yokohama. I had fully expected that we would again be mobbed with beggars and hawkers and the like as soon as we set foot on shore. To my surprise, there was not one to be seen. The massive port facilities were scrupulously clean. I did not see a scrap of litter anywhere, not a single pallet or packing case that was not lined up in perfect order. There was not a trace of the mayhem I was used to at Southampton or Liverpool. Everything was moving decently and in order.
As we descended the gangplank, I heard our names being called. A well-dressed young man was waving at us and beckoning us in his direction. We walked over to him, and the first thing that struck me was the quality of his attire. His beautifully tailored, quiet suit spoke of bespoke on Saville Row and not merely an imitation from Hong Kong. Nearly hidden, but exposed just enough to be noticed, was a set of gold cufflinks in which rather large emeralds were set. His silk cravat was set off by a diamond tie pin. Whoever this young chap was, he was definitely from the upper classes of Nippon.
As we approached him, he bowed deeply and held that position for a full five seconds. When his back was unbent, he flashed a broad, gleaming smile.
“Sherlock-san, and Dr. John-san, it is my honor to welcome such esteemed men to my country. I have been sent to make sure that your stay here in Nippon is one of the greatest pleasure and enlightenment. My name is Toshitikitimbonosorimbo. But my Japanese friends all call me Toshi, and my English friends call me Tommy. So please, gentlemen, Tommy, at your service.”
His English bore a slight Oriental accent but was otherwise flawless, right down to the articles. I was about to say something appropriately gracious in reply when Holmes brusquely answered back.
“Who sent you?”
“Ah, of course, how poor on my part not to inform you, Sherlock-san. Because you are so famous all over the world, and because the Emperor Himself is a fan of your stories, I have been sent by the office of our Prime Minister.”
“You don’t say. Where did you learn to speak English?”
He bowed again and smiled. “I learned first from my teachers, but I have just returned from two years in your beautiful country.”
“What were you doing there?”
“One of your wealthy countrymen, a Mr. Cecil Rhodes, left some money in his estate so that promising young men from all over the world could come and study at Oxford. Although there were many men who were more worthy than I, this honor was given to me.”
An honor indeed, I thought. The program for Rhodes Scholars had only started two years ago. It was the most prestigious scholarship on offer anywhere in the Empire, or in the entire world for that matter. The competition had been intense. If our Tommy had won one of the coveted places, he must be quite the sharp young lad.
“Please, Sherlock-san and John-san, follow me. A Pullman car is waiting at the station to take you into Tokyo. Your luggage will be looked after and will arrive in your rooms in the Imperial Hotel. Please, this way.”
His manners and bearing were carelessly aristocratic. He was several yards in front of us, and I could not help but notice that dockhands, bureaucrats, and even soldiers bowed slightly to him and stepped back so that we could pass.
“My,” I whispered to Holmes. “Quite the impressive young chap.”
“He’s a spy.”
We quickly cleared the docks and entered a stretch of well-tended gardens that ran along the side of a wide boulevard. We have pleasant places like this in England, of course, but what caused me to stop in my tracks and gasp in wonder was the enormous mass of white and pinkish blossoms with which the trees were laden. For at least fifty yards, we walked under a veritable tunnel of blossoms through which the sunlight was dappling the pavement. Petals fluttered down on top of us as we passed. Under many of the spreading branches, small gatherings of Japanese people were sitting on the ground with picnic lunches being shared amongst them. Some were elderly couples or clusters of aging friends; others were family; still others were young men and a few young women who I presumed were students or office workers. All seemed other-worldly happy and enjoying the ethereal atmosphere.
Tommy observed my staring and explained. “It is Hanami time. For only two or three weeks every spring the cherry blossoms appear and it is one of our favorite customs to walk or sit together and let the experience of the bloss
oms overtake us. Please, doctor, allow your mind to be released and enter into it as well.”
Holmes leaned over and whispered to me. “You will do no such thing, Watson. The last thing I need is having you say good-bye to your brain within minutes of getting off the boat. I need you to be fully rationale. Kindly remember that.”
Very well, I thought, be a spoilsport, Holmes. I could do my Hanami by myself.
It was not a long walk from the pier to the train station and we were soon passing through a building that, with its small dark shuttered windows and wide expanses of whitewashed walls, looked more like it belonged on a military base
Tommy led us to a siding where a gleaming Pullman car was waiting for us. The interior rivaled any parlor or club room I had visited in England, all fine leather and polished furniture. A dark-skinned porter in a white jacket soon appeared and offered us refreshments. Within ten minutes, I could hear the car being coupled to another and felt the jolt as we began our journey.
We had no sooner begun to move than Tommy initiated a friendly inquisition of Holmes. He was clearly familiar with every detail of every story I had published. He quizzed Holmes, affecting the manner of an idolizing school boy. Holmes smiled and replied to his increasingly prying questions by appearing to give sincere, forthcoming answers while revealing nothing that had not already been told in the press or in The Strand. I found the dance of two sharp intellects to be utterly intriguing.
Half an hour later we stopped, and Tommy announced that we had arrived at Tokyo Central Station. Porters appeared as if from nowhere and carried our baggage to the Marunouchi side of the station and then Tommy led us the few blocks to the Imperial Hotel and checked us in.
Holmes and I shared a suite of splendidly furnished rooms and, after so many weeks of sleeping in a ship’s cabin, I was rather looking forward to a nap on the plush English bed, covered with thick, crisp Irish linens. With some difficulty, eventually reduced to bluntness, we shooed Tommy away and stretched out in our respective rooms. I enjoyed no more than the allotted forty winks when there was a knock on the door. I opened it, and a large young blond chap in the uniform of the Royal Marines was standing there, holding a diplomatic case. I invited the fellow in and bid him relax. He graciously refused and remained at attention. Holmes emerged, greeted the young man, and in a friendly manner inquired of his name and home county.
“Yes, sir. My name is Archibald Levenworth, sir. From North Yorkshire, sir. I am terribly sorry to disturb you Mr. Holmes, but I have to have you sign for this case. Would you mind, please, sir?”
“Of course not, Archie. What is it they say about Yorkshire? Ah, yes. You can always tell a Yorkshire man, but you can’t tell him much. That true, Archie?”
The big fellow broke into a grin. “Sir, I can only speak for my dear father and grandfather, who have spent their entire lives there, sir. And on their behalf, sir, yes, it is absolutely true.”
Holmes and I laughed, and he signed the form and bid our good-day to the strapping Marine. But both of us sensed that he was not eager to be off.
“Is there something else, my good man?” inquired Holmes.
“Well, sir, it is a bit embarrassing, but when I told my mates I was taking a case over to you, they all demanded that I have you and Dr. Watson sign their copies of The Strand or else they would give me what for when I returned. Would you mind, terribly, sir?”
“Of course, not,” said Holmes. From his satchel, Archie produced a stack of magazines and Holmes and I dutifully signed each of them on the page where my latest story was printed.
“Really,” said Holmes, “have you boys nothing else to do while guarding the Embassy but sit around and read sensationalized stories in magazines?”
“Well, sir, it is, you might say, a bit of all right, meaning that we get to stay in comfortable barracks, and eat good food, and are never in danger. But we were all trained very hard, sir, to fight for God and King Edward, and frankly, sir, it’s deadly boring.”
“Then may I wish you a nice gunfight someday soon,” said Holmes, giving the lad a clap on his shoulder and sending him on his way.
“Ah, yes, Watson,” he continued. “Let me see what we have here. What do you suppose my dear older brother has sent to us? Ah, ha. Just as I thought, a kindly telegram welcoming us to Japan. Here, read it.”
I did. It ran:
YOU HAVE HAD OVER THREE WEEKS TO LAZE AROUND. I NEED YOU TO GET TO WORK IMMEDIATELY, SHERLOCK. FIND OUT WHAT HAPPENED TO THE AMERICAN CHAP. WE NEED TO HAVE THE YANKS OWE US ONE. START BY TALKING TO THEIR SECOND SECRETARY, SMATHERS. HE IS OUR MAN IN THEIR LEGATION. REPORT BACK TO ME BY FRIDAY. MYCROFT.
“Just as I expected. Very well, then, my good doctor. Your nap has been unkindly cut short, and we shall read the files on the Deputy Head of the American Mission who, if I recall, was not a good swimmer.”
Chapter Four The Drowned American
HE OPENED THE CASE, extracted one of the files and began to read, passing each page to me when he had finished it.
The Deputy at the US Legation, a fellow named Julian Boulanger, hailed from somewhere in Maine and, with all odds against him, had graduated from Georgetown University in the nation’s capital with a degree in law. He had entered the Foreign Service upon receiving his degree and had served in Reykjavik, Ottawa, Stockholm, and Moscow, working his way up the diplomatic ladder with each move. He arrived in Japan in 1903 and, as he had learned to speak Russian while in Moscow, he was particularly adroit at dealing with the Russians before they were forced to vacate.
One morning just over a month ago he failed to show up for work. For several days, no one knew what had happened to him. Then a fisherman pulled his body out from under a pier on the Sumida River, not far from the Tsukiji Fish Market. It should have become a major issue between the Japanese and the Americans, but it never made the press in New York beyond a short paragraph bemoaning the tragic death of an American overseas by drowning while out for a swim.
The American Legation was in the Akasaka neighborhood of Tokyo, just south of the Diet and government ministry buildings. Holmes sent a note off to a Mr. Godfrey Smathers and had a very quick reply requesting that we come to see him in the morning.
“If we depart at an early hour,” suggested Holmes, “our eager young Rhodes scholar will not follow us. I suggest that we retire and give the poor boy cause for some minor distress.”
The following morning, very early, Secretary Smathers met us in a small izakaya not far from the US Legation. He was dressed in an American style business suit and was leaning against the backrest of the padded bench with a cigarette in one hand, and a glass of what I assumed was sake in the other. A brown wide-awake hat was on the bench beside him.
“Well, if it ain’t the famous Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. Let me guess; first time in Japan? Maybe even the first time working with diligent devoted spies. Ah, yes. I can see it is by just looking at you two. Well set yourselves down and have a drink. Once you acquire a taste for this sake concoction, it can become quite palatable. Let me pour you both one.”
He did not get up out of his seat to greet us and neither did he offer a handshake. He reached for the large bottle that was sitting beside him and poured two small glasses until they overflowed into the small dish in which they rested.
“So,” he continued, after raising his glass to us, “is it true that Sherlock Holmes is really the little brother of great-and-powerful Sir Mycroft. Who would of guessed?”
“And good morning to you as well, Mr. Smathers,” replied Holmes. “I believe that my familial relations are of no consequence to our meeting. I have been requested by His Majesty’s government to investigate the apparent murder of your Resident Minister, and I believe that you are being paid by His Majesty to assist me. Is that not correct, sir?”
Smathers smirked and scornfully repeated Holmes’s words. “Oh, jolly good, ‘Is that not correct, sir?’ Yes, jolly good indeed. Yeah, Holmes, I’m getting paid by your pompous big brother to help y
ou, so help you I will. Here’s all I know. Our American security boys, who are bloody good at their jobs even if you snotty Brits like to think otherwise, did a full investigation after we found our diplomat floating in the river. It turns out that our dear Julian, who had risen to second-in-command in this post, had a few unsavory habits that led him into places he should not have been. Every minute of his last week on earth was tracked down, and our boy spent a few too many of them in the company of a lovely geisha. One of the loveliest in all of Tokyo, in fact. And since she was so lovely, she was also the prize belonging of a General Ishiwara, who had a reputation for being one very tough SOB who did not like sharing his toys. And arrogant little Julian, who thought he was the smartest fellow at the post, got himself caught in flagrante delicto and was duly dealt with in such a manner, it was obvious, as to be a lesson to any other American, or Brit for that matter if they were capable of it, who might be making eyes at a local geisha. And that, Mr. Holmes, is what happened. Kind of delicate, right? So are you surprised that we did not want it splashed all over the press?”
“Not surprising at all,” replied Holmes in a friendly tone. “But, my dear chap, you know what a nasty old bear my brother can be. And if that is all I can put in my report, I will have my head bitten quite off. So I must ask you to do me the favor of allowing me to inspect your Mr. Boulanger’s residence and belongings and at least make it look as if I did my homework. Would you mind terribly making that arrangement for me?”
I sensed that Holmes knew right well that his polite request of Smathers could not be refused if the American wished to remain in the good graces of Mycroft and, more important, retain his generous stipend from London. Smathers glared at Holmes but held his tongue, eventually nodding his compliance.
Sherlock Holmes Never Dies- Collection Four Page 25
