Assassin's Touch (15 page)

“How are you going to answer it?” Kanai asked.

“I think I’ll take a journey into the past,” Reiko answered.

13

Temple bells boomed in a dissonant music across Edo, heralding noon. Colorful kites spangled the sunlit sky above the rooftops. On the street children played with broken spears dropped by warriors fallen during a clash between rebel outlaws and the army. Inside Edo Castle, Sano sat in his office, interviewing people who’d had contact with Chief Ejima in the two days before his death. He’d already spoken with the guests from the banquet as well as Ejima’s subordinates at
metsuke
headquarters. Now he dismissed the last of the men who’d had private appointments with Ejima. He turned to Detectives Marume and Fukida, who knelt near his desk.

“Well, this has certainly turned up enough potential suspects,” Sano said.

Fukida consulted notes he’d taken during the interviews. “We’ve got subordinates who were mad at Ejima because he was promoted over them. We’ve got the new
metsuke
chief, who benefited from his death. We’ve got names of men who were demoted or executed because of flimsy evidence that he brought against them, who left sons and retainers eager for blood.”

“He had lots of enemies,” said Marume, “even though they won’t admit knowing
dim-mak
. Any of them could have sneaked up on Ejima and touched him.”

“Everybody claims he’s innocent, as we might have predicted,” Fukida said. “Almost all of them dropped hints that incriminated somebody else. There are so many feuds left over from the war that I’m not surprised to hear people accusing each other.”

Sano was troubled because already the murder was fueling political strife that could lead to another war, and he was no closer to solving the case. “Too many suspects are as bad as too few. And we’ve had neither sight nor word of Captain Nakai, our best candidate.”

“I wonder why it’s taking so long to locate him,” Fukida said. “He should be on duty at his post in the Edo Castle main guard station.”

“Shall we start tracking down Ejima’s informants?” Marume asked.

Sano’s principal aide peeked in the door. “Excuse me, Honorable Chamberlain. The
sōsakan-sama
is here to see you.”

When Hirata entered the office, Sano was again dismayed at how ill he looked. He saw sympathy, quickly veiled, on Marume’s and Fukida’s faces as Hirata awkwardly knelt and bowed. But the most they all could do was ignore Hirata’s condition.

“What have you to report?” Sano said.

“Good news,” Hirata said, weary but satisfied. “I’ve investigated the deaths of Court Supervisor Ono, Highway Commissioner Sasamura Tomoya, and Treasury Minister Moriwaki. And I’ve discovered a suspect.” He described his visit to the bathhouse where Moriwaki had died.

Sano leaned forward, elated. “Now we know that at least one of those men was killed by
dim-mak
.”

“It’s not too far a stretch to believe that so were the others,” Fukida said.

“And Captain Nakai’s name has come up again.” Sano told Hirata that Nakai had had a private appointment with Ejima. “Now we know he had contact with two victims.”

“Captain Nakai might have accosted the other men on the street, too.” Hirata seemed proud that he’d linked the cases and turned up evidence against the primary suspect.

Sano was moved and pained by how much Hirata still wanted his approval, after everything he’d been through for Sano’s sake. “It’s more important than ever to find Captain Nakai.”

“Something else has come up that I should mention,” Hirata said. “Police Commissioner Hoshina is after your blood.”

Sano frowned. “Again?”

Hirata described his encounter with Hoshina at the bathhouse.

“Many thanks for the warning,” Sano said.

“What should we do about that scoundrel?” Marume said.

“If I were like my predecessor, I would have his head cut off. But I’m not, so there isn’t much we can do until he makes his move, and it’s more important than ever to solve this case fast. If we don’t, Hoshina will have more ammunition to use against me.”

Young Detective Tachibana rushed into the office. “Excuse me, Honorable Chamberlain. I’ve found out where Captain Nakai is. He didn’t show up for duty today, so I went to his house. His wife said he went to the sumo tournament. Shall I go fetch him?”

“Good work. But I’ll go myself.” Sano rose, stretching muscles cramped from sitting. “It’ll save time.”

Hirata, Marume, and Fukida rose to accompany him. Sano noticed how stiffly Hirata moved. “If you have other important business, you’re excused,” Sano said, giving Hirata a graceful way out of a long, uncomfortable ride.

“I’ve nothing else as important as this,” Hirata said staunchly. “And I want to see what Captain Nakai has to say.”

Although glad for his company, Sano experienced fresh guilt. “Very well.”

The sumo tournaments were held at the Eko-in Temple in Honjo district, across the Sumida River. Sano and Hirata rode with Detectives Marume, Fukida, Arai, Inoue, and Tachibana along the canals that veined Honjo. They passed vegetable markets, residences of minor samurai officials, a few Tokugawa warehouses and the suburban villas of
daimyo
, the feudal lords. Smoke rose and heat shimmered from kilns where ceramic roof tiles were baked. Through the streets marched men who beat a huge drum, announcing the sumo tournament. Sano heard a deeper, louder pulse from the drum in the tall scaffold outside the temple. Crowds streamed toward its gates, which loomed ahead.

Eko-in Temple had been built thirty-eight years ago, after the Great Fire of Meireki, to commemorate the hundred thousand people who’d died in the disaster. Its grounds contained the city’s official wrestling arena. Sumo had evolved from a Shinto fertility rite to popular entertainment. Since the beginning of the Tokugawa regime almost a century ago, there had been periodic edicts banning sumo because it was violent, bloody, and often fatal. But the authorities had realized that sumo served a purpose. It gave
rōnin
a place in society, and the officially sanctioned, tightly regulated tournaments gave society a way to blow off steam. Sano noted that the crowds seemed bigger than usual after the war.

He and his men left their horses at a stable and walked into the arena, a vast, open-air space. From its walls extended double tiers of balconies covered with bamboo canopies. The lower tiers were already full of people; newcomers climbed ladders to the upper levels. In the center stood the ring, defined by four pillars with cords strung between them. Thousands more spectators sat crammed together on the ground, pressed up against the ring. Straw rice bales filled with clay had been placed around it to keep the wrestling area clear. Referees and judges knelt at its edge. Vendors selling refreshments waded through the crowds.

“How are we ever going to find Captain Nakai in this?” Hirata asked as he and Sano scanned the noisy, chaotic arena.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Sano said.

The drumbeats quickened. Into the ring paraded the wrestlers. Their naked chests and limbs bulged with muscle and fat. They wore ceremonial fringe and silk ropes around their waists, and brocade aprons that sported the family crests of the lords of Kishu, Izumo, Sanuki, Awa, Karima, Sendai, or Nambu. Those lords recruited wrestlers for their private stables. Sano noticed larger teams than usual: The war had created more
rōnin
, who swelled the ranks of the sumo wrestlers.

The audience cheered as the wrestlers threw down salt to purify their sacred battlefield. They stamped their feet and clapped their hands to show off their strength and drive off evil spirits. A referee held up placards bearing their names. Gazing up at the balconies, Sano noticed a strange phenomenon. The top tiers were packed except for a vacant spot directly opposite the ring. In its middle sat a lone samurai.

“There he is,” Sano said, pointing.

He and his men jostled through the mob; they scaled a ladder. As they edged along the balcony, past the audience who knelt on its floor, a group of commoners seated themselves in the empty space around Captain Nakai.

“You’re too close,” he said. “Move.” His voice was belligerent, threatening. The commoners hastily decamped.

Sano had seen Nakai only once before—at a ceremony after the war, when the victorious army had paraded before Lord Matsudaira, carrying the severed heads of slain enemy troops—but Nakai had made a memorable impression. With his tall, athletic build and noble manner, he epitomized the warrior race.

Although Nakai was in his thirties, past his prime, Sano had easily imagined him single-handedly killing forty-eight men in battle. But today he sat idle, dressed in a brown silk robe, trousers, and surcoat instead of armor; his posture was slouched instead of proudly upright. Discontent shadowed his strong, carven features as he stared down at the ring.

“Captain Nakai?” Sano said.

Nakai turned. Recognition cleared the glum look from his face as he beheld Sano and Hirata. “Honorable Chamberlain.
Sōsakan-sama
.” He bowed, alert and animated. “Please sit down.” With a smile that showed broad white teeth, he offered them the space he’d kept clear.

“Many thanks,” Sano said. He and Hirata and their men sat.

“Are you fond of sumo?” Nakai said.

“Yes,” Sano said, “but that’s not why we’re here. We came to talk to you.”

“Me?” Nakai sounded awed and confused. Seeing him at close range, Sano noticed a flaw in his perfection. It was his eyes. Their expression lacked something—perhaps not so much intelligence as self-possession. “But why… how did you know to find me here?”

When Sano told him, Nakai’s face reddened. “Well, I know I should be at my post, but it’s not as if I’m really needed there. Besides, making up duty rosters and inspecting troops is dull work compared to fighting a battle.”

Sano knew that many soldiers had had problems readjusting to ordinary life after the war; they were restless, inclined to brawl among themselves and drink too much. But he didn’t care for Nakai’s attitude. Hirata and the detectives looked askance at Nakai: Samurai were supposed to follow orders and not complain.

“After all I’ve done for Lord Matsudaira, I deserve more.” Nakai obviously thought his accomplishments entitled him to a reward, even though his lord didn’t owe him a thing for doing his duty. He seemed unaware of his audience’s disapproval. “Many men who killed fewer enemy troops than I did have been promoted, but not me.” Bitterness colored his tone. “My family has distant cousins who fought on Yanagisawa’s side. I’m tainted by bad blood, through no fault of my own.”

Sano thought that was possible, for political ties mattered. But most likely Nakai’s superiors had passed him over in favor of men less skilled at combat with better social graces, who had the sense not to show themselves in a bad light to the shogun’s second-in-command.

“I’ve been a faithful servant to Lord Matsudaira. All I want is for him to recognize that. I don’t care about a bigger stipend.” Nakai donned a noble, martyred air. “All I ask is a chance to serve Lord Matsudaira in a higher capacity, where I can do even more for him than I already have.”

Sano seized the opening in his tirade: “Now is your chance. Lord Matsudaira has ordered me to investigate the death of Chief Ejima. I would appreciate your help.”

“Of course,” Nakai said, disconcerted; he obviously hadn’t expected to get his wish in this way. “What can I do for you?”

Below the balcony, across the audience that covered the ground, the wrestlers finished their ritual and marched out of the ring. The announcer shouted the names of the wrestlers who would fight the first match. The drums clamored. Two massive wrestlers, stripped to their loincloths, crouched at opposite ends of the ring. Anticipation stirred the crowds.

“I’m questioning everyone who came in contact with Ejima shortly before he died,” Sano began. “The records show that you had a private appointment with him.”

Nakai frowned as though trying to figure out the point of the conversation. “Yes, I asked Ejima to help me get a promotion. He was close to Lord Matsudaira, and I thought he could put in a good word for me.”

“What happened?”

Anger glinted in Nakai’s eyes. “Ejima said no. It was just a little favor, and he could have done it with no trouble to himself. People use their influence for other people all the time—that’s how one gets ahead in the
bakufu.
But Ejima said he didn’t know me well enough to recommend me to Lord Matsudaira. He said if I wanted to rise in the world, I had a lot to learn. Then he kicked me out.”

Sano had met many men like Nakai, good at their jobs but stuck in low ranks because they were grossly inept at politics. They didn’t understand the subtle techniques of courting friendship and placing other men under their obligation. They needed to learn that if one wanted favors from strangers, one had better have something to hold over their heads.

“Ejima was the same as the other men I asked for help,” Nakai said bitterly. “They all treated me as if I were a dog who’d pissed on their shoes!”

Hirata said, “Was Treasury Minister Moriwaki one of them?”

“…Yes, I did talk to him.”

“At the bathhouse?”

Scowling, Nakai nodded. “He wouldn’t give me an appointment. I had to follow him around until I caught him off guard.”

“What happened?” Hirata asked.

“He said he couldn’t help me; it was up to my superior officer to decide whether I should be promoted. He told me to go away.” Nakai’s temper erupted; he pounded the balcony so hard it shook. “The nerve of those old snobs! They all got their new, high positions after Lord Matsudaira defeated Yanagisawa. None of them would be where they are, if not for men like me.” He thumped his chest. “I fought in the battle while they hid at home. And now they won’t throw me a crumb from their banquet!”

Sano had to agree that Nakai had a legitimate gripe. Hundreds of troops had died, and men who’d never blooded their own swords had reaped the benefits. Sano thought of more men besides Ejima and Moriwaki—and himself—who fit that description. “Did you ask Court Supervisor Ono and Highway Commissioner Sasamura for their help?”