The Convict's Sword (19 page)

Tora thought. “She’d hardly be working with a gang. If she knows the killer, he wasn’t a thug. Maybe we’re looking in the wrong place.”

Akitada sighed. “We must find her. Whatever she knows is both secret and dangerous. As soon as I can get away from the office I’ll go back and talk to the neighbors again. This time I’ll ask about a young woman who is probably married and part of a family in that quarter. Meanwhile, you’d better see Ihara and then go into the city. Good luck!”

Tora spent the best part of the morning looking for Lieutenant Ihara. Tora’s poor clothes were no help in getting information from the constables. Finally, one of them sent him to the Eastern Prison. When Tora got there, a guard recognized him and, unaware that Tora had been released, thought he was escaping and tried to throw him back into a cell. The confusion was finally cleared up, but not until Tora had gathered more bruises. Ihara was not there and was not expected.

In an increasingly rebellious mood Tora retraced his steps.

This time he took up his stand in the courtyard of police headquarters and asked every red-coat passing by for Ihara. They ignored him until a burly sergeant came to investigate. “If they told you he’s not here, that’s where he is,” said the sergeant with confusing logic. “We’re too busy to talk to every lout who walks in here with questions. Go away or I’ll have you thrown out.”

Perhaps he would have been treated better if he had worn his neat blue robe and black cap, but that had proved a distinct disadvantage when dealing with the criminal classes. Tora retreated to the gate and fumed helplessly, until he saw Kobe arriving. The red-coats stood to attention, and Tora blocked his way.

“Sir,” he cried, bowing to the superintendent. “I wonder if
you
might help me.”

A collective gasp went around the constables. Two of them jumped forward, shouting, “Your pardon, Honorable Superintendent,” and grabbed Tora to drag him away.

Tora shook them off. “You see,” he said to Kobe, “all of these bas—er, constables—claim they don’t know where Lieutenant Ihara is, which is surely a strange thing in a well-run police department. I wouldn’t trouble you, but my master insisted. They’ve already sent me clear across town to the Eastern Prison. When I got there, no Ihara, but the guards tried to lock me up again. And just now the sergeant told me to get lost.”

Eight or ten grim-faced policemen with metal prongs and chains moved in on Tora. They waited for the order to seize the troublemaker and teach him some manners.

But instead Kobe put a hand on Tora’s shoulder in the friendliest manner and said, “Well, let’s see what I can do for you, Tora.” The policemen looked at each other and retreated a few steps. They hid their weapons and pretended to form a sort of honor guard through which the two men passed.

In the courtyard, the plump sergeant hurried toward them. Kobe said loudly, “I’m surprised that you had difficulties. Most of our men are well-trained. They know that I expect them to treat everybody with courtesy and to show eagerness when assisting the public.”

The sergeant stopped. Tora saw his sheepish face and grinned. “That’s good to know, sir. If I need a job, I might want to give your sort of work a try. I’ve got a certain talent for it, and you could use able people. Seeing as there are so many bandits loose in the city.”

Inside the building, Kobe sent for Lieutenant Ihara and then invited Tora to sit down and explain his talents to him.

Tora looked around Kobe’s large and well-appointed office, noting with approval that a constable appeared quickly with hot wine, and that another policeman asked if he should take notes. His master’s imminent loss of employment had quite determined him to find a job, and police work might be the very thing. He enjoyed investigating crimes, and heaven knew, Kobe must be desperate to replace the dolts outside. That brilliant red uniform was nothing to sneeze at either. Girls liked that sort of thing.

So he took a deep breath and began with his strong physique, moved on to his military service, glossing over the fact that he had been summarily cashiered for insulting his superior, and outlined with great satisfaction his adventures during his service to Akitada. Tora was not given to modesty, though he stopped short of outright lies.

When he was done, a straight-faced Kobe said, “You are a most amazing person, Tora. I don’t think we have a position worthy of your talents.”

Tora waved the objection away. “Never mind. I’ll be glad to make myself available as a consultant or advisor whenever you have a tricky killer or a case your people can’t solve. I expect there are many such, enough to keep me busy. But at the moment I have Tomoe’s murder to solve. Maybe we’ll talk again some other time?”

Kobe choked and was still coughing when Lieutenant Ihara entered and saluted. Tora and Ihara exchanged slight nods.

“Tora was looking for you,” Kobe informed the lieutenant. “He plans to begin his investigation into the blind singer’s murder today and thought you might share your findings with him.”

Ihara’s jaw dropped. For a moment, he looked both shocked and disgusted. Then his face congealed. “I was under the impression, sir,” he said stiffly, “that this man is a suspect in the case and under house arrest.”

“Tora was placed in the custody of Lord Sugawara until the investigation is complete. There’s a difference. In fact, it was Lord Sugawara who sent Tora to you.”

“But, sir, the training manual,
Instructions to Officers of the Metropolitan Police,
states specifically that details of an ongoing investigation must not be shared with the public, let alone the accused.”

Kobe’s fingers gently tapped the desk. “Judge Masakane instructed Lord Sugawara to assist in this investigation. That changes the situation, because the
Instructions
also remind you to follow legal procedures as outlined by a proper judge. Lord Sugawara is busy at his ministry during the absence of his superior and has delegated a part of the work to Tora. Tora assures me that he has experience in criminal investigations and is eager to assist. Now, do you have any other objections, or can I get on with more pressing business?”

Ihara blanched. “None, sir.” He bowed, then nodded to Tora and headed out the door.

Tora looked after him and made a face. “Thanks for your confidence in me, sir. I wasn’t really looking forward to this even before the lieutenant expressed his feelings, but my master asked me to do it, so I suppose I’d better.” He got to his feet and bowed.

Kobe smiled. “Good man!”

Ihara was waiting outside. “Follow me,” he snapped.

They passed through the main hall and out into the courtyard. Constables saluted Ihara and stared at Tora. Ihara entered a low barracks and took Tora to a tiny office which contained little more than a battered bamboo shelf stacked with papers, and a small, stained writing desk with brushes and a worn inkstone.

“Sit!” Ihara pointed to a small grass mat near the writing table.

Suppressing a sigh, Tora obeyed. “If you could just fill me in about anything that didn’t come out during the hearing, I’ll be on my way. I’m thinking about that lacquer box, for example. Any success tracing it?”

Ihara had a sheaf of notes in his hand and frowned down at them. Turning abruptly to Tora, he asked, “Can you read?”

Tora only looked at him and extended his hand. The truth was that his reading skills remained poor, but he was not about to give this arrogant bastard of a police officer the satisfaction of admitting it. He looked through the paperwork, an assortment of notes taken down by different people. Some seemed to be interviews, transcribed by police department scribes and fairly legible, but many were notes dashed off by Ihara and other policemen. Tora pursed his lips. “These,” he said, holding up some of the latter, “are badly written.”

Ihara flushed. “We are very busy and must often note things down in a great hurry and without adequate equipment or light. The one on top concerns the box.”

“Ah,” murmured Tora and tried to read it. “What is that bit about Nara?”

Ihara snatched the paper from his hand and scanned it. “Oh, that. It’s nothing. Lord Sugawara wanted me to find out where the box came from, in case she had stolen it somewhere. We’ve asked all the lacquerers here, but nobody recognized it. What’s more, they didn’t think it was local work. This one man said he thought it had been made by someone called Tameyoshi in Nara. But they all agreed it was very fine and must’ve cost a lot of money. Clearly stolen.”

Tora glared. “Not by Tomoe. Maybe it was a present from that family she visited.”

Ihara gave a shout of laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who would give a blind woman an expensive cosmetics box? For singing a few songs?”

Tora shook his head stubbornly. “There’s bound to be an explanation. Tomoe didn’t steal and she wasn’t a whore.”

“Maybe she was no whore. I’m inclined to believe her landlady was lying about that. Let’s face it, with those pockmarks, she’d have had a hard time giving it away.”

Tora flared up, “Watch your tongue! She had more class than you and I together. It’s not her fault she was poor and blind and had a few scars on her face. I thought you people were supposed to protect us, not drag our names into the mud when we can’t help ourselves any longer. The superintendent said so.”

Ihara bit his lip. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He stared at Tora. “It hadn’t occurred to me that you and she . . . might’ve been close.”

Tora scowled, his fist clenching around the papers. He decided that he would not tell Ihara about the nun who was no nun. In fact, he had no intention of sharing any information with the man, now or ever.

“Here! Watch what you’re doing. I need those,” yelped Ihara, pointing at the papers.

Tora eased his grip and smoothed out the crumpled sheets. He glanced at the rest quickly, then handed them back to Ihara and got up.

“Well? See anything interesting?” Ihara asked.

“If there is, you should know.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“Talk to people.” Tora made for the door.

“Be sure to report to me.”

Tora grunted and let the door slam behind him.

He hoped he would never have to lay eyes on Ihara again. No wonder women were attacked on the street in broad daylight and hoodlums dared to lift their hands against his master. With the exception of Kobe—Tora was willing to give the superintendent the benefit of the doubt—the police were incompetent, ignorant, and lacking in manners. He no longer wished to join their ranks and hoped Ihara would make a fool of himself.

Tora strode out briskly, so infuriated by his encounter with the snooty lieutenant that he was oblivious to his surroundings until he passed through the market gateway and was greeted by the sights, sounds, and smells of the place. People bustled about or bargained, shop boys cried out their wares, and on dozens of small stoves simmered soups, filled dumplings, and fried fish. Dodging shoppers, vendors, and merchandise, Tora made for the tower.

Tomoe’s place had been taken by the soothsayer who used to occupy one of the steps on the other side. Draped in a colorful new shawl, he seemed to be doing a good business in his new, elevated location. Tora did not like the speed with which he had taken Tomoe’s place, but he knew well enough that in this world of commerce each vacancy was instantly filled by some other creature trying to scrape up enough coppers for a day’s food, while hoping to make his fortune before it was too late.

Tora preferred an honest death in battle to this futile struggle in the marketplace. Even a farmer could die contented, knowing that he had grown rice for his own family and many others besides. Poor Tomoe had gained nothing from her struggle. Tora wondered how she had managed to get her choice location. He walked around the tower. The soothsayer’s place was now taken by an amulet seller in a pilgrim’s straw hat and white robe. He was doing an even better business than the fortune-teller. Tora looked around for other regulars. There was that filthy piece of dung, the beggar, pulling at the clothes of one of the amulet seller’s customers. And the storyteller had his usual group of wide-eyed maids with young children in tow. Tora walked past a straw sandal maker who was measuring the feet of a boy as his mother haggled over the price. Beside him a young girl was selling paper fans. He didn’t see the noodle soup man at his corner across from the tower, but it was still early in the day. The
mochi
seller was just coming into view, moving through the crowd of shoppers with his large basket of rice dumplings strapped to his back, calling out, “Sweet dumplings, savory dumplings, fresh dumplings, bean paste dumplings.”

The sun was high and many hours had passed since Tora’s morning rice. He decided to treat himself to a dumpling while asking a few questions. The
mochi
man in his short pants and jacket had a prematurely lined face, and his arms and legs were sinewy and brown from walking around the market all day and kneading dough and baking his dumplings at night. His lean face broke into a smile when he saw Tora. He stopped his chant and swung the heavy basket down to the ground.