Rashomon Gate (24 page)

Hirata flushed guiltily. "That is not true," he blustered. "Oe and I were not exactly friends, but we were certainly on speaking terms."

"Hmm," said Kobe thoughtfully. "I have an idea that something was wrong with that examination. And then there is the matter of Oe's new summerhouse." He shook his head. "It smells of blackmail, and blackmail makes a very good motive for murder."

Hirata had turned absolutely white and was grasping his chest. He gaped at Kobe in horror and gasped, "Are you accusing me of having Oe killed?"

Akitada snapped, "That is absolutely ridiculous!" But he knew that Kobe's mistake made it impossible now to tell him of the note. It would be interpreted as a desperate attempt to put the blame on a dead man.

The captain looked pleased. "Let's say I am considering possibilities. Of course," he said, studying his fingernails, "Hirata's not young or strong enough to accomplish it unaided, but then he has an assistant who certainly is." And now he looked fully at Akitada.

Hirata was scrambling to his feet, crying, "It is outrageous to suggest such a thing . . . all lies!"Then he groaned, his legs buckled, and he collapsed. Akitada jumped up to go to his aid. Hirata's face was covered in perspiration and his lips were turning blue.

"What is it, sir?" Akitada asked, slipping his arm under the older man's head. "Shall I send for a doctor?"

Kobe said, "A convenient spell. I expect the good professor will recover as soon as I leave."

Hirata twitched in Akitada's arms, muttering, "No. It's nothing. It'll pass." But he was still gasping for air, though a little color was seeping back into his face.

"Calm yourself, sir," Akitada said through clenched teeth as he helped Hirata sit upright. "The captain is playing with us, like a fisherman who hopes to catch his fish by dangling a special bait before him. Hardly what one would expect of a gentleman, of course, but the police evidently have their own methods." He gave Kobe a furious look.

Kobe bared his teeth in a nasty smile, then got up. "I told you," he said, "I have eliminated no one. You may both go home now, but do not leave the city."

Pleased with his kite-flying success, Tora left the university for his second assignment. It occurred to him belatedly that he had spent far more time playing children's games than was justifiable for an investigator of crimes, particularly since he also hoped to look in on Michiko. Although his grumbling stomach reminded him that it was time for his evening rice, he ignored the hunger pangs and his aching legs and walked briskly to the sixth ward where he asked directions to the house of the umbrella maker Hishiya.

The light was fading, but he found the street easily. The poorer sort of artisans lived and worked here. Small, narrow houses were crammed together, eaves touching eaves. Tora knew such places well. Behind this block of houses would be a bit of open ground, sometimes made into a tiny garden, but most often just an alley collecting debris and starving dogs.

He saw the umbrella maker's sign, but walked past the house, getting a general impression of the neighborhood and hoping for a bit of gossip with one of the neighbors. He had reached the end of the block without seeing a soul— most people would be eating— when he heard a door opening and then the angry voice of a woman and a cry of pain. When he turned to look, he saw that a small servant girl had come from the umbrella maker's house and was scurrying off with a big basket on her arm. In the doorway stood a buxom female, shaking her fist.

Tora waited until the woman had gone back inside and then ran after the little maid. He caught up with her at the next corner.

"Good evening, little sister," he cried, falling into step beside her.

The little girl— she could be no more than ten or eleven years old— jumped and turned a tear-stained, homely face up to him. She was a pale and very thin child, and her eyes were filled with fear. "Excuse me, sir," she whispered, "I must hurry," and started to run.

"Wait!" Tora persisted, lengthening his stride and straining his sore muscles. "I'll walk with you. You work for the umbrella maker, don't you?"

She slowed down. "Yes," she said, looking up at him uncertainly. Seeing his friendly smile, she relaxed a little.

"I'm sorry if I frightened you, little sister," Tora told her. "I heard you cry out. Was that your mistress?"

Fresh tears rose to her eyes and welled over. She wiped them away with a grimy hand, leaving black smudges behind, and nodded. "She always beats me," she said. "I really try to do the work, but I am small and get tired easily, and I'm always hungry. I think if she'd give me more food, I'd be stronger."

The words had poured forth in one gulp and ended in a sob. Tora felt in his sleeve for his coppers. "Look, I haven't had my evening rice yet. How about you and me having a bowl of noodle soup together?"

The plain, bony face lit up, but she shook her head. "I daren't," she said. "I'm to fetch the vegetables for their dinner. She'll beat me even worse if I'm late."

"Come," said Tora, taking her small, sticky hand in one of his and relieving her of the large basket with the other. "I was on my way to see your master. I'll explain when we get back."

They walked to a neighborhood vegetable market near a small temple. Tora supervised the purchase, making sure she got the largest radish and the freshest mushrooms, before stopping a noodle vendor and ordering two large bowls of the hot soup.

The man carefully lowered his bamboo pole with the kettle and basket of bowls suspended at each end and ladled out two steaming servings of broth thick with fat noodles and bits of vegetables.

"Now let's eat. And take your time!" Tora told the frail child. "I'll speak to your master when we get back."

"Oh, the master's not home yet. Just the mistress and her guest. "The girl stared at the food hungrily and licked her lips. Watching her, Tora was reminded of the little lord. They were about the same age, at the extremes of a rigid class system— but both were sad, lonely and fearful. His own life had been hard, but at least he had never lacked love or the joys of childhood play.

"Never mind. Eat!" he said gruffly.

They sat on the steps of the temple. It almost took Tora's appetite away to see how she gobbled her food. He waited until she was done and then asked, "Does your master beat you too?"

She shook her head. "Oh, no! He's kind, but during the day he goes to the big market to sell his umbrellas and I stay with her. Sometimes in the evening, he asks me if I get enough to eat or where I got a bruise, but she's always there and she looks at me like a devil, so I say 'yes' and 'I fell down the stairs.' And she says I'm a clumsy, stupid girl and she has to do all the work herself because he cannot afford to hire decent servants."

"And your parents?"

"My father's dead, and my mother couldn't keep me. Not with five younger ones to feed."

"Hmm." Tora poured the rest of his noodles into her bowl. "I'm not very hungry," he lied. When she had finished his portion also, he asked, "Don't the Hishiyas have a grown daughter? How about talking to her?"

"She got murdered a couple of days ago," said the little girl in a matter-of-fact tone. No doubt, her own troubles overshadowed any concern for others. "She was never home, anyway. Only to sleep, and sometimes not even that. She was the master's daughter. The mistress is his second wife."

"I expect they were very sad when they found out," said Tora.

"Well, Master cried." She took his bowl and stacked it into her own. "But not her!" She spat. "When he was gone she danced a little dance and sang all day long."

"Really? Was there bad blood between them?"

The girl nodded. "They quarreled all the time. Master would leave to get away from them."

"What did they quarrel about?"

"The young miss had pretty things, and the mistress was forever borrowing them. The young miss didn't like it. And then the young miss would talk about the guests, and the mistress would get very angry."

Tora pricked up his ears. "Your master had many visitors?"

"Not the master." She stood up and took the bowls back to the vendor. When she returned, she said, "We must go now. Thank you very much for the good noodles." Reaching for the basket with the vegetables, she added, "I feel much stronger now and can carry the basket very well."

"Not on your life," said Tora, snatching the basket away. "How would it look if a strong young fellow like me let a little lady like you carry such a very large radish by herself?"

She giggled. "I'm no lady. And you shouldn't be carrying vegetables, sir," she protested.

"I'm not proud. Come, we'll chat as we walk. What about those guests?"

She suddenly looked wise beyond her years. "Oh, they come to see the mistress. There's one at the house now. She says they're cousins from her village, but I've seen them around town."

Tora whistled a few notes of a popular salacious ditty, then asked, "And the daughter? Did she entertain guests, too?"

"Oh, no. The mistress would not have allowed it. She was that jealous of Miss Omaki. Specially when Miss Omaki started getting all the presents from her gentleman."

Tora looked down at the little maid fondly. What a very useful child she was! "Was she going to get married then? What sort of fellow was her betrothed?"

The term puzzled the girl. "Her betrothed? I don't know that word. I've never seen Miss Omaki's gentleman. The mistress only called Miss Omaki names, like 'slut' and 'whore.' I know what those mean, and I don't think she would've done that if Miss Omaki was about to get married, do you?"

"No, I expect not. Well, here we are!" Tora paused before the umbrella maker's house and looked it over. "Did they give you Miss Omaki's room?" he asked.

"Oh, no. I sleep in the kitchen. Miss Omaki's room is upstairs in the back. The mistress has locked it up, because Miss Omaki's things are still in it." The little girl looked nervously at the upper part of the house. "I don't go up there. A dead person's spirit stays in the house for forty-nine days and nights, and I bet Miss Omaki's spirit is angry the mistress is wearing her things."

Tora felt his own hair bristle. He wished the girl had not mentioned spirits. "Well, come on," he said gruffly.

The little maid gave him an anxious look. "You will talk to her so she won't beat me again? You promised."

"Yes."

She took the basket and opened the door. They stepped into the dark front room of the house. The little maid struck a flint and lit an oil lamp. The room was deeper than it was wide. To their left was a kitchen area. Its floor was bare earth and the customary two plaster ovens with their rice steamers were built into the side wall of the house. A fire under one of the steamers was nearly out. The girl exclaimed and, dropping her basket, she ran to put more wood on and to blow at the glowing embers.

On the right side, a raised wooden platform held neat stacks of materials for making umbrellas. Bamboo shafts, rolls of oiled and painted paper, pots of glue, hemp and dried grasses for tying were all kept in tidy bundles and rows. On one side lay a pile of half-finished umbrellas.

In the back, a steep stairway climbed by way of stacked storage cabinets to a loft, and beyond this a narrow passage led to the rear. There was no one about.

"Oh, mistress?" shouted the girl, rising from her efforts with a fresh coat of ashes and soot on her pinched face. Her voice echoed from the smoke-blackened ceiling rafters.

"What do you want?" a shrill voice responded from somewhere beyond the stairs. "You're late! Get busy with those vegetables!"

"There's someone to see you," cried the girl.

After a moment's silence, there was the sound of a door and some whispered conversation. The door slid shut, and soft steps padded towards them.

"You should have said so right away, girl!" said the lady of the house, emerging from the dark passage into the faint light. She pulled some shimmering yellow garment around her and peered towards Tora uncertainly. He stepped forward into the light and bowed. Taking in his neat blue cotton robe with its black belt, and then his broad shoulders and slim hips, his handsome face and his neatly tied hair, she reached up to touch her own hair. "Oh!"

Tora eyed her with equal interest. The yellow garment seemed to be a fancy embroidered jacket, and she wore it over a thin under robe. She appeared to be in her thirties, her face somewhat coarse but not unattractive, and her body well-padded.

She asked, "Would the honored gentleman like to order an umbrella?" and came towards him with mincing steps, swinging her hips from side to side. Pointing to the platform, she said, "Please to be seated, while I get the patterns." Slipping dirty feet out of straw sandals, she stepped onto the platform to lay out a cushion for Tora. As she bent, he could see that she was naked under her robe.

"Do not trouble," said Tora, tearing his eyes away from her heavy breasts and seating himself on the edge of the platform. He gave her an admiring smile, showing off his white teeth, and said, "I came to speak to your husband, ma'am, but on another matter. Your little maid was kind enough to show me the way. I'm afraid I made her late, because I had some business to take care of first."

The woman waved the apology aside, saying, "Please don't worry! There is plenty of time. But my husband will be late." She glanced nervously at the darkness outside the window, then smiled at Tora and asked, "Can I be of some assistance?"

"Ah." Tora stroked his small mustache and eyed the lady appreciatively. "It is my very good luck to find his beautiful lady instead."

"Oh!" She batted her eyes and touched her hair again. "I'm afraid you caught me at my worst. I was taking a nap."

"You look elegant. Your husband is a lucky man. At least he shows his appreciation!" Tora touched the hem of the yellow jacket admiringly.

"Oh, this? My husband didn't give that to me. He's an old man who has no interest in such things. Besides he barely scrapes together enough to put food on the table. I married beneath my station." She noticed the little maid, who was still standing there, clutching the basket of vegetables and watching the exchange open-mouthed. "How filthy you are, girl! Go wash your face!" she cried. "And get on with the laundry while you're at it!"