Lifting a curtain, Sano peered inside. The store was divided lengthwise into two sections. On the left, clerks wrote up orders and calculated prices on their abacuses at desks ranged along an aisle that extended to the back of the building. Separated from this aisle by a wall of cabinets was the showroom, where shelves held rolls of colorful cloth, sample garments hung from the ceiling, and clerks conferred with customers. Sano decided he would pretend to browse until the senior clerk, an elderly white-haired hunchback, became available. Renowned for his gossip and garrulity, he would be the most likely employee to know and report on his master’s doings.

“Sōsakan-sama. Wait!”

Already inside the shop, Sano winced at the sound of his title, shouted from down the street. He hoped that his pursuer wouldn’t follow, and that his plain garments and lack of response would preserve his anonymity. But to his dismay, the man rushed in after him, demanding loudly, “Is it true that there were witnesses to the Zōjō Temple murder?” A young newsseller dressed in cotton kimono and headband, he wore at his waist a pouch that bulged with coins from the sale of the broadsheets he carried. “Has someone actually seen the ghost?”

“Go away!” Sano hissed. “And stop spreading ghost stories- you’re scaring people.”

The newsseller stood his ground. “It’s my job to bring my customers the news.”

Sano touched his sword, and the newsseller hurried out the door. But the damage was done. Business ceased as clerks and customers stared at him; he saw recognition on their faces, heard his title murmured. And then the street crowd, alerted to his presence, burst into the store. Sano found himself surrounded by frightened faces and grabbing hands. Hysterical voices assailed him.

“These murders are ruining my business… gangs own the streets… for two zeni, I’ll perform an exorcism… stop the ghost before he kills us all!”

Sano realized with chagrin that he’d become a public figure. No longer able to conduct a covert inquiry at the Hinokiya, he decided to try one of Matsui’s other businesses in hopes that he could maintain his cover long enough to get some answers.

“Get away!” he ordered.

The crowd pushed him farther into the store. “Please, save us!”

Sano saw clerks frantically lugging merchandise to safety, trying in vain to close the doors against the horde. Then an angry male voice bellowed, “What’s going on here? Everyone out. Now!”

The mob’s cries turned to screams. Bodies hurtled into the street, shoved, kicked, and thrown by two huge, grim samurai who had appeared from the back of the store. In no time at all, the doors slammed shut; the Hinokiya was empty except for its staff, Sano-and the man he’d come to spy on.

Matsui Minoru. The man whose business empire spanned the nation. Flanked by the two rōnin who served as his bodyguards, accompanied him everywhere, and had cleared the store at his orders, he presented an intriguing and contradictory array of merchant and samurai qualities.

His round, bald head, full cheeks, and eyes that closed into slits when he smiled at Sano could have belonged to any middle-aged, well-fed commoner. He wore a cotton kimono patterned with brown, black, and cream stripes, probably from the Hinokiya’s least expensive inventory. Of medium height, he had a stout but firm body whose thick, muscular neck, shoulders, and arms bespoke a life spent lifting heavy sake vats and bolts of cloth.

Matsui bowed. “So, sōsakan-sama. Have you taken a break from your work to shop in my humble establishment?”

His direct gaze belied his words, betraying a wholly samurai arrogance. A luxuriant silk lining showed at his kimono’s cuffs and hem: the wealthy merchant’s circumvention of the sumptuary laws that forbade commoners to wear silk. And he’d not erased the samurai swagger from his posture. This lent his two swords an air of authenticity usually missing in merchants who wore weapons as status symbols. It was common knowledge that he employed a private kenjutsu master to tutor him. Matsui gave the impression of a man straddling two classes. Had spiritual conflict caused this former samurai to yearn for the simpler, nobler days of his ancestors? To continue General Fujiwara’s deadly mission? Sano studied the merchant carefully as he framed a reply. Despite Matsui’s genial welcome, this man of shrewd intelligence surely knew why Sano had come. With subterfuge impossible, he decided on a direct approach.

“I’m here to ask your assistance in apprehending the Bundori Killer,” he said.

There was a collective gasp, then silence from the clerks. Matsui’s smile widened; his eyes almost disappeared in creases of flesh. “I would be honored to assist you,” he said blandly, “but I don’t see how I can.”

Sano smiled back, feeling like a novice trader entering negotiations with an acknowledged master. Matsui’s profession of ignorance forced him to play a card he’d hoped to keep in reserve.

“You can help by explaining the relationship between Araki Yojiemon and Endō Munetsugu, the men whose names appeared on the trophy heads, and… ”

He paused; Matsui waited him out. The guards tensed; the clerks stirred uneasily. Sano conceded temporary defeat.

“And a certain General Fujiwara,” he finished.

To his delight, Matsui’s face stiffened: The tentative probe had found its target. Then Matsui laughed, as if proclaiming his own victory in this first round.

“Well, that’s definitely worth discussing. I invite you to my house. Come, it isn’t far.”

He clapped Sano’s shoulder and nodded to the guards. Was he showing his innocence-or escaping his audience?

Outside the shop, the crowd engulfed them. Waving their swords, Matsui’s guards forced it back. Their threats and glares discouraged followers. Sano and Matsui continued down Suruga Hill unhindered, Sano on horseback, Matsui and his escorts on foot. Yet the guards’ presence didn’t relieve Sano’s fear of attack. If it was Matsui who wanted him dead, then they were not his protectors.

“Your guards seem very competent,” he remarked, wondering if they’d assisted their master with the murders. One had fresh cuts on his face and hands-from Brother Endō’s spear? “What services do they perform for you?”

Matsui’s knowing smile showed that he understood Sano’s intent. “They keep my enemies away. And since I carry lots of money, I’m a target for thieves.” He pointed at his guard’s cut face. “The man who did that looks much worse.”

“A thief?” Sano asked, remembering the priest’s wounds.

“If you wish.”

Sano realized that Matsui wanted to provoke an open accusation that he could deny, forcing Sano to either give up-or arrest the Tokugawa banker and disrupt the bakufu’s finances. Sano switched subjects.

“Do you know a fox-faced mercenary swordsman who eats melon seeds?”

Matsui shrugged. “ Edo is full of mercenaries.”

Suppressing his impatience, Sano tried still another tack. “I often see you traveling on foot. Don’t you own a palanquin?” One with a dragon on it, like the one Kenji had seen outside Zōjō Temple?

“I have three.” If this question disturbed Matsui, he didn’t let on; he’d probably had plenty of practice hiding his emotions during business negotiations. “But I leave them for my family’s use. I myself prefer walking. It’s good for the body. Ah, here we are. Welcome to my miserable home, sōsakan-sama.”

Matsui’s house was a large, two-story structure with weathered wooden walls, plain brown tile roof, and unadorned entryway, separated from the street and the neighboring merchant dwellings by a small, bare yard and bamboo fence. An open shed held the three palanquins-all black, with no decoration. However, the dragon palanquin hadn’t necessarily carried the killer, who could have traveled by other means. Matsui was still a suspect. And even if this interview cleared him, Sano had three others.