“Could it have been an accident?” he asked. “Maybe her hand slipped?”

“I don’t think so. Let’s go.” Shokichi pulled at his arm.

He resisted. “If the police have been called, surely it’s too late. What’s the rush? There’s nothing I can do.”

“Oh, Saburo,” she wailed. “Why do you do this to me?”

He gave up. They ran down the street together and cut over to the next thoroughfare, Shokichi in front, her skirts gathered with one hand so that he could see her shapely legs moving swiftly and seductively in front of him. “Is it far?” he cried, trying to keep up and hoping that this would at least earn him some lovemaking later on.

“Next street. In the Daikoku-yu.”

The Daikoku-yu was a bathhouse. The next street marked the boundary between the amusement quarter and the business area of the city. The owner of the Daikoku-yu, which was named for the god of wealth, had chosen an excellent location where he could draw his clientele from both ways of life and earn the largest possible income. In the nature of things, the shopkeepers and businessmen were not averse to sharing a bath with the pretty women from the quarter and so both benefitted, and the Daikoku-yu did an excellent business.

A crowd had gathered outside the bathhouse, craning their necks. Through the double doors, Saburo could see the red coats of police. But before he and Shokichi reached the entrance, the crowd parted, and a line of policemen came marching out. In their midst was a slight figure in a white gown now terribly stained with blood. Sachi was still young and quite good-looking but for her fixed eyes. Now her head was raised, the sightless eyes seeming to search the sky for rescue. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she moaned softly. Her hands were chained together in front and two burly policemen dragged her along by this chain. As she could not see, she stumbled and started to fall once or twice. The policemen jerked her upright with a shout to “walk faster!”

Before Saburo could stop her, Shokichi screamed “Sachi!” and rushed among the policemen to throw her arms around the blind woman. This earned her a back-handed slap from one of the constables. For good measure, he took her by the shoulders and pushed her aside so roughly that she fell to the ground. The police escort marched its prisoner away, and Saburo went to pick Shokichi up.

She wept and railed at him for not stopping the police while he searched for a tissue in his sash to stem her tears.

“Please,” he begged, “calm down, my love. Are you hurt? That animal! How dared he strike a woman. I’ll file a complaint against him. Hold still and hush.”

She snatched the tissue from his hand, blew her nose, and said angrily, “This is not about me. Didn’t you see how they treated Sachi? She’s also a woman. And she’s blind.”

“Yes, but there was no point in making matters worse. Let’s find out first what happened.”

Shokichi looked upset but followed him inside.

The wet steamy smell of the bathhouse met them, but there was also a whiff of something else, both sickening and disturbing. Saburo knew the smell. He had smelled blood before, his own and that of others. It seemed to come from a room at the end of the hallway to the left. Its door was open, and a few people had gathered there. Another redcoat stood at the door beside a fat man in a brown ramie robe that showed large sweat stains under the arms and around his neck.

Saburo stopped. Shokichi had turned rather pale. He said, “I think it will be best if you stay back. Find someone who knew Sachi. Start with the bathhouse staff. Ask them if they know what happened and who the victim is. Can you do that?”

She nodded. “What will you do?”

“I want to have a look at the room where it happened. I’ll come to find you.”

To his relief, Shokichi went off obediently. For a moment there, he had been afraid her anger over Sachi’s treatment by the police had spilled over to him.

Saburo approached the fat man who was talking to the policeman. “Your pardon for the interruption,” he said, peering past them. “We came for a bath and wondered what happened.”

The fat man turned and bowed to the customer. “Please forgive the inconvenience,” he said in an oily voice. “A small disturbance merely. I’m Jinzaemon, the owner. Allow me to show you the way.”

Saburo eyed him with disfavor. “Someone died in there. I can smell the blood. What happened?”

Jinzaemon fluttered a fat hand. “Sssh! No need to upset other guests. It was just a quarrel between a harlot and her customer. We discourage women soliciting here, but I’m afraid it happens anyway. The police have taken her away. It’s perfectly safe now.” He reached out to take Saburo’s elbow and lead him away, but Saburo side-stepped and slipped past the policeman to peer into the small room.

It was barely large enough for a reed mat. Apparently it was used for massages or moxa treatments, but the scattered metal bowl, towels, and bloody shaving knife showed that Sachi had worked here, giving shampoos and shaves. Across the reed mat lay a skinny man on his side. His gray hair was undone and still wet. He wore only the thin cotton yukata provided by the bathhouse. The yukata, the reed mat, most of the towels, and part of the floor were covered with his blood. The blood had also spattered across one of the walls, making a strange swirling pattern as if the dead man had turned the moment his throat had been cut.

A black-robed monk was rising to his feet beside the body. He wiped his bloody hands on a towel, then dropped it. “You can take him away now,” he told the policeman.

The policeman elbowed Saburo out of the way, and let the monk out of the room. “Did she do anything else to him?” he asked the monk.

The monk shook his head. “Just the slashed throat. It was quick.”

The policeman noticed Saburo and opened his mouth to speak.

“Who is the dead man?” Saburo asked quickly.

The monk glanced at him. “Nakamura Minobe. To live is to die.”

The policeman growled, “Get out! This is an official investigation.”

Saburo retreated to stand with some of the other watchers, as the monk walked away. Several young women, prostitutes to judge by their colorful wraps and the smudged makeup on their faces, stood about. The one closest to him said, “He was a bastard. Sachi did a lot of people a favor.”

Saburo eyed her with interest. “How so?”

She glanced at him, stared at his scars and his rolling eye, and stepped back a little. Close-up, Saburo was still a shocking sight to women. He made an effort to control his eye and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Nakamura’s got more money than the emperor,” she said. “The stingy bastard’s a regular here. People think he’s Daitoku himself.” She laughed harshly. “He lends money to people and charges twice the monks’ rate. The monks are choosy who they lend money to, but Nakamura doesn’t care as long as they pay or own something he can sell.”

A money lender? Saburo was pleased with the information. “A lot of people want a moneylender dead. And if he was wealthy, there’ll be some who’ll benefit from his death. So why would the police arrest a blind shampoo girl?”

The woman gave another laugh. “Because she did it. Don’t ask me why. Sachi’s crazy. Who knows what such a person will do? Maybe her hand slipped, or maybe she made it slip. But if you ask me, I think he made a pass and she killed him for it. He’s a dirty old man and she doesn’t like to be touched.”

“Really? How do you know?”

The woman made a face. “She acts like she’s better than us. Some of us took pity on her and tried to get her work in one of the houses, but she wouldn’t do it. Now look at her. No better than a beggar and a murderess.”

There was an interruption as some sweepers came in with a litter. They went into the small room, wrapped the dead man into the blood-soaked mat, and placed him on the stretcher. The onlookers, shying away from contamination by the dead, dispersed, and the prostitute gathered her skirts and scuttled away on her wooden geta.