Saburo stayed. The sweepers carried the corpse away at a brisk trot. He got only a brief glimpse of the man’s face between the folds of the mat. Nakamura’s face was gray and his fleshy lips had opened in an expression of surprise.

The observation was not helpful. Saburo imagined he would have been as surprised at being cut by the shampoo girl as by one of his disgruntled clients attacking him. With a sigh, he went in search of Shokichi.

He found her near the entrance where the owner loitered, attempting to reassure possible customers. Shokichi was talking to the prostitute. When she saw Saburo, she bowed to the woman and came to him. “Komachi says there was blood everywhere,” she informed Saburo.

He nodded. “People bleed out quickly when you cut their throat,” he said, looking after the prostitute. “Do you know her?”

“Yes. Komachi’s a bitch and hates Sachi.”

“Why?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s because Sachi wouldn’t sell herself. Some of the women wanted to help her because she’s pretty. You saw her.” She gave Saburo a searching glance.

He nodded absentmindedly. “So the prostitutes hate her because she refused to become one of them?” Shokichi said nothing for a moment. “Well? Is that all they hold against her, that she tried to keep her self-respect?”

Shokichi flushed and stared at him. “I guess so,” she finally said tonelessly.

“Then they should be ashamed!”

“She was starving. They meant to help. They tried very hard to get one of the houses to take her on. The woman who owns it didn’t want a blind girl. She said it would be a turn-off for the customers. But in the end she agreed, and they got her to offer Sachi a place. Sachi absolutely refused. She made a lot of enemies in the amusement quarter.”

“Hmm.” Saburo thought this over. “I wonder what she said when they accused her of murder,” he muttered.

Jinzaemon, overheard him. “The stupid bitch called for help,” he said. He directed one of the bath attendants, who carried two buckets of water, to the room where Nakamura had died. “Hurry,” he told the woman. “We’ll need the room later.”

Jinzaemon was clearly above all a businessman. A murder on his premises was something that must be erased from people’s minds as quickly as possible.

“Now, then, sir,” he said to Saburo. “Let me show you and the little woman where to go. You’ve paid already, haven’t you?”

Saburo shook his head. “We’ve changed our minds.” He took Shokichi’s arm and started to walk out.

Shokichi shook him off. “Look,” she pleaded with Jinzaemon, “Sachi’s my friend. We need to help her. Could someone else have done this?”

Jinzaemon lost his good humor. “You should pick better friends,” he said and started to walk away.

“Wait.” Saburo reached into his sash and pulled out a handful of coppers. “Here,” he said. “I bet you lost some business over this.”

Jinzaemon stopped and took the coins. “You’re right,” he said, bowing. “And he was a very good customer, too. A real loss.”

“You said she called for help. Did she know what she’d done?”

“I would imagine. She’d enough common sense to say she’d stepped out the room for something and found him dead when she got back. Of course, no one believed that. She was covered with his blood. She would’ve been better off just running away as fast as possible.”

“A blind girl?”

“Whatever. Look, I’ve got to go. Thanks for the tip. Come back another time. This isn’t a good day.”

No, it was not a good day.

Saburo found Shokichi staring into space, her face white and frozen. He thought the smell of blood must have nauseated her. Somehow the mix of steam and blood had settled in his own nose and throat. He put an arm around her and walked her outside.

Shokichi asked tonelessly, “What will you do next?”

“The owner says your friend claimed she was out of the room when Nakamura was killed.”

“If she said so, it’s true.”

Saburo chuckled. “Why?”

She glared at him. “Because she doesn’t lie. Poor Sachi.” She wrung her hands. “They’ll beat her till she confesses. This is so unjust.”

Saburo cleared his throat and spat. He needed some wine to wash away the taste of blood. “Well, there’s nothing to be done at the moment,” he said, putting his arm around her shoulders again. “Let’s go have a bite to eat and a cup of wine.”

She flung his arm off. “You don’t care because we’re nothing to you.” And with that she walked away.

“Wait!” Saburo ran after her. “Please, Shokichi, don’t be stupid!”

It was the wrong thing to say. She flung about. “You think I’m stupid? Maybe you’re right. I’ve been stupid to think you cared for me. Go away, Saburo. This is my problem, not yours. I made a mistake. You and I are nothing to each other. I don’t want to see you again.”

7

The Caretaker and the Artist

Tora was pleased that the plan had worked so well. Not only had they lured his master out of the house, but he already looked a changed man. Gone was the mild, abstracted manner, the urge to flee from conversations, the lack of interest in the outside world. Instead, his master looked more like the man they had feared left behind in Kyushu. His expression was intent, his eyes sharp, and he had developed a new energy.

The trouble was they had tempted him with a case that was not really a case. He might be curious about the lady’s death now, but once he was satisfied that no crime had been committed, he would be angry with them and retreat again. In fact, Superintendent Kobe had pointed out just such a possibility. With so clear-cut a case of suicide, the Sugawara interest would flag almost immediately.

But all was still well. His lordship, purposeful and energetic, announced, “Let’s go see the caretaker next. He should know more about this odd group of people.”

Akitada was dimly aware of Tora’s worries. His initial irritation at being manipulated had given way to the knowledge that only real friends would go to such extremes. He was very moved by this. Furthermore, this alleged suicide—and Akitada was by no means convinced that the lady’s death had not been murder—touched on that other case in his past. It, too, had involved Tasuku and the death of a woman. Akitada believed there must be a story linking this woman with his former friend, and he very much wanted to know what it was.

He was instinctively suspicious of Tasuku, or Abbot Genshin as he had become. Perhaps it still rankled that Tasuku had escaped punishment for his callous behavior in the past by taking the tonsure and was now living comfortably as a wealthy and respected cleric. Or perhaps it was the conviction that a womanizer of Tasuku’s cut could not possibly become a celibate saint.

In any case, he wanted to know more.

When they emerged from Lady Ogata’s pavilion, they found another odd-looking individual waiting for them.

The man was short and stocky, in his forties, and clearly curious what they were doing. He was also unkempt. His hair stuck out from a carelessly tied topknot, his face was covered with three days’ worth of stubble, and his green robe and yellow trousers appeared ragged, filthy, and stained with paint.

His manners left something to be desired also. “Who are you?” he demanded, looking them over rudely.

“I’m Lord Sugawara.” Akitada eyed the paint-stains with a frown. “And you?”

The man cocked his head and scratched his jaw. “Yoshizane,” He jerked his head toward Tora. “And that one?”

Akitada ignored this. “You must be the painter.” His frown deepened. He had reason to dislike painters. One of them had abducted his young son and had drugged, tortured, and nearly killed Akitada. Since then, he had an ingrained suspicion that painters were madmen at heart who would stop at nothing for the sake of their profession.