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."

Twelve

The Umbrella Maker's House

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."