Diamond Solitaire

trip for no other reward than the honor. Yet undoubtedly the support of a famous sumo patron was going to be useful.

He wasn't really taking in his first sights of the real Japan. Instead he was trying once again to understand Leapman's motive in coming here. The necessity of escaping from New York was clear, but to escape to an alien country whose language the man didn't, presumably, speak was extraordinary unless he had something else planned. Something Leapman believed was vital to his survival.

On the plane, Diamond had been handed a New York Times. The conference at the Sheraton was reported in the business section under the heading Manflex Director Mystery. Leapman's untimely disappearance was given a couple of paragraphs rich with innuendo, yet it appeared that the market had still been impressed by the claims Flexner and Churchward had made for PDM3. Manflex stock had soared by more than five dollars, offering large profits to insiders whose stake had been purchased cheaply. In all probability, Leapman was still set to make a fortune if he could keep clear of the law. He could take his profits simply by calling his stockbroker-from Tokyo, or anywhere else.

But why Japan?

Was it possible that the man had some humanity after all and had come here to return Naomi to her mother? Clearly, he didn't want to remain in charge of a small child. He knew she was being sought. To hold her for long was dangerous as well as impractical. He was a swindler, hand in glove with professional criminals, but maybe he drew the line at murdering a child because she was in the way. Could it be as simple as that?

Not likely.

The smokestacks of industrial Tokyo gradually gave way to city streets crowded with purposeful people in sharp dark suits. The taxi driver said something in Japanese with a man-to-man chuckle recognizable in any tongue and pointed to a lighted sign in English saying Soapland.

'Massage parlor?' hazarded Diamond.

'You want?'

'No, no. Sumo.'

He was doing his best to get his bearings from the odd assortment of English words on signboards. They passed through an area thick with cinemas, theaters, and restaurants, and eventually came to the Kuramae subway station. Almost beside it was a sign for the Kuramae-Kokugikan Sumo Hall, of which all that was visible was a long stretch of white wall and a vast, pyramid-shaped roof.

'Is this it?'

It was not. They crossed a bridge over the Sumida River into a district signposted as Ryoguku. The heya, a building of much older design than the Sumo Hall, proved to be only a three- minute drive away.

The driver kindly left his cab and showed Diamond the door to use. He offered a five-dollar tip-not possessing any yen-but it was refused. This was certainly another civilization.

A bunch of teenage girls, evidently groupies-or whatever they called them in the sumo jargon-stood near the entrance and regarded him speculatively, but with reserve. He was big enough to join the ranks, but other factors ruled him out. The place he entered had a table just inside the door manned by a young fellow in a striped kimono with the oiled black topknot.

Diamond bowed self-consciously and said, 'Visiting Mr. Yamagata.'

'You are?'

'Peter Diamond.'

'You wait, please.' He picked up a phone.

There was nowhere to sit, so he interested himself in a poster for a forthcoming basho, trying to decide whether the exorbitant rear of the figure in the foreground belonged to his patron.

The place was extremely clean, with strips of wood horizontally around the walls, not unlike the reception area of an upscale health club. He looked down and noticed a rip in his bulging carrier bag; he wasn't adding much to the ambience.

Another hefty young lad in a kimono appeared from a door and approached Diamond. They exchanged the obligatory bow and he said in good English, 'Welcome to our stable, Mr. Diamond. I am Nodo. I have the honor to escort you to Yamagata-Zeki.'

Nodo's thong-sandals scraped the wooden floor as he led Diamond through a place where wrestling practice was in progress in a rope-edged ring with a clay floor on which sand had been shoveled. Observed by a dozen wrestlers, two masses of living flesh shaped up to each other, encouraged by a silver-haired trainer with a bamboo stick that he wasn't hesitating to use on the exposed rumps. Nobody turned to look at the Occidental dressed in a suit who was being escorted past.

'These are lesser ranks,' Nodo explained with lordly confidence that none of the lesser ranks spoke English.

At the far end, on a shelf above a radiator, was a kind of altarpiece with candlesticks. Nodo clapped and bowed his head briefly as they passed it. Before opening the door, he confided, 'Shinto shrine. We call it kamidana.'

'Ah,' responded Diamond, doing his best to sound enlightened.

'Now you will meet the Yamagata-Zeki. He is printing the tegata. You will see.'

They entered another large room where Diamond immediately recognized his famous patron. If it were possible, Mr. Yamagata looked mightier than he had in London, barrel-chested, with his broad face resting in folds of flesh indistinguishable as chin or neck. He was seated cross-legged between two acolytes. In front of him was a stack of large blank cards and he was making palm prints by pressing his hand repeatedly onto a red inkpad and then banging it down onto the stack, from which each print was adroitly removed by the man to his left The great wrestler made eye contact briefly and dipped his head in a perfunctory bow which Diamond returned. Some Japanese was spoken.

Nodo explained that Yamagata-Zeki had many fans and sponsors, who liked to receive tegata, or handprints, as personal souvenirs. They sent the cards to the heya with a small cash donation, and the rikishi obliged by printing up to a thousand in batches. With Diamond's indulgence, the printing would continue while they talked.

Nodo added, 'He invites you to be seated.'

Chairs aren't provided in sumo stables; they wouldn't last long if they were. Diamond wasn't equal to the cross-legged position, but he showed willing by lowering himself to the floor and sitting in front of Yamagata with his knees bent Up to this minute he'd felt like a detached observer, but the feeling wasn't going to survive the pressure of the floorboards against his backside. He was now emphatically part of the scene.

The rhythmic thump of the palm-printing distracted him at first, but with perseverance and the help of Nodo he succeeded in bringing Yamagata up to date on the hunt for Naomi. He was thorough, treating it as the sort of briefing he would have given to the murder squad in the old days.

Another burst of Japanese was uttered without interruption to the printing.

Nodo translated, 'He says you should go to Yokohama as soon as possible. This is where the answers to these mysteries will be found.'

'I agree,' said Diamond, privately thinking that he hadn't needed to come here to be told that. 'How do I get there?'

'Better by train than taxi at this time of day.'

'The Bullet?' he asked, airing his fragmentary knowledge of Japanese life.

'No. The Yokosuka line is faster. I am to call a taxi to take you to the Central Station. Do you need money?'

He was answering when one of the apprentice wrestlers came in with a portable phone and handed it to Yamagata. Without hesitating, the wrestler grasped it with his inky right hand. Apparently a call was on the line. He listened, grunted some response, and handed a red-smeared instrument back to the unfortunate who had brought it in. Then he spoke to his helpers. It seemed that the printing session was over, because the blank cards were hastily taken aside. With a rocking motion, Yamagata prepared to get up. He pressed his clean hand against the floor, leaned on it and rose. Then he spoke to Nodo.

When translated, the news was ominous. 'That was a call from Immigration at Narita Airport. The officer who