“No… No!” Choyei’s hand clutched Sano’s. His mouth formed words, but no sound came.
“Easy. Relax,” Sano soothed him.
While the peddler struggled to speak, Sano’s mind raced through possibilities. The brutal stabbing argued in favor of Lieutenant Kushida. Had he escaped house arrest to assault Choyei?
“Did he use a spear?” Sano said, hiding his impatience.
Choyei’s body thrashed and his head rolled from side to side in a violent protest against impending death.
“What did he look like? Tell me so I can find him!”
Now the drug peddler seemed to accept his fate. His hold on Sano’s hand weakened while involuntary tremors shook him. With a great effort, he gathered a deep, rattling breath and whispered: “… thin… wore dark cloak… hood…”
That description could fit Lord Miyagi as well as Kushida. Or what about Harume’s secret lover? How Sano welcomed this evidence that pointed away from Lady Keisho-in!
Running footsteps clattered down the street. A doshin and two civilian assistants arrived at the door. Quickly Sano repeated Choyei’s description of the killer, then added his own of Lieutenant Kushida and Lord Miyagi. “It might be either of them, or someone else, but he can’t be far away. Go!” The police rushed off, and Sano turned back to the drug peddler. “Choyei. What else can you tell me? Choyei!”
Desperation tinged his voice as he felt the drug peddler go limp under his touch. The animation faded from Choyei’s eyes. One more faint moan, a last drool of blood, then the source of the poison-and Sano’s only witness to murder-was dead.
28
The house to which Lady Ichiteru’s letter had directed Hirata was built on a willow-shaded canal near the river, in a wealthy merchant district. Usually Hirata took pride in his knowledge of Nihonbashi, gained from years of police work. However, as he walked over an arched bridge and through the gate leading into the street, he found himself in unfamiliar territory. Age and affluence lay like a rich patina upon the district. Moss furred high stone walls; a green film lustered the copper-tiled roofs. Because of their fortunate proximity to water, the mansions had survived many fires, making them some of the oldest buildings in town. But Hirata felt his own luck-and confidence- draining away with every step toward his rendezvous with Lady Ichiteru.
In his fist he clutched like a talisman the list of questions he must make Ichiteru answer. Folded inside was her letter. He’d spent hours guessing at possible meanings of the last line: “It is with more than ordinary pleasure that I look forward to seeing you.” Now, as he unfolded his list to study it one final time, he saw with dismay that the sweat from his palm had run the ink of the two documents together. This interview might determine his fate and Sano’s; yet Hirata felt terribly unprepared, despite all his planning. He hungered for Ichiteru, but wished he’d brought another detective along, or sent one in his place.
Now he had reached the designated house, a miniature estate set off from the others by a large garden. The mansion seemed to lurk beneath spreading pine boughs that almost hid its low roof. It hadn’t escaped fire unscathed; smoke had darkened the walls. With his heart drumming the opposing rhythms of desire and doom, Hirata knocked on the gate.
It opened, and a young girl’s pretty face appeared. Hirata recognized Midori, whom he’d all but forgotten. “Detective Hirata-san!” she exclaimed in delight. “I was so hoping to see you again.” Eagerly she drew him into an overgrown jungle of weeds and unpruned shrubs, brown and lifeless with the waning season. An arbor draped with withered vines overhung the flagstone path to the veranda. Dressed in a kimono printed with red poppies, Midori was like a flower in a dead wilderness. She giggled in excitement. “What brings you here? How did you know where to find me?”
Her enthusiastic welcome flattered Hirata, easing his nervousness. At once he felt more like the competent professional he really was. Wishing to prolong the sensation, and reluctant to hurt Midori by correcting her assumption that she was the object of his visit, he said, “Oh, we detectives have ways of finding out things.”
“Really?” Midori’s eyes widened in awe.
“Sure,” Hirata said. “Just try me. Come on. Give me a mystery to solve.”
With her head tilted in thought, a finger to her cheek, Midori made a charming picture. Then she grinned mischievously. “I’ve lost my favorite comb. Where is it?”
She laughed at Hirata’s disconcerted expression, and after a moment, he joined her. “I confess; I don’t know,” he said. “But I’ll come over and help look for it if you want.”
“Oh, would you?” Dimples sparkled in Midori’s face.
Cheered by her frank admiration, Hirata chatted about inconsequential things with Midori. They didn’t hear the door open, or notice Lady Ichiteru until she spoke.
“I am honored by your acceptance of my invitation, Hirata-san.” Down the length of the arbored passage, her low voice issued like a warm draft from a furnace. “A thousand thanks for being so… prompt.”
Cut off in midsentence, Hirata turned and saw Ichiteru standing on the shadowy veranda. Her pale skin, mauve silk kimono, and the ornaments in her upswept hair gleamed as if she somehow concentrated the meager light upon herself. Her enigmatic gaze transfixed Hirata. At once his dread returned.
“Midori, why do you detain my guest outside instead of bringing him to me?” Lady Ichiteru rebuked the girl.
Hurt filled the eyes Midori turned on Hirata. Crestfallen, she said, “Oh. You’ve come to see her. I guess I should have known. I’m sorry for keeping you.” Bowing awkwardly, she added, “I’m sorry, my lady.”
Hirata pitied her embarrassment. Vaguely he remembered that his plan called for questioning Midori.
“Detective Hirata-san, there’s something I should probably tell you,” Midori whispered, averting her face so Ichiteru wouldn’t notice.
“Yes, sure,” Hirata said. But Ichiteru’s seductive beauty lured him like a physical force. “Later.” Leaving Midori, he moved through the dark tunnel of vines. The crumpled list of questions fell from his hand. He climbed the steps of the veranda and accompanied Lady Ichiteru into the house.
The corridor was dim, and smelled of mildew and the dank canal. Drifting a few steps ahead, Lady Ichiteru shimmered like a ghostly vision. Panic and anticipation weakened Hirata’s legs. Every sane, prudent instinct told him to conduct their conversation outside, in the safety of the public thoroughfare. But the powerful, bittersweet scent of her perfume tantalized him. He would have followed Ichiteru anywhere.
She ushered Hirata into a room at the end of the corridor, where a single lamp burned upon a low table which also held a sake decanter and two cups. Age and dampness had discolored the painted landscape murals on the walls, so that they looked like cliffs and clouds under water. Carved sea demons snarled upon ancient cabinets. Through the shuttered windows Hirata could hear the waters of the canal lapping at the stone embankment. A futon lay upon the tatami. At the sight of it, Hirata felt heat gather in his loins. Tearing his thoughts away from the bed’s implicit invitation, he blurted the first thing that came into his mind: “Whose house is this?”
A fleeting smile crossed Ichiteru’s face. “Does it matter?” Kneeling beside the table, she motioned for him to join her. She murmured, “The important thing is that you are here… and so am I.”
“Uh, yes,” Hirata said. Clumsily he trod on the hem of his trousers and almost fell as he knelt opposite Ichiteru. Shame flushed him. The room seemed too warm and too cold at the same time; his hands felt like ice, while sweat saturated his clothes. “So, uh, what did you want to tell me?”
“Come now, Hirata-san.” Ichiteru shot him a coquettish glance. “There’s no need to be… in such a hurry. Are you that eager to get away?” Her full lips pouted. “Do you dislike me so much?”
“Oh, no. That is, I like you just fine.” A hot blush crept over Hirata’s neck and ears.
“Then let us first… enjoy this time we have together.” Ichiteru’s kimono, worn fashionably off the shoulders, slipped lower, revealing the top of the aureole around one nipple. “May I offer you refreshment?” She lifted the sake decanter, arching her painted brows in suggestive invitation.
Hirata usually preferred not to drink while on duty, but now he needed to calm his nerves and still his trembling hands. “Yes, please,” he said.
Lady Ichiteru poured a cup of sake. When she passed it to Hirata, her smooth, warm fingers caressed his. Her eyes drew him into their fathomless depths. With difficulty, Hirata looked away and drained the cup in one swallow.
