The man paled. “It’s the truth,” he whined. “My wife and me, we both work hard.”
Akitada said, “Hmm,” and gave him a sharp look. “Can you bring any witnesses who saw you depositing two bars of silver here?”
Tobe looked panic-stricken. “I . . . I’ll be back tomorrow.
Give me back my token.”
“No. We’re getting to the bottom of this now,” said Yamada with uncharacteristic firmness.
The man gasped a little. “It’s not urgent. I can wait,” he cried, bowing and backing toward the door while clutching his coins to his chest.
Yamada rose and called the guard when another man ran in and collided with the retreating Tobe. It was the old drunk, considerably more unsteady on his feet than earlier. He clutched at Tobe for support, and for a moment the two swayed together like an odd pair of lovers.
The drunk cried, “It’s you. Now I get my reward.” He wrapped both arms around Tobe’s thin figure and announced, “He’s your robber. Arrest him quick.”
The other man cursed and pushed the drunk away viciously.
The beggar hit the wall with a thud, and Tobe made a dash for the door, where the guard caught him in mid- flight.
Akitada bent over the old drunk to help him up. “Are you hurt, old man?” he asked.
The beggar felt his shoulder and ribs, started to shake his head, then croaked, “I’m a bit dizzy. Could I have a drop of wine?”
“No more wine,” Akitada said firmly. “What’s this about a reward?”
“I was here before. Don’t you remember? That fellow’s called Shiro. He’s the mat mender. He’s the one robbed the Valuables Office. I want my reward.”
“You say his name’s Shiro and he lives right here in town?
Are you sure, old man?”
“Of course I’m sure. He lives in my quarter. His wife makes clay pots and sells them on the market.”
“Aha!” Yamada eyed their claimant, still in the clutches of the grinning guard, with grim satisfaction.
The man’s haggard face was covered with sweat. His eyes moved about the room like a cornered animal’s. “I’m no robber.
I’m a respectable tradesman,” he protested. “And he’s only a drunken beggar and he lies.”
“Tradesman? I thought you said you are a farmer,” Akitada reminded him.
“Yes, and you also claimed to live in Takase,” Yamada put in.
When the man said nothing, Yamada told the guard, “Put him down. Then close the door and wait outside. We may need you.” The guard released his captive, saluted, and left, slamming the door behind him. The sound caused their captive to start trembling.
“Well, what
“Shiro. I . . . I go by both names.” Their suspect started to inch toward the door again. “If it’s too much trouble, I can come back tomorrow,” he offered.
Akitada laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s no trouble at all. It must be a great thing for a man to have a wife who helps him earn a living. I suppose, being appreciative, you lend her a hand every now and then, do you, Shiro?”
The man thought about this and decided to agree. “Of course. I’m a considerate husband. I’m always carrying clay for the little woman and taking her pots to the market.”
“And you help her fire her pots, no doubt? Perhaps even shape a simple clay object yourself?” The other man gulped. “N-no, n-not that. No.”
“Oh, well. Just a guess,” said Akitada. Picking up the token, he disappeared into the storage area. When he reappeared, he carried two silver bars. “Here you are.” He tossed the bars to Shiro, who was so astonished that he was a bit slow catching them. One bar fell and broke.
The man put the other one down on the desk as if it burned his fingers. Perspiration beaded his face again. “There’s been some m-mistake,” he mumbled. “These are not mine.” The old drunk staggered over to stare at the broken pieces.
Picking up a shard, he squinted at the red clay inside the silver foil. “Looks like your wife made this one,” he told Shiro. “Why did you rob the place when you’ve been making your own silver bars?” He burped loudly.
“I didn’t.” Shiro clutched his bag of coins. “It doesn’t matter.
I’ll go now. Thank you very much. So sorry for the inconvenience.”
But Yamada had lost his patience. He rose, glowered at Shiro, and snapped, “Not so fast. This man has accused you of a crime.
You are under arrest pending a full investigation. Guard!” Shiro fell to his knees and began to weep. “I didn’t want to do it. Tosan made me do it, your honor. And I gave him most of the money. I only got thirty coppers for my trouble.”
“Tosan? Who’s Tosan?” Akitada asked.
“He’s Shiro’s neighbor,” volunteered the old drunk.
“Tosan used to work here,” muttered Shiro.
Yamada was dumbfounded. “You mean my own clerk planned this?” he asked. Both the beggar and Shiro nodded their heads. Yamada looked at the waiting guard. “Send someone to bring Tosan here this instant!” The guard saluted and left.
Akitada said, “You made the clay bars from your wife’s clay and fired them in her kiln, didn’t you, Shiro?” The man nodded miserably. “Then you covered them with foil and brought them to the Valuables Office, and the clerk Tosan paid you two strings of cash for them, and you and Tosan divided the money later?” Again the man nodded. “Did Tosan help you set fire to the office, too?”
“Oh, the evil creature!” Yamada cried, his eyes round with shock.
“I didn’t set the fire,” whimpered the thin man.
“Never mind,” said Akitada. “The judge will have the whole story out of both of you with a good flogging. And then, you dog, it will be the mines for a skinny fellow like you.” It was an inspired threat.
“No! Not the mines. I’ll talk, but not the mines.” Prostrating himself before them, Shiro knocked his head on the ground.
“Let’s hear the whole story, then,” demanded Akitada.
“We’ve been wondering how an ordinary thief could pull such a trick, but as you had clay handy and a clay oven hot enough to bake it and melt a bit of silver, that part is clear as water. How did you get involved?”
“Tosan made me do it because I owed him money.” Yamada said disgustedly, “I should have fired that crook a long time ago.”
At this the man calmed down a little-thinking perhaps that he had two sympathetic listeners-and poured out his story.
Leaving aside the fact that he cast himself as the helpless victim of Tosan, the mastermind, it had a strong element of truth. As neighbors, Tosan and Shiro had spent their evenings together, drinking as they watched Shiro’s wife making her pottery. Tosan complained about his work, his low wages, and his master’s unfair reprimands, while Shiro blamed his misfortunes on ill luck. Tosan often described the stored wealth in glowing terms to Shiro, and the two men would discuss the pleasures that could be had with just one bar of silver. Once Tosan picked up some fresh clay to shape into an approximation of a silver bar. That moment the idea was born. Shiro shaped the clay, glazed and baked it, wrapped it in a few sheets of silver foil, and thus produced two replicas of silver bars which met with Tosan’s approval. The next day, Shiro deposited the bars and took away two strings of a thousand cash each. They split the proceeds that very night. Soon after, Yamada dismissed Tosan for laziness.
On Tosan’s instruction, Shiro had given a false name and place of residence, but as the entry was in Tosan’s handwriting, the ex-clerk decided that a bit of arson might serve to destroy the evidence and also be a nice revenge, since Yamada would have to replace the ledgers or suffer severe reprimands himself.
Shiro claimed his part in this had merely been to carry the ladder Tosan used to break the high window panel and toss the torch down on the ledgers.
At this opportune moment, two constables arrived with Tosan. He was a fat man with the red, puffy face of a habitual drinker, and he took in the situation at a glance.
Yamada greeted him with a shout of fury. “You miserable dog! Not enough that you spent half your time here
