'I'm not sure, but possibly like ruining the hospital's reputation.'
'He'd go to that extreme?'
'As I said, he's off his rocker but that's a very determined thing he did. And if the reputation angle is part of it, I hate to imagine what could still happen around here. My read is those guys would think spit's a nice aftershave for each other.'
Kathy changed to a sitting position. 'You mentioned dirty work,' she said.
'Well, it ties in. Let's wait for now, but if someone needs shadowing, can you arrange it for me? I know you're short-handed, but … '
'No problem. We can always scrape up a body from somewhere.'
'And, another thing,' David said. 'You think these hospital people find trouble with my wearing two hats?' 'Do they answer your questions?'
'Yeah, but I recoil inside.'
'So? Look, if you ask and they answer, why sweat it? Personally, I think you can get more out of them than we could.' She took hold of his hands. 'And also, David, one thing Nick and I won't do, I promise. We won't ever press you for minutiae. `Nit-reporting', we call it. That smothers an investigator. He and I both know. We've had it done to us. You plow ahead just give us broad updates. If you think we can help-like that shadowing-give me the word.'
'What's with Nick?'
'Him? He's testing your commitment. It'll work out'
'No further questions, your honor,' he said. He dabbed his lips with a napkin which he then made into a ball and hurled across the room before wrestling her to the floor. They retired early.
Chapter 7
In several years of solving cases as an amateur detective, David had tracked stolen goods, runaway teens, missing records, embezzlers-but never a matching, pearl-handled dagger, particularly a facsimile of those the samurai wielded centuries ago, or, perhaps an original. He was prepared to devote the whole day, Thursday, to some serious legwork before attending his martial arts class at five.
At ten in the morning, he accessed the Internet and contacted three resources he estimated might be helpful: Defense/Link of the Department of Defense, the National Technical Information Service, and the Smithsonian Institute. Neither their web sites nor the software he down-loaded gave any indication they might provide a clue in locating a Japanese dagger. Next, he phoned an Information Broker he had dealt with before. The broker said he couldn't begin that type of case for three weeks, but David couldn't wait that long.
So, after scowling at the computer, he set out on a clandestine search he was sure had no precedent in the greater Hollings area, and a quickened pace belied his confusion over where to turn first. He simply wanted to accomplish as much as he could before predicted gale winds struck.
He chose, first, the library. Whether it was because he knew every librarian and clerk there or because a dagger had been described by the media recently, David decided to fend for himself between index files and bookstacks. He learned about daggers used by British commandos during World War II, about M6 bayonets, and about the bowie knives of the Civil War. He perused a book about military weapons of Far Eastern nations, and read an article-more slowly-that stated daggers are used chiefly for self-defense or sudden attack, but some have served purely ceremonial or decorative purposes. Finally, he came across a passage entitled,
'The material symbol of the martial spirit of the times was the warrior's principal weapons, his sword and his daggers. In later years the privilege of carrying these deadly instruments came to be reserved for the knightly samurai, but during the Kamakura period, some men of lower birth also had them and used them to carve their way to glory. They were not, however, weapons only; to the samurai especially, a sword and a pair of pearl-handled daggers were the central objects of an elaborate cult of honor.'
David toyed with the idea of abbreviating his legwork for the day because he had already succeeded in discovering more than he expected, namely that his research had validated what Sparky had said about the dagger pair. And that probably, not possibly, the twin to a murder weapon was concealed somewhere in the vicinity.
Yet, he wanted to make a second and final stop. He drove to the city's north end, past tenement blocks and a Mobil station, and he parked across the street from a one-story storefront with three golden balls fastened to a bracket. A tarnished matching sign read, HARRY RAZBIT, PAWNBROKER. David had grown up with the owner's son and had seen the father occasionally but never professionally.
He climbed out of his car and looked right and left on the desolate side street, the wind feeling and sounding as if worse were to come. A red and white 'OPEN' sign hung from twine on the inside of the centrally placed door. Before entering, David perused the displays through the windows on either side.
He saw silver and gold timepieces; brightly spangled rings and bracelets; vases, urns, place settings and silverware; cameras, stereos and tape recorders. There were desk sets and trophies; and a baseball glove and football helmet and fishing rod. Perched on the uppermost shelf were a trombone, a cornet, several guitars and even a tuba that appeared too big to lift, much less blow through.
David wondered about the plight of the legitimate people who would surrender such items: the budding tailback without a helmet, the hero without trophies, the musician without a guitar or tuba. He also thought about the penny-ante rewards of lawbreakers who lied their way around Mr. Razbit. In the face of widespread availability of credit cards, Razbit's continued to survive because of the honesty of its proprietor.
David walked through the sound of a jingle into a blown-up replica of the window displays. Essence of vanilla could not hide the must of half a century. Behind a glass counter crammed with jewelry, an Albert Einstein look- alike emerged from the back door. Open-mouthed, he pointed at David and said, 'Well, I'll be! David Brooks. I mean Doctor David Brooks. And, I understand, a detective for good measure. I haven't seen you since you and Harry were in high school.'
The reedy, little man raised on his toes, pretending to see over David's head. 'What have they been feeding you, my son?'
'Hello, Mr. Razbit. Good to see you again. How's Harry, Junior?'
'He's fine. He's a doctor, too, you know. Up in Albany.'
The old man wore a faded tan sweater whose shoulders dangled down his front. His hands bore plexuses of veins the size of his fingers, and David guessed he could slip his thumb under the man's leather watch strap.
'I must write him some day. But I've come here to show you …'
'This is about that terrible killing over at the hospital, isn't it? Couldn't it have been an accident?'
'There was also a knifing in the surgeon's locker room.'
'Oh, right, yes, right. I guess you can't fall on a knife.'
'No sir, not very well. And that's why I'm here.'
David placed Friday on the counter and removed the photograph of the pearl-handled dagger from it. 'Have you, by any chance, seen something like this recently?'
David observed Razbit's face and concluded he'd like to meet him in a poker game some day.
'A dagger,' the pawnbroker announced. 'That's a dagger, right?'
'Right.'
Razbit's eyes took on a hunted look. 'Yes, David, I'd have to say yes.'
David, confident, pressed on. 'Can you tell me about it?'
'I read about the pearl handle of the dagger in the newspapers, but I'm bound by the ethics of my business. I'm like the poor man's banker, you know, and respectable bankers follow the ethics of the banking industry.'
David believed the pawnbroker was stalling and chose a word to preempt an anticipated oration. 'So?' he said.
'So I can't give you names'
'But, can you say a dagger like the one in the photo crossed your hands recently?'
'Yes.'
'A dagger or a pair of daggers?'
