'That's what we used to call old Ralphy here when we were in school together. He was always too damn serious. We tried to lighten him up a little, you know?
I almost choked, stifling a hoot of laughter. 'Did it work?
Winter grinned again. 'Not at all. At least not for him. Did for me, though. You should have turned the tables and called me that, Ralphy. I've been through at least a dozen careers since I left law school. Never gets boring that way, though. I'm still having fun.
Ralph Ames frowned as he stirred the bubbling pot of linguini. He seemed to be taking a dim view of his friend's teasing. He certainly didn't encourage it. 'The mail's in on the table, he said. 'Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.
'Time enough to shower? I asked.
'As long as you get a move on.
Suddenly I found myself looking forward to dinner. Anybody who could get away with calling Ralph Ames 'Aimless or 'Ralphy couldn't be all bad. With a cheery wave in Archibald Winter's direction, I said, 'I'll be right back, and ducked out of the kitchen. I paused long enough to collect the mail, then headed for the shower, shuffling through the letters as I went.
They were mostly department-store bulk flyers with a small core of first-class mail, most of them bills. At the top of the stack was an envelope from Swedish Hospital. The next one came from a place called Orthopedics Associates with a street address on Madison. With a happy but silent 'Eureka, I ripped open the envelope from the hospital. It was a bill all right, inarguably exorbitant, with a computer printout detailing emergency room charges, X-rays, and splints. The second one, equally outrageous, was from a doctor I had never heard of before, someone named Herman Blair, for professional services rendered.
Never in my life have I been so happy to receive two outrageously expensive bills. After smashing my hand on the desk, it had continued to throb without a hint of letting up. I was beginning to have a niggling worry in the back of my mind that maybe the problem with my hand was something more serious than I had supposed. That thought combined with the ongoing pain had finally convinced me that I would see a doctor the next day, no matter what. Now, thanks to the bills, I at least knew which doctor to call for an appointment.
Taking the telephone number from the top of the billing statement, I went to the bedroom phone and dialed. It was after five. Naturally, the doctor's office was closed, but his answering service took the call.
In theory, answering services are supposed to protect doctors and other important people from being pestered by insignificant people-patients in this case. The lady on the phone was determined to give me the brush off. I was equally determined not to be brushed. After all, I had been searching unsuccessfully for Dr. Blair for the better part of a week. In the end, my inherent stubbornness paid off.
'Give me your number, the woman snapped at last. 'I'll see if the doctor can call you back.
He did. Within minutes, but he, like his answering service, was none too cordial.
'You know, Mr. Beaumont, you were supposed to be in my office early Tuesday morning to have those bandages changed and get the hematomas drilled. What happened?
'I was out of town on a case, I said lamely. 'Get what drilled?
'Your subungual hematomas. That's what's causing all the pain. Drilling will relieve it. I couldn't do it the other night. They hadn't filled up that much yet.
'Filled? With what?
'With blood. It's pooled under your nails just like I told you it would, remember?
I didn't remember, but I said, 'Right, and tried my best to make it sound convincing.
'So how bad is it? Blair asked, after a pause.
Real men don't eat quiche, and they don't whine to their doctors, either. 'Not that bad, I said.
'Can it wait until morning? Otherwise you're looking at another emergency room charge.
'It can wait.
'Be at my office at nine sharp tomorrow morning. We'll take care of it then. Meantime, take a couple of aspirin if you need to. By the way, who's your regular doctor?
'I don't have one.
'A man your age ought to, he said. 'See you tomorrow. Nine o'clock.
'Yes, I replied meekly. 'I'll be there.
Feeling like I'd been thoroughly put in my place by Dr. Herman Blair, I climbed into the shower, got dressed, and finally ventured out into the dining room to see if dinner would be any less demeaning.
Somehow, the very word Sotheby exudes an aura of staid men wearing understated suits and conservative ties. Raymond Archibald Winter, III, with his yellow silk shirt and expensive gold chain, didn't at all resemble my idea of a Sotheby's oriental artifacts guru. He looked more like the Hollywood stereotype of a big-hitting movie producer.
He may not have looked the part, but Winter was obviously knowledgeable in the area of ancient Japanese artifacts. He spoke of them with the easy assurance of someone whose expertise is unassailable.
'It's a genuine Masamune all right, he said, holding a newly filled wineglass up to the light and gently swirling the golden liquid. We were drinking some kind of French wine whose name I couldn't pronounce and didn't recognize. I had one glass. It was very dry and seemed dangerously close to champagne. I worried about doing a repeat performance of Sunday's boondoggle.
'You've seen it then? I asked.
Winter nodded. 'Ralph here finagled an appointment with George Yamamoto this afternoon, right after he picked me up from Sea-Tac. Mr. Yamamoto was kind enough to show us the sword. Extraordinary, finding it this way. It's like having a long-lost Michelangelo turn up in some little old lady's attic.
He paused long enough to take a sip of wine. 'I wouldn't say the sword is priceless. Everything has its price. But it is exceedingly valuable, and it certainly shouldn't be sitting on some shelf in George Yamamoto's property room. He's aware of the sword's value, of course, and he seems to be taking some extra precautions, but we all know that evidence rooms aren't nearly as secure as they ought to be.
'Not nearly, I agreed.
'You see, Winter continued, 'we're talking about a museum-quality piece here, one that had long been thought lost. By rights it ought to be in a vault somewhere, preferably one that's climate and humidity controlled.
'You know about it then? I asked. 'I mean, about this piece in particular?
I had declined a second glass of Winter's wine and had switched back to my usual regimen of MacNaughton's and water. I congratulated myself on learning from my mistakes for once. At least I was reaping some small benefit from my champagne-induced disaster.
'Let's just say the sword was thought to exist, was believed to exist. I'm relatively sure it's part of a set that belonged to a family named Kusumi, an old and much-honored samurai family, who evidently refused to relinquish their weapons and sword furniture when ordered to do so in the mid eighteen hundreds. And I can see why. As far as sword makers go, Masamune was the master. I certainly wouldn't have wanted to part with it.
'I know about Masamune, I said. Arching one eyebrow, Winter regarded me quizzically over the rim of his glass.
'Do you know about things samurai? he asked.
'Not really. Only enough to be dangerous. Tell me more.
'My guess is that no one outside the immediate Kusumi family knew that the set still existed. The sword itself is over seven hundred years old, but I imagine the rosewood box dates from the time during the mid nineteenth century when the Kusumi family decided to conceal their treasures rather than give them up.
'You see, even though the handle design was lovingly copied on the cover of the box, the inlay work isn't nearly the same quality as that on the sword. In addition, a box like that would never have been part of traditional samurai sword furniture.
'How do you know this particular set belonged to that particular family?
'There is still written record of the set being designed and forged by Masamune for Yoshida Kusumi. The record, in the samurai archives of the University of Tokyo, includes a complete description of the handle design, but the set itself didn't come to light until two years after the end of World War II, when a number of pieces were discovered buried in radioactive rubble at Nagasaki. Only the metal pieces remained. If there were other boxes like the one here in Seattle, they were destroyed in the firestorm that swept the city after the explosion.
