The Hell Screen (8 page)

“Quite. Might I ask your honored name?”

“Sugawara.”

The name rang no bell for Nichira. Akitada was more relieved than hurt. The dealer said, “Ah, yes. If your honor is not particular about its being a lute, I may have some other very special objects to show you.”

Akitada murmured something about putting himself entirely into Mr. Nichira’s hands, and was led into a private room behind the showroom. Here the dealer begged him to be seated on a fine silk cushion, poured a very strong, fruity wine from a translucent porcelain flagon into a jade green cup of Chinese origin, and then produced several silk-covered packages, which he began to unwrap. None of the lovely things were the missing treasures, but Akitada managed to chatter about antique seals, lacquer boxes of great antiquity, and statues of fairies—not because he expected Nichira to produce them, but in hopes that the dealer might have heard about such things from his colleagues or suppliers. No such luck. But the thought of suppliers prompted another question.

Picking a lovely old flute from among the items on the table, Akitada said, “How did you come by this? It is quite unusual.”

“It is part of the estate of Lord Mibu Kanemori. The widow was in straitened circumstances and sent for me. She says it’s been in the family for more than two hundred years.”

Akitada turned the flute this way and that, studying the workmanship closely. “The arrangement of the finger holes is unique. Does it have a good sound?”

Nichira looked impressed. “Does your honor play?”

“A little,” Akitada said modestly. He tried to place his fingers over the holes, itching to try out the sound produced by such an instrument. He once had a wonderful old flute himself, a present from a young noble friend, and he flattered himself on his skill playing it.

“Please allow me to hear you perform,” begged Nichira. “I have no skill myself.”

Polite fellow, thought Akitada, pleased, and put the mouthpiece to his lips. The sound which emerged when he blew was quite lovely, high and clear rather than mellow like his own flute. He attempted a more complicated piece of music, struggling a little with the unfamiliar finger holes.

Nichira listened with rapt enjoyment. Akitada was impressed with the dealer’s appreciation of music and said so when he finished. Nichira burst into highly flattering comments. After that they were entirely in charity with each other. Akitada bought the flute, trying not to wince at the price, and had no trouble getting Nichira to part with some useful information.

The other antiquarians likely to have very old and precious goods were called Heida, Kudara, and Nagaoka. Nichira helpfully supplied their addresses. Nagaoka was semiretired, handling a few transactions out of his family residence. All respectable dealers investigated the provenance of any articles brought to them.

“It is necessary to tell the buyer,” explained Nichira. “You asked about the flute. Knowing the previous owners adds to the value of the item.”

Akitada parted contentedly from Nichira, promising to return on another occasion.

He found a silk shop in the next street. This store was open to the street, its shutters raised to allow passersby a view of the large interior, where apprentices bustled about carrying rolls of silk to seated customers. Akitada entered, and a senior saleswoman introduced him to the treasures of the shop. Akitada, who was used to the meager offerings in the northern province, felt his head spin at the colors and patterns of silk and brocade which were offered for his inspection. His own needs were fairly easily met, but he lingered over the silks for Yoshiko.

The assistant was a graceful middle-aged woman of great patience. Akitada pleasurably pictured Yoshiko in a new wardrobe. A lovely deep rose silk which changed to paler pinks depending on how the light struck it seemed to him particularly elegant and youthful, but it was after all winter, and he eventually settled on a deep copper red. Then, on an impulse, he added the rose silk after all. Matching thinner silks for undergowns, five each, their colors complementary yet distinct, had to be selected next. The assistant brought the lengths of silk tirelessly, combining and recombining their shades in layers until he was happy with the results. The copper red fabric would cover layers of pale gold, lilac, sand, and moss green, while the rose silk would be lined in leaf green, deep red, light red, and white. Immensely pleased with his choices, Akitada paid another astronomical sum and had everything sent to his residence.

Poorer but happy, he stepped out into the street to the sound of bells. It was already time for the midday rice, and he decided to postpone visits to the other antiquarians, except for Nagaoka, whose house was on his way home.

The thought of home, reminding him of his mother, ruined his good mood. In addition it began to look more and more as though someone in Toshikage’s office was hiding the treasures for his own purposes. The thought raised unpleasant possibilities. Was it merely an attempt to get Toshikage dismissed and so win a promotion? Or was the thief bent on vengeance and planning to have the treasures discovered on Toshikage’s person or in his house? The offense of stealing from the emperor was serious enough to warrant public humiliation, confiscation of property, and banishment to a distant province. Toshikage’s family would suffer the same fate as he. While Akitada, by virtue of bearing a different surname, would not be involved, his sister Akiko and their unborn child certainly would share her husband’s fate.

Nagaoka lived in a quiet residential quarter, not quite for the “good people,” nor for mere tradesmen, either. His house was a typical wealthy merchant’s home on a double plot, hidden from the street by tall wood screening. A simple sign above the decorative doorway read, “Nagaoka, Antiquarian.”

Akitada raised his fist to pound on the fretwork gate, when it was suddenly flung open and he found himself face-to-face with an old acquaintance.

The expression on the other man’s face changed rapidly from surprised pleasure to acute suspicion.

“Kobe!” cried Akitada heartily. “What a coincidence! I intended to pay my respects eventually, but family matters have kept me occupied.”

“What are you doing here?” growled the other man, as usual bypassing politeness to get to the heart of the matter.

Akitada raised his brows. “Now, that is hardly a friendly greeting after all these years,” he said lightly. He realized belatedly that there was something quite different about the police captain: Kobe did not wear his customary uniform of red coat and white trousers. Instead he was attired rather formally in dark silk. “I was calling on the antiquarian for some information. But are you no longer with the police?”

Kobe’s face relaxed momentarily and a smile twitched his lips. “Promoted,” he said. “To superintendent.”

“You don’t say!” Akitada chuckled and bowed. “My sincerest congratulations. You deserved it.”

“Thanks. You did not do so badly yourself. Provisional governor. And you crushed a rebellion or two, I hear. The New Year should bring a generous promotion.”

“Not with my luck.” Akitada paused and glanced at a servant who had cracked open the gate and was listening with an expression of avid curiosity. Kobe followed his glance and took Akitada’s arm to pull him a few steps away. Behind them the gate clanked shut.

Akitada looked back and then in growing puzzlement at Kobe. “What brings you here? Is something wrong?”

“Murder,” remarked Kobe placidly. “My men seem to be making a mess of the investigation, so I came to see what’s what.”

“The antiquarian has been killed?” If the trail of the imperial treasures ended here, Toshikage’s predicament had just taken a new, more ominous turn.

But it appeared that Nagaoka was alive.

“His wife,” said Kobe. “Apparently killed by his brother. A love triangle. Pretty young wife agrees to meet elderly husband’s younger brother in a romantic setting. Somehow they argue, and he kills her. Husband is understandably distraught. Mixed loyalties! Should he help the police and have his own brother sentenced for murder, or should he protect the man who killed his beloved wife? He has not been cooperative so far.”

“I see.” It was a tricky problem for a Confucian scholar. Was a man’s first duty to his wife or to his blood brother? More to the point, Nagaoka would hardly be in a frame of mind to answer questions about antiques.

“What did you want from him?” Kobe’s eyes studied Akitada’s face with bright interest.

Akitada could hardly divulge Toshikage’s problem to the police superintendent, yet Kobe must be told something. Akitada hesitated just a fraction too long, and Kobe’s eyes suddenly became intent. “Aha! I was right. What do you know about the case?” he snapped, his good humor gone in a flash. “Come on! Your arrival is just a little too coincidental.”

“I swear I know nothing about it,” said Akitada, trying to think of some innocuous reason. Then he remembered his flute purchase. “I, er, have taken up flute playing, and am interested in antique instruments. Nagaoka’s name came up as someone who might help me.”

Kobe was unconvinced. “You are here to look at flutes?”

Akitada nodded. “I have had four long years in the northern wilderness to practice. You have no idea how soothing the sound of a flute is when you are snowed in and the cares of the world hang heavy on you.”

Kobe looked at him askance. “Sounds depressing to me. I don’t suppose you’d better bother Nagaoka at present. He has about as much of the cares of the world as any man can bear.”

“I can see that. When did the murder happen?”

Kobe hesitated for a moment, then said, “Night before last. In a temple west of the capital. The brother was found with the wife’s corpse in a locked room. It’s a clear case and he confessed right away, but then Nagaoka talked to him in jail, trying to get him to withdraw the confession. I could see our case falling apart in court and came to warn Nagaoka off.” Somewhere another bell rang the half hour. Kobe said, “I must get back. Are you walking my way?”

Akitada hesitated. He cast a glance back up the street at the closed gate of the Nagaoka residence, then said, “I am on my way home. My mother is very ill, and I had better not be too late. Can we meet tomorrow?”

“Of course. Stop by my new office in the palace. Sorry about your mother.”

They exchanged bows and walked off in opposite directions. Akitada went around the next corner and stopped. A murder night before last? In a temple? Perhaps the Eastern Mountain Temple, where he had heard a woman scream in the middle of the night?

It was not really any affair of his, and Kobe would not take kindly to his meddling in police business again. But Akitada had never been able to resist a mystery.

Peering around the corner of Nagaoka’s fence, Akitada made sure that Kobe was gone. Then he returned to the gate and knocked.

* * * *

Faceless Murder

After a moment, the fretted doorway opened a crack and the round, frowning face of the servant peered out.

“I am Sugawara,” said Akitada in a businesslike manner. “I must speak to your master immediately.”

This had the desired effect, for the gate opened wider and the servant let him enter. Akitada took in his surroundings. The unswept courtyard with its stone pathway was covered with fallen leaves, and the man had merely tossed a hempen shirt of mourning over his regular cotton clothes. He looked irritated, symbol of a household in disarray, but led Akitada politely enough into the house and helped him remove his shoes before bringing him to a small study in the rear of the building.

The room was bathed in diffuse light which came through the paper-covered openings of doors to the outside. Faded silk paintings and calligraphy scrolls hung against the dark wood of the walls, and carved stands displayed translucent jade bowls and vases. In the center of the room sat a thin, bent figure at a low black desk.

Nagaoka was a colorless man, gray from his hair to his dress. His clean-shaven face was ashen and deeply lined. He wore a robe of costly gray silk and was sitting hunched over, inert. When the door opened, he looked up without much interest. Even the sight of an unexpected guest caused no change in his expression. In a tired voice he said, “Not now, Sasho.”