The Way of the Traitor Page 10

  “Ah!” Dr. Huygens exclaimed.

  Failing to grasp the object with the pincers, he dropped them on the table, fetched a small saw, and cut away a bloody rib. Sano closed his eyes against the horrible grinding noise. When he opened them again, he saw Dr. Huygens reach into the wound.

  “Ah!” Triumphantly the doctor pulled his slimy hand out of Spaen’s chest. In a water bucket, he rinsed the pebble-sized metal sphere he’d found, then held it up.

  Sano’s heart began a slow descent as recognition struck him. “A bullet. Director Spaen was shot.”

  “Shot. Yes!” Dr. Huygens nodded and pantomimed firing a gun. In his excitement, he lapsed into Dutch, but Sano could guess what he was saying.

  “After Spaen died, the killer tried to remove the bullet, and failed.” Sano spoke reluctantly, delaying the inevitable conclusion. “So he cut up the area around the gunshot wound, to disguise the hole. He hacked and struck the body to make it look like Spaen had been stabbed and beaten to death. Perhaps he’s a Christian, and attached the crucifix as a gesture of atonement. Then he threw the body in the sea, hoping it would never be found.”

  From outside came voices, moving nearer. The examination was over, and Sano almost wished it had never happened.

  “Prepare the body for the funeral,” he told Dr. Huygens.

  The results had changed the focus of his investigation and placed him in the dangerous position he’d hoped to avoid. Treason … the word echoed in his mind as the threat of death and disgrace loomed closer.

  The barbarians on Deshima had no guns; all their weapons were confiscated when they entered the harbor. Therefore, the killer was Japanese: a fellow citizen, whom Sano must pursue at the risk of his own life.

  Refreshed from a good night’s sleep and armed with a revised plan for investigating Jan Spaen’s murder, Sano returned to Deshima early the next morning. The previous day’s balmy weather had fled. Sculpturesque clouds swirled across the sky; a chill wind blew in from the sea.

  “I want divers to search the water around Deshima for a gun and knife,” Sano told the officers in the guardhouse. “I want the names of everyone on duty and all visitors present the night Director Spaen disappeared.” These were his prime Japanese suspects.

  The chief officer showed Sano the duty roster, then opened the ledger where he’d recorded Sano’s visit to Deshima yesterday. “There,” he said, pointing to a single name.

  “Peony?” Sano read, surprised. “A woman?”

  “Director Spaen’s courtesan,” the officer explained. “She spent the night in his bedchamber. We found her there alone the next morning. She didn’t know where Spaen had gone, so Chief Ohira sent her home.”

  Prostitutes were the only women allowed on Deshima. Could this one have killed Spaen? Guns were not common weapons; only high-ranking officers owned them. And though Sano hadn’t asked about visitors earlier, it seemed odd that Chief Ohira hadn’t mentioned Peony. She could be a crucial witness, if not a suspect.

  “Where can I find Peony?” Sano asked.

  “She lives at the Half Moon Pleasure House.”

  Despite his doubts about Peony’s potential as a suspect, Sano’s spirits rose. By attributing the crime to a low-class citizen, he might avoid treason charges. The bakufu wouldn’t care what happened to a prostitute, or punish him for condemning her instead of a barbarian. However, the more probable suspects were Chief Ohira, who’d already withheld important information, and the guards.

  “When does the second watch come off duty?” Sano asked reluctantly.

  Through the seaward door of the guardhouse came the sounds of footsteps on the bridge, male voices, and laughter. “Here they are now,” the officer said.

  A group of perhaps forty samurai filed into the room. All wore identical leather armor tunics and shinguards, metal helmets, and swords at their waists. They carried spears, bows, and quivers. Sano believed that no barbarian could have left the island without Japanese assistance, or disposed of a corpse without it. And what better suspects than the men who controlled security on Deshima?

  Sano introduced himself to them, then said, “Form ranks. State your names and positions.”

  A tall, lean man with hawklike features stepped forward. “I am Nirin, commander of the second watch.” His subordinates lined up in pairs; each member of these shouted his name, then both voiced their shared position together. Sano could tell from their sullen expressions that they considered him an outsider who meant trouble for them.

  “Were all of you on duty the night Director Spaen disappeared?” Sano asked.

  “Yes, honorable master,” they chorused.

  “I’m going to ask you some questions,” Sano said, already anticipating the problem Deshima’s security system posed for him. He turned to the men assigned to guard Spaen, and asked, “Did you have any contact with the director between the last inspection and daybreak?”

  “No, master,” said one guard. “That’s right,” seconded his partner.

  Sano next addressed deGraeff’s and Dr. Huygens’s guards. “Did you see your barbarians during those hours?”

  A series of “No, master” replies.

  “And what about you?” Sano asked the patrol guards. “Did you see any Dutchman with Spaen, or near his quarters?”

  More negative answers. The Deshima watch was structured to protect the troops, as well as to ensure security. Each man had a built-in alibi should any question of wrongdoing arise. A guard exposed his partner’s misdeeds only at the risk of sharing the punishment.

  “Do the officers report to you during their rounds?” Sano asked the guardhouse captains, who assented. “At any time during the night, did anyone look like they’d been in a fight? Did they have blood on their clothes or weapons?”

  The captains shook their heads. Nirin said, “Just what are you implying?”

  Ignoring him, Sano addressed the gatekeepers. “Did you let anyone or anything out the water gates?”

  Nirin stood between his men and Sano, feet planted wide, bow held upright like a spear. “We had nothing to do with the murder. We had no reason to kill Spaen, or cover up for the barbarians.” Angry rumbles of agreement came from the guards.

  Hand on his sword, Sano stared Nirin down. “There was a storm that night. Did your men really watch over the island as usual—or sit in the guardhouses and stay dry?”

  “If you’re accusing us of negligence, then you owe us an apology.” Nirin spat on the floor just far enough away from Sano’s feet not to constitute an open insult. “We’re not layabouts.” Like you Edo folk, said his scornful glance. “Or liars.”

  Someone was lying about something, Sano thought. If the Deshima guards had performed their duties properly, they couldn’t have failed to notice a murder taking place. Their collusion seemed a more likely possibility. But Sano saw no immediate way to break the conspiracy of silence.

  “Tell me about Director Spaen’s courtesan, Peony.”

  Lewd mutters and laughter came from the guards, while Nirin frowned. “Why are you asking us all these questions anyway? We’ve already told your retainer everything.”

  “You have?” Sano experienced an unpleasant jolt of surprise. “When was this?”

  “Yesterday. He came here when we were outside practicing archery before going on duty.”

  “I see.” With difficulty Sano kept his expression neutral. While he’d been inspecting Deshima and questioning the barbarians, Hirata had disobeyed orders again! And he’d told Sano nothing of this illicit investigation. Last night they’d had a quiet dinner together at the mansion before retiring to their separate chambers. Conversation had been stilted; Hirata had seemed uneasy, and now Sano knew why. Angry with himself for not preventing the incident, Sano decided that he must find something to occupy Hirata’s time. Perhaps Hirata could perform the inspection for which they’d come to Nagasaki.

  “Well,” Sano said, “tell me anyway.”

  With a sly smile, Nirin said, “Director Spaen tre
ated Peony like dirt. He cursed her and called her names, and had the interpreters translate so she knew what he was saying. He would force her to carry away his chamber pot, then trip her and make her clean up the mess. And sometimes we heard noises coming from his bedchamber when she was there. Slaps. Blows. Screams.

  “If you’re looking for someone with cause to kill Spaen, you won’t find better than Peony.”

  Nagasaki’s pleasure quarter occupied the slope of a hill south of town, and was surrounded by a high wall that kept the women from escaping and the revelry contained. As Sano rode through the guarded gate and began searching for the Half Moon Pleasure House, he noticed many similarities between Edo’s Yoshiwara and this smaller quarter. The brothels had barred windows in which courtesans sat like exotic caged animals, flirting with potential customers. From eaves hung red curtains printed with the name and crest of each establishment. Samurai and commoners thronged the streets, browsed the windows, and drank in teahouses. But Nagasaki’s houses boasted balconies and roof terraces with a harbor view, where paper lanterns fluttered and shrubs bloomed. A procession moved past Sano toward the gate: mounted samurai, escorting ten palanquins. Through the windows, Sano saw plain-faced, gaudily dressed courtesans leaving the quarter as the Yoshiwara’s never did.

  “Chinamen’s whores! Barbarian’s whores!” a group of strolling samurai jeered at the women. “Give the sailors some fun in the foreign settlements tonight!”

  The women hid their faces and wept in shame: Serving foreigners was a distasteful task reserved for courtesans so unattractive that Japanese men shunned them. Recalling the barbarians’ foul odor, hairy bodies, and crude manners, Sano pitied the women. Many had been sold into prostitution by poor families, or sentenced to the quarter as a punishment for petty crimes. Being forced to consort with foreigners added to their disgrace.

  Down the street, a familiar figure suddenly caught Sano’s eye. Alarm stabbed him. “Hirata!”

  The young retainer blanched when he saw Sano. He turned and darted into an alley. Obviously he hadn’t come here for women or drink, but to pursue the lead he’d gotten from the Deshima second watch.

  “You’re going back to Edo,” Sano muttered to his absent retainer. “Tomorrow, if not today.”

  He found the Half Moon Pleasure House, a small brothel near the quarter’s back wall. Dismounting, he gave the reins to a stableboy, then introduced himself to the doorman.

  “I wish to speak to Miss Peony,” he said.

  The doorman gaped. “But master, we have many prettier courtesans. Surely—”

  “Maybe he likes ugly girls,” called a woman seated in the window. Her companions giggled.

  Sano had no time for argument or banter. “Take me to Peony,” he told the doorman, “now.”

  Inside the pleasure house, an attendant manned the entryway. Two courtesans chatted with clients in the reception room, but the real festivities wouldn’t begin until after sunset. A servant led Sano to a courtyard garden, where flower beds and stunted pines surrounded a tiny pond. Female voices shrilled like discordant birdsong.

  “Peony, pour me some more tea.” “Peony, fix my hair.” “Peony, this bath is too hot. Add some cold water.” “Peony, massage my back.”

  On a veranda sat three women, all in bright dressing gowns. One held up a tea bowl while she filed her toenails. Another frowned into a hand mirror, poking at her upswept hairdo. The third shed her robe and flopped facedown. Through the open door beyond them, Sano saw a fourth woman’s face protruding from a wooden bathtub. They chattered and giggled together, interjecting more orders:

  “Peony, my tea!” “Peony, my hair!” “Water!” “I want my massage now!”

  Shuttling frantically among them was the witness Sano had come to question. As he approached, he saw that all the other women were beautiful and no doubt belonged to the Half Moon’s first rank of courtesans. But Peony was one of the biggest, ugliest females he’d ever beheld.

  Though no more than twenty years old, she was as dumpy as a middle-aged matron. The skirts of her plain blue cotton kimono, hiked up to allow easy movement, bared legs so bowed that she could have carried a rice bale between them. Her face was so flat it looked almost deformed, with sallow skin, narrow eyes, broad nose, and a puffy, loose-lipped mouth. Her only good feature was her hair—thick, luxuriant, and blue-black, piled untidily on her head.

  Peony picked up a teapot and splashed tea into the courtesan’s upheld bowl. Then she hurried to the next woman and plucked pins from her hair. Her movements were awkward, jerky. The bathing courtesan shouted, and Peony dumped a bucket of water into the tub. Then she squatted and gave the prone woman’s back a few strokes before the others complained and she jumped up to serve them. Her loose mouth quivered; her eyes welled with tears. Sano pitied her, and almost hated to cause her more trouble than she already had.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded a loud male voice. “This area is off-limits to clients.”

  The women shrieked when they spied Sano. Peony dropped the teapot; it shattered on the veranda. Turning, Sano faced a swarthy man with the pugnacious scowl of a carved temple dog, dressed in expensive silk robes. He berated first Peony for breaking the teapot, then the servant for bringing Sano inside.

  “I’m Sano Ichirō, the shogun’s sōsakan,” Sano explained. “I’m here to ask Peony about the last night she spent on Deshima. Are you the proprietor?”

  “Yes. Minami Hideo, at your service.” The proprietor’s manner turned obsequious. “But Peony has already been questioned by Chief Ohira. She didn’t know anything, so he let her go. Isn’t that right?” He bent a menacing gaze on Peony, who nodded mutely, ducking her head and clasping her big hands.

  “Is there a place where she and I can talk in private?” Sano asked.

  “Certainly. But you’re wasting your time.” Shrugging, the proprietor started across the garden. Peony shuffled after him, humble and downtrodden. Then Minami halted and stared at her bosom. “What have you got in there?” Boldly he thrust his hand down the front of Peony’s kimono and pulled out a silk fan.

  “That’s mine!” shrieked the bathing courtesan. “I’ve been looking all over for it.”

  The other women watched avidly. The nude one sat up, not bothering to cover her breasts.

  Minami slapped Peony’s face; she cowered, whimpering. “Stealing again! That’s what got you here in the first place, or have you forgotten? Well, there’s a merchant in the Arab settlement who likes to hurt women. None of the other houses will accept his business, but I’ll let him have you. That will teach you to behave.”

  Grabbing Peony’s arm, he dragged her across the garden. Sano, though dismayed at this harsh treatment, didn’t intervene. Brothel owners could do as they pleased with the women, who had no legal rights. Sano followed Minami and Peony to the veranda opposite, where Minami admitted them into an unoccupied guest room, sparsley furnished with a low table and a cabinet. Sunlight filtered through a latticed window overlooking a busy side street. The proprietor shoved Peony onto the floor, closed the door, and left. Sano exhaled in relief, glad to escape the other courtesans. Their beauty had evoked in him an intense sexual longing for Aoi. Since she’d gone, he hadn’t taken another lover. Somehow the deprivation of celibacy kept her memory alive. But personal torments had no place in a murder investigation. Now he studied the witness—or suspect—who promised its possible success.

  Peony lay motionless, a hand clasped to the cheek where Minami had struck her. Her hair, which had tumbled down, gleamed richly. Her silent misery filled the room like an audible wail.

  “I won’t hurt you, Peony,” Sano said reassuringly. “Sit up.”

  She did, scooting backward to kneel in the corner, as far out of reach as possible. Sano glimpsed a spark of cunning in her eyes, a spirit not quite crushed.

  “Now tell me everything that happened the last night you spent with the barbarian,” he said.

  “I already told Chief Ohira. I didn’t see Spaen
-san go. Don’t know where he went.” Face downcast, she spoke in terse mumbles, as if her puffy lips impaired her speech. “He was alive when I last saw him. I didn’t kill him. I couldn’t have.” Harsh sobs wracked her body; she buried her face in her hands. “Because I—I loved him!”

  Sano knelt beside her and placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. Suspicion cooled his sympathy when he felt hard muscles: She had the strength to maim a man’s body.

  Peony must have sensed his doubt, because she shrank away, weeping harder. Sano pulled her hands away from her face. He shook her until the sobs turned to gasps and she stared at him in fearful woe. Tears streamed down her cheeks; mucus oozed from her nostrils. Sano took a cloth from beneath his sash and wiped her face, feeling both pity and disgust. He sympathized with her suffering, but also understood how her ugliness invited abuse.

  “Director Spaen was cruel to you,” Sano said. “He insulted you. He beat you. How can you expect anyone to believe you loved him?”

  His accusing tone restored Peony’s composure. She held her head up and retorted, “It was a game. He would act mean to me in front of other people. Later, when we were alone, I would tie him up. Hit him. He would scream and cry, but he liked it. I liked it, too.”

  “You mean it was Director Spaen the guards heard screaming, while you beat him?”

  “Yes!” Peony’s slitty eyes dared Sano to disbelieve.

  Sano knew that some people derived sexual pleasure from humiliation and pain. Peony’s story explained the bruises on Spaen’s body and the ropes in his room, as well as what the Deshima guards had observed. But was it a clever lie? Had she in reality suffered Spaen’s abuse, then taken revenge?

  In answer to his unspoken questions, Peony untied her sash and dropped her kimono, revealing a strong torso with small, pointed breasts and a thick waist. Her sallow skin was unmarked. She turned to display her back, also unbruised and unscarred. “He never struck me.”

  Yet shame could hurt worse than blows. “Cover yourself,” Sano ordered, disappointed by the evidence that weakened his case against her. “I want to know everything you did from the time you got to Deshima until the time you left.”