The Way of the Traitor Page 7

  Ohira nodded distractedly, his eyes still on Kiyoshi.

  To the harbor patrol officers, Sano said, “Take this message to the Dutch ship: ‘I regret to inform you that your missing comrade has been found murdered.’ ” He added an explanation of the circumstances of Spaen’s death, then continued, “ ‘I am in charge of the investigation. Until I find out who killed Spaen and why, we must act on the assumption that the murderer poses a danger to all your people. Therefore, your landing must be delayed until the murderer is caught and punished. With apologies, Sōsakan Sano Ichirō.’ ”

  Sano feared that his plan would anger the Dutch captain, yet he couldn’t do otherwise. The addition of hundreds more barbarians to Deshima would complicate his work, possibly destroying evidence and creating unrest. He wished he could deliver the news in person and placate Captain Oss, but he couldn’t waste time on another trip offshore; he must concentrate on the search for the killer.

  The troops resumed their patrols. Governor Nagai, Kiyoshi, and Yoriki Ota bade Sano farewell, then departed. Sano trudged up the beach toward Deshima with Hirata and the two guards, while Chief Ohira and Interpreter Iishino walked ahead. The wind seemed colder, the ocean’s roar an ominous portent as Sano pondered the conflict that he feared would compromise his investigation.

  Prudence and diplomacy required him to place the blame for the murder on a barbarian. If he didn’t, he risked bringing war to his country—and charges of treason upon himself for passing over foreign suspects to condemn a fellow Japanese. Sano thought of the Dutch, imprisoned on Deshima, with ample time and leisure to foster mutual hatred. By incriminating one of them, he could save himself from death and disgrace.

  But would he also be letting the real murderer escape punishment for the crime?

  “Sumimasen—excuse me,” Hirata said, trudging beside Sano up a flight of stone stairs leading from the beach to the waterfront promenade, a wide road built upon a stone embankment along Nagasaki Harbor. After a moment’s hesitation, he blurted, “Catching a murderer in a strange city is going to be hard. You have to let me help!”

  Sano had expected the ardent young retainer to renew his plea for a role in the investigation: For some personal, unspoken reason, he carried samurai loyalty and dedication to the extreme. Sensing that this wasn’t all Hirata had intended to say, he waited. They passed warehouses and shops, patrolling troops, and fishermen carrying buckets of squid and octopuses before Hirata spoke again.

  “I’ve had lots of detective experience,” Hirata hurried on. Faint creases appeared on his forehead, as they always did when he was most serious, giving Sano a glimpse of how he would look as an older man. “I can identify suspects, and interrogate them, and check alibis, and—”

  “Hirata!” Sano’s raised voice silenced the young man. Then he said, “I don’t dispute your ability. But this case is dangerous. If I go down, I won’t take you with me.”

  “But it’s my duty to go wherever you go,” Hirata argued. “I—” He paused, then took a deep breath. “Just now, when I was in town, I found out that there’s something strange going on around Deshima. The townspeople have seen mysterious lights nearby, in the harbor. And there’s a Chinese priest who hates the Dutch. He practices magic, and may be involved in Director Spaen’s disappearance, or death.”

  This was interesting, possibly relevant information. But the news of Hirata’s inquiries hit Sano like a fist to the stomach. “You had your orders,” he said with an anger born of concern for his retainer. “You were supposed to amuse yourself, not conduct interviews, as if on my authority.”

  Humiliation suffused Hirata’s face, but he spoke up bravely: “I just walked around and talked to people. I didn’t disobey.”

  “You defied the spirit of my order, and you know it.” The irony of the situation almost made Sano laugh. That he, who’d often disregarded orders for the sake of his own convictions, should now reprimand another man for the same offense! In many ways, they were two of a kind: honor-bound, enamored of the danger and challenge of detective work—and stubborn to the core. “Now, either you obey or I send you back to Edo.”

  Hirata’s eyes widened in alarm. “You wouldn’t.”

  They reached the Deshima guardhouse, a long building with plank walls, tile roof, and barred windows, situated in a gravel-strewn yard at the mainland foot of the bridge to the island. Interpreter Iishino waited outside; Chief Ohira must have already entered. “I will, if that’s what it takes.” Sano hardened his voice and heart. He couldn’t let selfish desire for Hirata’s companionship weaken his resolve. “Now go home and stay there.”

  “Please give me your pouch, sōsakan-sama. Then stand with your legs and arms spread.”

  In the Deshima guardhouse, Sano untied the drawstring pouch from his sash, handed it over, and stood as requested. The guard placed the pouch in a cabinet for safekeeping. On a spiked board he hung Sano’s wooden nameplate—the pass, issued earlier by Governor Nagai, that allowed him entry to Deshima. Another guard searched Sano’s body for items that a traitor might pass to the Dutch: money, weapons, secret messages. More guards subjected Interpreter Iishino to the same procedure, because no one, not even a high-ranking Nagasaki official, was above suspicion.

  The guard’s searching hands reached Sano’s sash. Sano willed himself not to tense when the guard touched the spot where he kept Dr. Ito’s letter to the Dutch physician. Hopefully the thin, soft rice paper was indistinguishable from the cloth folds of the sash. With feigned nonchalance, Sano gazed around the guardhouse. On the walls hung ropes, iron shackles, and wooden staffs for restraining and disciplining Dutch escapees—or for conveying Japanese trespassers and traitors to the execution ground.

  He suppressed a sigh of relief when the guard said, “You may proceed to Deshima.”

  Accompanied by Interpreter Iishino and two escorts, Sano left the guardhouse. A stone bridge arched over the sea, whose color had deepened to turquoise under the late afternoon sun. More guards, posted at intervals, bowed as Sano crossed. Ahead, the island’s high, spiked wooden fence rose from vertical algae-covered foundations. The fan curve of Deshima seemed to beckon Sano toward all the perils beneath the thatched rooftops and swaying pines.

  “Sōsakan-sama, I’ve worked with barbarians for nine years, nine years.” Interpreter Iishino bustled along beside Sano. “Anything you want to know about them, just ask me.”

  Sano slowed his pace. He’d longed to see Deshima and the Dutch, yet he felt extremely unequal to the challenge of interrogating the barbarians. The confrontation on the ship had shaken his confidence in his personal strength and his country’s, and he regretted the naïveté that had made him believe himself capable of this investigation in which he must succeed—or lose his honor, and his life.

  They reached the iron-banded gate. At the guards’ knock, it swung open. Inside stood Deshima Chief Officer Ohira, flanked by two more guards.

  “Sōsakan-sama.” Chief Ohira bowed. “Welcome to Deshima.” The stiff greeting conveyed no warmth, and Ohira looked even more miserable than he had at Governor Nagai’s mansion earlier. The bones of his face seemed sharper, the cheeks more sunken, the pouches beneath his eyes darker. Oddly, the murder seemed to have exacted an even greater physical toll from him than Director Spaen’s disappearance had. After all, the security threat to Japan had ended with the barbarian’s death, as should the threat of punishment for Ohira and his staff. “I await your orders.”

  To buy himself time, Sano said, “Before I see the barbarians, I’ll inspect the island.” Perhaps he could find clues as to how Director Spaen had escaped, and who had killed him.

  Ohira ushered Sano and Iishino through the gate. A short passage, bordered by high fences, led to Deshima’s main street. Entering the world he’d often imagined, Sano found it disappointingly small, yet still intriguing. The street curved along the island’s lengthwise axis, between two-story wooden cottages. On the ground floors of these, sliding doors faced the road; above, barred windows formed
orderly rows beyond covered balconies. A sentry stood at each door; others patrolled the street or perched on the roofs. Chief Ohira had indeed made sure that no more barbarians escaped.

  “These buildings have all been searched?” Sano asked.

  “Of course.” Annoyance tightened Ohira’s features. “I can assure you that no corner was overlooked during the hunt for Director Spaen, and I would have reported any evidence of foul play. This incident wasn’t caused by negligence on my part, and if the killer isn’t caught, it won’t be my fault.”

  “I’m not accusing you,” Sano hastened to say, surprised at the chief’s defensiveness. “If I’ve given you that impression, I apologize. But I’d like to look inside the houses and see everything for myself.”

  Resentment smoldered in Ohira’s bloodshot eyes, but he nodded. At his command, the sentries opened doors, showing Sano large storerooms with shuttered windows, all empty except for one, which contained crates and bundles.

  “Those came on last year’s ship, but were not sold then,” Interpreter Iishino explained, head bobbing. “The law says they must be stored until the next ship arrives, then offered for sale again along with the new goods.”

  Sano examined the warehouses and the vacant rooms upstairs, but found nothing remarkable. Under Chief Ohira’s glowering gaze, he proceeded to the street’s east end. There stood a guardhouse with more sentries inside. At its doorway Sano saw buckets and ladders—firefighting equipment—and a short, cylindrical structure faced with stones.

  “A cistern?” he guessed, moving closer to inspect the barbarian’s possible escape route.

  “Fresh water comes to Deshima through bamboo pipes, from the river.” Chief Ohira tapped the cistern’s wooden lid. “This is kept nailed down, except when the servants fetch water.”

  “Is there another access to Deshima besides the bridge?”

  “Yes. The water gates.”

  Ohira led the way to the island’s opposite end, past another guardhouse, and into a large corner compound where more sentries paced. This contained a house with a prominent entry porch and latticed balcony; two cottages; a long one-story building; and two small, square ones with plaster walls, ironclad doors, and tile roofs. Grudgingly Ohira named each building’s function: “My office. The interpreters’ office; the governor’s deputies’ office. The store where the barbarians sell their goods to Japanese merchants. Fireproof warehouses.”

  At his orders, two guards opened a wide double gate in the fence. Sano saw stone steps leading down to the sea, and, perhaps twenty paces beyond, the signs warning ships away from Deshima.

  “Were the gates open last night?” he asked the guards.

  Chief Ohira answered. “No. They’re opened only when the Dutch ship’s crew and cargo are ferried to or from Deshima. And I can assure you that the gates, and every part of the island, are under constant watch.”

  “Including last night?”

  “Including last night.”

  Sano examined the steps, but saw no footprints or other signs that anyone had recently descended them. “Does the island have a drainage system?” he asked.

  Chief Ohira tilted an exasperated glance skyward. “Underground pipes empty into the harbor below the sea. They’re narrow and crooked; nothing except water can pass through.” Obviously anxious to finish the tour, he said, “What do you want to see next?”

  Interpreter Iishino chimed in, “Show him the perimeter of the island, and Director Spaen’s rooms. Maybe he’ll find something you missed.”

  “I don’t take orders from you,” Ohira snapped. “And how dare you suggest that I’m incompetent?”

  Hands raised in supplication, Iishino grinned. “My apologies if I offended you, but I’m only trying to help.”

  “Well, don’t!”

  The chief’s reaction seemed extreme, even considering how unpleasant it must be to work with Iishino on a regular basis. Sano knew he would worsen his already adversarial relationship with Ohira if he took Iishino’s side, but he did intend to examine the areas the interpreter had suggested.

  “Interpreter Iishino, wait for me at Spaen’s quarters,” Sano said. “I’ll meet you there after Chief Ohira shows me the perimeter.”

  His attempt to defuse the conflict sent Iishino bustling off toward the main street, but didn’t pacify Ohira, who told the guards to close the water gates, then stalked away.

  Sano followed. “Would last night’s storm have interfered with security on Deshima?”

  Ohira gazed straight ahead as they followed a path that ran between high fences along the island’s outer curve. “I maintain strict control over Deshima. The weather does not interfere with it.”

  Something must have, Sano thought. He saw no scratches on the fences’ smooth, weathered boards, or anything caught on the spikes to suggest that a man had climbed over them. He wondered if Ohira’s defensiveness indicated mere resentment of a challenge to his authority, or guilt. What had really happened on Deshima last night?

  “When and where was Director Spaen last seen?” Sano asked as he and Ohira turned the corner and moved down the island’s west side.

  “At midnight. When the guards inspected his room, he was there. They locked him in.”

  Regardless of how Spaen had gotten out of his room, he could have been gone for hours before anyone discovered him missing. “You must be well acquainted with Director Spaen by now. Have you any idea where he went when he left Deshima?”

  Halting abruptly, Chief Ohira faced Sano. “I don’t fraternize with the Dutch.” Fury whitened his nostrils. “I don’t break the laws. And if I knew anything about Spaen’s murder, I can assure you I would have said so.”

  Sano’s doubts about Ohira increased. If the chief was as blameless as he claimed, wouldn’t he be eager to cooperate with Sano? Stress sometimes affected people in odd ways, yet Sano couldn’t trust someone so antagonistic.

  “I’ll speak to your staff,” he said, “and see what they know about last night’s events.”

  An unhealthy sweat glistened on Ohira’s face, as if from a febrile illness. “I can assure you that I’ve already questioned all the guards, servants, and interpreters.” He glared at Sano. “No one saw, heard, or knows anything. They’re all trustworthy; you can believe they’re telling the truth.”

  Sano believed that subordinates often knew things they didn’t tell their superiors, but he didn’t argue. Ohira couldn’t deny him access to Deshima’s staff, and the chief knew it. “Let’s finish inspecting the perimeter, shall we?”

  This they did, to no avail, then returned to the main street. “Are you satisfied?” Ohira asked, a gleam of righteous vindication in his eyes.

  “For now. I’ll examine Director Spaen’s quarters next.”

  “This way, Sōsakan-sama, this way,” Iishino called from outside one of the houses. He led them up a flight of stairs to the balcony and slid open the door.

  The first thing Sano noticed when he entered the dim chamber was the rancid odor of barbarian. He opened the four shuttered windows—two overlooking the street, two above the rear garden—and noted the intact bars.

  “We already checked those,” Chief Ohira said from the doorway, where he stood with his arms folded.

  This finding, combined with his observations on the rest of the island, forced Sano to conclude that if Director Spaen had escaped Deshima without leaving a trace, he must have had help from someone on the Japanese staff. Had that person killed him, too? Temporarily postponing speculation on this dangerous subject, Sano observed the room’s unusual features.

  In one corner, a quilt-covered futon sat upon a low wooden platform. So it was true that barbarians didn’t sleep on the floor. A long-legged table held a carved ivory pipe and leather tobacco pouch, an oil lamp, a ceramic water jug and basin, and a crumpled rag—evidence that barbarians did bathe occasionally. Sano examined the straight razor, and a comb with yellow hairs caught in it. The mirror above the table reflected with amazing clarity his own surpris
ed face. A flat, round gold case on a chain contained a miniature version of Governor Nagai’s clock. Sano opened the cabinet that stood against the opposite wall.

  Inside hung dark cloaks, trousers, and surcoats, and white shirts. A rack above held two broad-brimmed black hats. Below stood a pair of shiny black leather shoes. A chest beside the cabinet held black stockings and peculiar white pants, shirts, caps, and robes that Sano guessed were barbarian underwear and nightclothes and, oddly, three short lengths of rope, kinked and frayed as if once knotted.

  “Why are these ropes here?” Sano asked his companions. “Is anything missing?”

  From the doorway, Ohira made an irritated sound. Interpreter Iishino shrugged and said, “Barbarians have strange customs.” He pawed through Director Spaen’s apparel. “All here except for one suit of clothes, which he must have been wearing when he left.”

  So Jan Spaen had either planned a short absence, or had preferred to travel light. “What’s in there?” Sano asked, indicating a door in the room’s interior wall.

  Iishino opened it and the windows in the adjoining chamber. “Director Spaen’s office.”

  To Sano, accustomed to the bare austerity of Japanese rooms, the office seemed very full and cluttered. Papers littered a high desk; goose feathers with ink-stained tips served as writing implements. Ledgers stood piled around an open iron chest. Sano lifted the stiff leather cover of one volume and saw columns of scrawl. He examined the long-necked stringed musical instrument that leaned against the wall, and the high wooden seat whose back looked like a section of a ladder. He studied the strange objects on the windowsill, the materials mounted on the wall above the desk—and realized that, knowing little of Dutch culture, he could scarcely hope to glean information about Jan Spaen’s character and motives from his possessions.