The Way of the Traitor Read online

  “Tell me what these things are,” Sano said to Iishino. Chief Ohira had walked to the window, where he gazed down at the garden.

  “This is Director Spaen’s lute,” Iishino said, tapping the musical instrument. “He played very well, and sang and danced, too. When he went to Edo to pay homage to the shogun, His Excellency was very impressed with his talent, very impressed.”

  Hurrying to the windowsill, Iishino held up a stack of cards with a colored picture of a female barbarian on one side and strange symbols on the other; two long, curved, pointed teeth; and a leathery conical object.

  “Dutch playing cards—Director Spaen liked to gamble—tiger fangs, from India, and a rhinoceros horn from Africa. He was a great hunter.” The interpreter’s eyes misted with regretful admiration. He pointed at the wall above the desk. “Maps of the world, the whole world, with all the trade routes marked. These pins show the places Director Spaen had been.” Iishino touched each one. “Japan, China, Taiwan, Korea, India, Indonesia, Africa, and all over Europe.”

  The maps were beautifully rendered in colored inks, with foreign script designating nations and cities. Sano, never having seen a map of the entire world before, felt a stab of surprise at how tiny Japan looked. How insignificant the Tokugawa empire must seem to the barbarians!

  “This is Piet Hein,” Iishino said, tapping a black-and-white drawing of a mustached barbarian. “He captured the Spanish silver fleet. Director Spaen admired him very much, very much. He said Hein inspired him to join the East India Company and fight his own battles for wealth. And this is a painting of a teahouse in Leyden, Director Spaen’s home city.”

  Surrounded by a gilt frame, the miniature painting depicted a group of laughing male barbarians who toasted one another, played cards and musical instruments, or fondled huge-bosomed female barbarians, while dogs and fowl scampered underfoot. The work seemed vulgar and overcolored compared to Japanese prints, but the realism was stunning. One could almost step into the scene.

  “Is anything missing from this room?” Sano asked.

  “Not that I can tell.”

  “What do these papers say?” Preferring to interpret evidence himself, Sano hated the ignorance that left him dependent on another man’s knowledge.

  Iishino riffled the papers on the desk. “These are Director Spaen’s calculations of profits on the sale of Dutch goods. He had to bring the accounts up to date before leaving Japan on the ship that just arrived. Another trader will take his place on Deshima, along with a new staff. None of the Dutch are allowed to stay more than two years, two years. Otherwise, they might get too friendly with Japanese citizens.”

  “The most recent sale of goods was a year ago, when the last ship came, wasn’t it?” At Iishino’s nod, Sano asked, “Then why did Director Spaen wait so long to prepare the accounts?”

  For some reason, this seemed to bother Iishino, who dropped his gaze and sidled away from Sano. Chief Ohira spoke from the window. “The barbarians are not as diligent as the Japanese, sōsakan-sama. I can assure you that Spaen’s procrastination was not unusual behavior for a lazy Dutchman, and can hardly have any bearing on his death.” Sarcasm edged Ohira’s voice. “Have you seen enough yet?”

  Sano could have pointed out that traveling around the world and making a fortune in international trade belied Dutch laziness. Iishino’s and Ohira’s responses to an innocuous question intrigued him. But he had yet to discover how this trader, musician, gambler, warrior, and hunter had escaped, where he’d gone, or who had killed him. There were no weapons, blood, signs of a struggle, or any other evidence of murder in these rooms or any other place he’d so far inspected on Deshima.

  “I’ll see the barbarians now,” Sano told Ohira, unable to put it off any longer.

  Interpreter Iishino and Chief Ohira led Sano down the main street of Deshima, under mellow sunlight that had warmed the air with the deepening afternoon. “What are the names of the two barbarians presently on the island?” Sano asked.

  “Assistant Trade Director Maarten deGraeff,” Chief Ohira said, “and Nicolaes Huygens, ship surgeon.”

  Dr. Ito’s source of information about foreign science! The letter beneath Sano’s sash seemed to expand. To cover his eagerness, he said quickly, “What sort of relationships did the barbarians have with Director Spaen? Were they friendly? Did they have any disagreements?”

  Ohira frowned. “The law prohibits my forming a close acquaintance with barbarians. I’m not in a position to know how they feel about one another. And I can assure you that they always behave civilly in my presence. I don’t tolerate unruliness.”

  “The barbarians try not to let us interpreters overhear anything important,” Iishino said. “But sometimes they fail.” He pantomimed listening at a door. “I once heard Spaen and Assistant Director deGraeff arguing about ‘private trade.’ I don’t know what that meant, because they saw me and stopped talking.”

  “And Dr. Huygens?” Sano said.

  “He takes meals with the others and treats them when they’re sick, but otherwise he keeps to himself.”

  “This is where Assistant Director deGraeff lives,” Ohira announced.

  Sano followed Ohira up to the balcony of a house near the west guard station, glad to learn of Spaen’s acrimonious relations with at least one comrade. So much the easier to implicate a barbarian in the crime. Only the thought of the Dutch ship dampened Sano’s rising spirits. How would the barbarian crew react to news of Spaen’s murder?

  Guards admitted Sano, Ohira, and Iishino to an office whose basic layout resembled Director Spaen’s. But the walls were bare, the floor uncluttered. Stacked ledgers stood on the desk, edges perfectly aligned. The only personal item visible was a small framed picture, turned facedown. Two more guards and a servant kept watch over Assistant Director deGraeff, who sat at the desk, spine straight, writing with an inked goose quill. He wore a brown coat, black knee-length trousers, stockings, and shoes, and a wide-collared white shirt. His stench permeated the hot, stuffy atmosphere.

  “The honorable investigator will speak with you now!” Chief Ohira barked at the Dutchman.

  Interpreter Iishino translated. The guards yanked the barbarian out of his seat and shoved him onto the floor, shouting, “Bow down!”

  The barbarian prostrated himself. Alarmed by the tone Deshima’s staff had set for the interview, Sano said, “Please get up and return to your seat.” This man was a representative of the powerful nation whose ship waited offshore, and Sano saw nothing to be gained from antagonizing witnesses. When the barbarian had resumed his place, Sano eyed him cautiously.

  Tall and spare, Assistant Director deGraeff had lank gray hair that fell to his shoulders. Gray stubble shadowed his face, which was long and narrow, with a pointed nose, thin mouth, and deeply cleft chin. A craggy brow overhung his wary gray eyes.

  Sano introduced himself, then said, “I’m sorry to bring you bad news. Director Jan Spaen is dead.”

  The barbarian looked to Iishino, who translated. Sano hated this tedious method of communication. Uneasily he wondered whether he could trust the officious interpreter not to twist his words, or the barbarian’s.

  DeGraeff clasped his hands and bowed his head over them, remaining silent for a moment before he spoke.

  “He thanks you for the information,” Iishino said. “He will assume Director Spaen’s responsibilities at once, so that trade may proceed without interruption.”

  Now Sano found an unexpected advantage in not knowing the suspect’s language. Without the distraction of words, he could concentrate on deGraeff’s expression and tone of voice while the barbarian spoke. Before deGraeff averted his eyes in prayer, Sano had glimpsed an odd look in them: shock, or elation? Sano thought it significant that deGraeff hadn’t asked the obvious question: How did Spaen die?

  “Director Spaen was murdered,” Sano said. “His killer must be caught and punished. Therefore, I must ask you some questions.”

  DeGraeff listened to the translation, n
odded, replied. “He’ll cooperate fully,” Iishino said. He spoke to deGraeff in Dutch, then said to Sano, “I told the barbarian that he should tell us everything he knows right now. If he refuses, he’ll be beaten.” Smiling, he waited for Sano’s approval.

  Resisting Iishino’s attempt to lead the interrogation, Sano addressed deGraeff. “I understand that you haven’t eaten all day. I apologize for your discomfort. Food will be brought to you soon.” To Iishino: “Tell him what I said. And from now on, I’ll ask the questions.”

  Iishino’s mouth formed a circle of surprise. “But sōsakan-sama—”

  “Just do it!” Sano said, exasperated by the constant interference. Would that he spoke Dutch, and could manage without Iishino! While the interpreter translated, Sano told the servant, “Bring the food, and be quick.”

  The servant rushed from the room. Ohira and the guards eyed Sano with disapproval. “You are very kind to the barbarian,” Ohira said in an accusing tone. “Is that wise?”

  Sano remembered the oath he’d taken, and wondered uneasily whether feeding a hungry man could be misconstrued as promoting Dutch interests over Japanese. Another wrong step, so soon after placating the ship’s crew? But he read in the barbarian’s strange, pale eyes the relief that here at last was a reasonable, compassionate Japanese official. Perhaps deGraeff would cooperate out of gratitude.

  “When and where did you last see Jan Spaen?” Sano asked.

  The barbarian spoke, and Iishino translated: “At sunset last night, during our evening meal in the common room.”

  “What did you and your comrades do after the meal?”

  “I went to my chambers, and assumed the others went to theirs. It was the usual routine. There was a bad storm, so I stayed in all night.”

  Even without understanding Dutch, Sano couldn’t mistake the barbarian’s weary, rehearsed tone: DeGraeff must have answered these same questions many times. “Did you see or hear anything unusual outside?”

  “Nothing except the rain and thunder.”

  “Did you know Director Spaen had left Deshima, or where he was going?”

  “No; he didn’t tell me,” Iishino translated as deGraeff leaned his head on his bony hand.

  “How long had you known Director Spaen?” Sano asked, “and what was your relationship with him?”

  The barbarian spoke, eyes devoid of emotion. “They met ten years ago, in Batavia, Indonesia,” Iishino said. “DeGraeff was a clerk for the East India Company, and Spaen was an assistant trade director then. They traded European goods for spices, then sold the spices around the world. The company was pleased with their profits. They were promoted and assigned to Japan.”

  “Were you and Spaen on friendly terms?”

  DeGraeff’s smile bordered on a sneer. Beneath his courtesy, Sano detected a harsh, uncompromising nature, an antipathy toward people in general. “Of course. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have asked the company to keep us together when we left Indonesia.”

  “What is ‘private trade’?” Sano asked.

  If this question surprised deGraeff, he didn’t show it. His gaze remained steady, his body still. “East India Company agents often buy and sell goods independently when they go on voyages, financing the ventures themselves. That is private trade.”

  “You use your employer’s ships to transport these goods and its trade networks to distribute them? Free of charge, while competing with the company?” To Sano, this sounded highly dubious, if not illegal. “Doesn’t this violate its monopoly on East Indies trade?”

  “We must compensate ourselves for the low salaries the company pays us.”

  Now Sano saw a possible motive for Spaen’s murder. “Did you and Director Spaen profit from your private trade?”

  This time the barbarian paused between Iishino’s translation and his own reply, though his expression didn’t change. “Yes. But I don’t see why it concerns you. Japan has no law against Dutch private trade. Your merchants don’t care whether they deal with the company or with individuals. And your shogun doesn’t care either, as long as he collects his share of the revenue.”

  “Who inherits Jan Spaen’s share of the profits?” Already guessing the answer, Sano moved closer to deGraeff.

  A flicker of emotion momentarily broke the barbarian’s gaze. “I do. I was his partner; he had no family.”

  Sano stopped as near deGraeff as the man’s foul odor would allow. “Is that why you killed him? For the money?”

  DeGraeff shot out of his chair. “I didn’t kill Spaen!” Gone was his spurious courtesy; anger flushed his cheeks.

  “Sit!” Sano ordered. Alarmed and frightened, he held his ground against the towering barbarian. “You admit you broke your country’s law for the sake of profit. Why would you stop short of murder?”

  With a sigh of exasperation, deGraeff sat, crossed his legs, and folded his arms. He looked at the ceiling instead of at Sano or Iishino when he spoke. “Jan Spaen had only ten thousand koban to his name. He liked women and gambling. He speculated on ventures that didn’t always work out. He was better at spending than saving. I had more to gain by continuing our partnership than by killing Spaen for such a paltry sum. Now, may I please return to my work? The guards tell me the ship has arrived. There’s much to be done, and Spaen’s death has left it all to me.”

  Sano didn’t consider ten thousand koban paltry; in Japan, it could keep a man in comfort for a lifetime. “How exactly would you benefit from continuing your partnership?” he asked, hiding his fear of another unnerving face-off with a barbarian. “Why couldn’t you use Spaen’s money to buy more goods, then carry on alone?”

  “Neither of us could have accomplished alone what we did as a team. We worked well together.”

  “But you recently quarreled about the private trade, didn’t you?” Sano said.

  The barbarian picked up the picture that lay on his desk, turning it over to reveal an oil painting of a cobbled street lined with stone houses. DeGraeff contemplated the image while he listened to Iishino’s translation. Then he laid the painting aside—face up. “Spaen and I often argued. He had a quick temper, as do I. But we always settled our differences to our mutual benefit.”

  So you claim, Sano thought. The barbarian’s odor had grown stronger from nervous perspiration. “Did Dr. Huygens also have disputes with Spaen?”

  “My job is to ensure that trade proceeds smoothly. As long as it does, my colleagues’ personal relationships are none of my business.”

  Was this evasive answer an expression of genuine ignorance, loyalty to comrades, or something else? Sano couldn’t believe that after two years’ virtual imprisonment together, quarrels hadn’t arisen between the men, or that deGraeff would not know of them. Once again, he felt handicapped by his lack of knowledge about Dutch culture.

  “What were you doing the night Director Spaen disappeared?” Sano asked.

  “I worked, here. Then went to bed. The guards can verify that. They were outside my room the whole time.”

  Sano predicted that the guards would corroborate his story even if it wasn’t true, for two possible reasons. To do otherwise would be tantamount to admitting negligence. And Sano couldn’t imagine deGraeff disposing of Director Spaen’s corpse alone. One or more Japanese must have played a role in the murder—at the very least, facilitating a coverup. With difficulty, Sano relegated this unwelcome thought to the back of his mind. DeGraeff had sufficient motive for murder. Sano just needed evidence to prove his guilt.

  “I apologize for invading your privacy, but I must search your quarters now,” Sano said.

  “He says go ahead; he has nothing to hide,” Iishino said after the barbarian spoke.

  Sano went through deGraeff’s office without finding anything except more ledgers, writing supplies, pipe, and tobacco pouch. There were no travel souvenirs; no hunting trophies such as Director Spaen had owned. What, besides a mutual desire for money, had bound these dissimilar men together? Sano moved on to deGraeff’s adjoining bedchamber,
where the same austerity prevailed. Cabinets and chests held a minimum of worn clothing.

  “Those are everything he has, and it’s all there, all there,” Iishino said. “There’s nothing that doesn’t belong, either.”

  From the doorway, Assistant Director deGraeff and Chief Ohira watched, expressions stony.

  “What are these?” Sano asked Iishino, holding up some papers he’d found in the bedside cupboard. All bore red censors’ seals; the law required that foreign documents be inspected before entering Japan.

  Iishino bustled over and scanned the papers. “Letters from Assistant Director deGraeff’s father. He is dying, and begs his son to come home, become a priest, and take over his position in the village church.”

  The paucity of clues discouraged Sano, as did the absence of blood. He looked under the futon, bed, and other furniture; he examined floor and walls for secret hiding places. But he found no knife, which could have been dumped into the sea along with Spaen’s corpse. Sano peered out the window into the yard. The ground looked hard and smooth, the grass kept short by the barbarians’ grazing cow. The soil in the vegetable garden seemed undisturbed. Sano guessed that a search for buried evidence would prove futile.

  DeGraeff spoke. Iishino said, “He asks if you’re satisfied that he didn’t kill Director Spaen.”

  Far from it, Sano thought, yet he was forced to admit temporary defeat. Identifying the killer—and incriminating the Dutch—wouldn’t be easy. Keenly he regretted the inner drives that always endangered his life. What cruel god had endowed him with this fatal curiosity and desire for truth?

  The servant returned with a tray of food, which the barbarian eyed hungrily.

  “Well, sōsakan-sama,” Chief Ohira said, “do you still think you can solve the mystery?”

  With an effort, Sano kept his voice and expression untroubled. “That will be all for now,” he told the Dutchman. He nodded to the servant, who set the tray before deGraeff.