I. Parker: Death on an Autumn River

“Please.”

A brief silence fell. Then Munata asked, “What about me, Excellency?”

“I must report what has happened. If you are in fact guiltless, I doubt you’ll receive more than an official reprimand for not having reported irregularities.”

Munata breathed a relieved, “Thank you, Excellency.”

Akitada went from the prefecture directly to Nakahara’s office. He wanted to confront the guilty party now rather than wait for the painstaking investigation by the police.

Nakahara was at work. Perhaps his fear of punishment had had a good influence on his work habits. Both clerks attended him, their brushes busy copying documents.

When he saw Akitada, Nakahara paled and stumbled through a greeting. He made an awkward comment on the Watamaro incident, murmuring, “What a shocking thing!”

Akitada cut him off. What have you done with the letters my clerk sent to me?”

“What letters? There have been no letters except for one. You got that.”

“Sadenari sent me regular progress reports.” Akitada let his eyes move over the clerks. “Someone in this office has intercepted them. One of you has been working for Watamaro.”

They stared at him. Nakahara gasped, “What do you mean?”

Nariyuki cried, “Working for Watamaro? Whatever for?” He turned to Tameaki. “Is that why you were forever carrying papers to his place? I didn’t know you were working for him, too. You’re a regular glutton for work.”

A shocked silence fell. Nariyuki was clearly not very bright. Nakahara understood, though. He flushed and looked at Tameaki.

The thin, pale Tameaki had grown several shades paler. “I wasn’t working for Watamaro,” he cried. His voice was shrill. “I was told to take those papers to him.”

Nakahara rose in outrage. “That’s a lie, Tameaki. How dare you accuse me, you repulsive little worm? I never liked you, but you seemed grateful and you worked hard. I see now it was all pretense so you could sell Watamaro information about orders and shipping details.” He shook a finger at the clerk. “It was you all the time! You won’t get away with this. I’ll have you arrested.”

Tameaki jumped up, looked about him like a cornered rat, then made a move toward the door.

“Running won’t do you any good, Tameaki,” Akitada said. “You’ll be found and it will all come out. The police are already investigating you.”

The clerk turned on Nariyuki. “You brainless, good-for-nothing idiot!”

Nariyuki grinned.

With a shout of fury and balled fists, Tameaki rushed him. The taller, stronger Nariyuki rose with surprising speed, caught him, flung him to the floor, and sat on him.

It had all come apart quite easily.

*

Tora knocked on the door of a shabby house in the poorest quarter of Naniwa. He had asked people living near the official hostel for directions. The door opened, and an old crone came at him with a long knife in her hand. Tora backed away.

“Careful, granny,” he said. “You might hurt someone.”

She lowered the knife. “I’d like to hurt the fat bastard that married my daughter. I thought you were him. What do you want?”

“Would that be the fat bastard who runs the official hostel?”

“Runs? The good-for-nothing bum sleeps there to rest up from beating his wife and child.”

“That’s the one. I’m Tora. I came to see the little girl.”

Her face wrinkled up. She wailed, “Oh, the poor child. What he did to her! Asoko, come here.”

A younger female crept up behind the old one and peered timidly over her shoulder. She had greasy hair, two black eyes, a swollen nose, and a split lip.

“My daughter,” said the old one and added, “He says he’s Tora.”

The woman nodded and gave him a tiny smile that revealed broken front teeth.

The old woman held the door open. “Come in then and see what he’s done, the devil.”

Tora stepped into the dry stench of abject poverty. They lived in one room and probably did their cooking outside-when they had food. In a dark corner, a bundle of dirty clothes lay on the dirt floor. The old crone gestured to them, and Tora went closer. At first he did not know what he was looking at, then he saw a pair of eyes gleaming like two black beads. Her face was as gray as the rags she lay on, but the feverish eyes were fixed on him.

She whispered, “Tora?”

“Yes, it’s me, little one.” His heart contracted. “What’s wrong?” he asked the women. They did not answer. He knelt beside the child. “What’s wrong, Fumiko? Are you in pain?”

A small, dirty hand emerged from the folds of fabric and crept toward him.

The grandmother said harshly, “The devil broke her arm and hurt her back so she can’t stand. He beat her with a piece of lumber. They brought her to her mother on a board.” She turned to her daughter. “You stupid slut, you should’ve come to me long ago, but you had to stay with your man and master. Even after he near killed Fumiko.”

The younger woman wailed, “I begged him to get a doctor.”

“As if that bastard cares what happens to either of you. So he beat you up, too. Serves you right.” She spat. Her daughter started to weep noisily.

The little girl watched them all without blinking. Tora peeled back the blanket and saw that her right arm was badly swollen and lay at an unnatural angle.” Reaching into his sash, he drew out some money. “Here,” he said to the old woman. “Get the best doctor you can find, and have him bring something for her pain.”

The grandmother bobbed her head and hurried out. Tora and the little girl’s mother waited. After a while, the mother sat down on the child’s other side. They did not speak. There was nothing to be said.

*

Akitada returned to a scene of violence outside the hostel. Screams reached his ears long before he saw the people gathered around its entrance. Still shaken from the night before, he started to run. Then he saw Tora. He was swinging a rope at the bloody back of the fat man who hung, tied by his arms to one of the rafters and with his toes barely touching the veranda floor. With every smacking impact of the rope, he convulsed violently and uttered a high-pitched scream. The onlookers encouraged Tora with shouts, and the rope returned with another whack. The fat man swung and screamed, the rope withdrew, returned to coil across his back, and he swung and howled again.

Akitada roared, “Tora!”

Tora did not turn, but he lowered his arm. The bloody rope curled in the dirt beside his boots.

The fat man went on screaming.

“You should’ve seen what that brute did to her. To them,” said Tora defensively.

“When I got there, the two women were in fear for their lives. And the poor kid was . . . more dead than alive.” He shook his head and looked at Akitada with deeply troubled eyes. “How can a man hurt a little child like that?” He looked at his hands as if they had suddenly turned into the claws of a wild beast. “You saw her, sir. She’s so little and weak. He’s starved her and beaten her and made her young life a hell. What sort of punishment would you give a man for that?”

“I don’t know, Tora, but you cannot take the law into your own hands in such a

public manner. It reflects poorly on us and encourages people to do the same without justification.”

Saburo snorted. Akitada shot him a repressive glance. “And you stood by and let it happen. I had hoped for better sense from you.” The comment about monkeys falling from trees still rankled.

Both of them looked offended now.

Saburo said, “Lecturing a man like that fat slob is like reading a sutra to a horse. Tora taught him a lesson he understands.”