For an instant, no one moved. Then the steel hiss of a katana being drawn split the silence. Kitsune looked back in time to see one of the generals leap toward Asano, his blade raised above his head to split the sitting man in two with one stroke.
Just as he was about to bring the sword down, Maseda appeared behind Asano, his own katana blocking the other man’s and sending it spinning off into a corner of the room. Just as quickly, Maseda’s blade was at the man’s throat, followed by the other two generals and Captain Ikama’s swords.
“General Tokushu, I hereby arrest you on the charge of murder of our Lord Yoshitsune,” the captain said. “Generals Konami, Ryuga, please escort the general to a holding cell and place him under guard until his trial.”
The two generals escorted the now pale Tokushu out of the room. The once proud general could be heard muttering as he left. “Demon cat…how could it have known?”
Once the general was gone, Captain Ikama turned to Asano. “Indeed, how did the cat know?”
“Well, the cat was part of the solution, but not the entire solution,” Asano said. “When I saw that Ningpo-san was a painting cat, I realized how I could trap the murderer.
“To be fair, Ningpo is possessed of uncommon skill. I simply left her in here with rice paper and paint, and she supplied me with several paintings. It was then a simple matter of selecting the one that most closely resembled a samurai and making a few artistic additions to strengthen the image. In particular, I added the paw prints, knowing that that would be the final touch that would unmask the villain.”
“But how did the paw prints make the difference?” Kitsune asked.
“That was the crucial element for all three men,” Asano replied. “Once I found out which regiment the three generals belonged to, I selected the paw print for the kimono marking because each of the men would identify with it.
“I believe I see what you mean,” Captain Ikama said. “Tokushu-sama would see the prints as the marking of the lotus, Konami-sama would interpret them as a crane unfurling its wings to fly—”
“—and Ryuga -sama would see a tiger sitting on its haunches, each one the symbol of their regiment. The killer would think the cat had marked him as guilty—” Kitsune said.
“—and betray himself, although I thought the criminal would try to flee rather than kill the only witness,” Asano said.
“You mean Tokushu-sama was trying to kill the cat?” the captain asked.
“Well, both of us actually,” Asano said. “That was why I was holding Ningpo-san on my lap, to present a more tempting target.”
“Amazing,” Captain Ikama said. “But what of the province? Who will run it now?”
“I think the best way to handle the question of which general will be governor until Yoshitsune’s son becomes of age would be to make none of the generals governor. Rather, I will draw up a formal decree, backed by the Imperial Palace, that will make you, Captain Ikama, governor of this province until the boy is of ruling age. I trust this will be suitable?” Asano asked with a smile.
Captain Ikama could only nod at this most heavenly turn of events. And Ningpo, still sitting on Asano’s lap, smiled her inscrutable smile, looking for all the world as if the events of that day had unfolded just as she had wished.
Back to TOC
Plugged
Chantelle Aimée Osman
I knew the dame was trouble from the minute she came into my office. Her stabilizers wheezed and contracted like they had been compiled by a man named Juan in a second-hand refurb shop in Tijuana. Juan had done some work for me before, so I recognized his style. He wasn’t all bad, but I wouldn’t have tested him past the hundred K mark. This bird had passed that, circled back, and picked up a couple hundred thou more just for luck. She was obviously rattled. Her loose washers shook and the tiny beads of gear fluid she dropped like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs. Damaged goods.
But that didn’t stop her from shoving her twin engines in my face like she was new off the line. “Mr. Turner, you’ve just got to help me.”
“You’ve got a busted bolt, cutie. I don’t gotta do nothin’. Now grease those gorgeous gams and split. I don’t have time for sob stories.”
“But I can pay, or—”
I never found out what she was going to offer. The door to my office shook as something large-fisted and gorilla-like attacked it from the outside.
“You gearhead gumshoe, you’ve got my wife in there. Open up this door before I break it down.”
I shot to my feet and focused on the less-than-innocent kitten across from me. “What kind of sucker do you take me for? This some kind of racket?” I knew the set-up: catch me alone with the broad, make it look like there’d been an oil change…shake me down for whatever spare parts I had so as not to ruin my rep.
“It’s not what you think. That man isn’t my husband. You’ve got to help me.” She started leaking fluid faster than I could get my pants off.
“Crank your props, babydoll, and high-tail it out the back way. Ring my bell tomorrow, and give it to me straight. You’ve got a lot to answer for.”
“Gee, you’re aces, mister,” she said and made tracks out through the kitchenette.
Meanwhile my hinges were threatening to give up the ghost. I threw open the door. “What’s the big idea? I’m of half a mind to trip your circuit breaker.”
The beefy All-American oaf shouldered past me. It was clear he was well-oiled. Which was what I’d been planning to be by this point in the evening.
“Where’s Lola? I saw her come in here.”
I ducked and his knuckles barely missed my kisser. For someone a few quarts overfull, he was fast.
“I don’t know any Lola,” I jumped back as the Hercules tried again, but he lost his footing and fell backward. “And as you can see I’m as solo as a Dixie cup.”
He looked around, saw it was true, and all the fight went out of him.
“Maybe you wanna cool your jets and tell me what seems to be the problemo, buster.”
He pulled himself up into the very same chair the gorgeous gadget had vacated moments before. “I’m Jeff. Lola’s my wife, see.”
“So I gathered from the one-man show you were putting on in my hallway. I’m more interested in why you think she’d have been sequestered with a snoop.”
“She’s an actress. JCN Pictures.”
Now I cottoned to why she seemed so familiar. I’d seen her in her skivvies on the silver screen just last weekend.
“What’s that got to do with the price of a highball in Hollywood?”
“Well, she just got back from doing a stint in Mexico.”
“K balling?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
I shrugged. “Know the signs. She still had the shakes.” The Samson looked ashamed, like whatever the dame had done to get herself the one-way ticket to the desert was his fault. Maybe it was, but who was I to judge? “She seems to be making an effort to clear the junk, so that’s not why you’re here.”
He shook his head. “Since she got back, she…” I had to get up to get the galoot a rag. “She’s different.”
I’d heard it a hundred times. They find someone who understands them more in refurb. They’ve gotta leave their old life behind. “Hey, buddy, you’re probably better off. Twist’s no good, fallin’ apart at the seams.”
“No, bird dog, you’re not getting it,” he blew his nose into the chamois. “She’s not my wife.”
“I might be all wet, but seems to me like you busted in here looking for your anchor, now you claim she ain’t it? And you still didn’t explain why she’d need a shadow like yours truly.”
“Two weeks ago I picked her up at Lockheed, you know, in Burbank. I’d been waitin’ there an hour. The bird was delayed. Finally, she sashayed down the stairs, and I swear, she walked right past me. Not so much as a how’d ya do. Like I was a stranger. I grabbed her arm, for a second I thought she was going to blow a gasket and scream for the fuzz. But she loo
ked around and it was like she came out of a daze. Said, ‘Hiya, stranger, say you give me a hand with my luggage’ and that was that. Got her bag, got in the car and went home. I asked her about it later, said she thought it would be a gas to pretend she didn’t know me. There’ve been several other things like that, too. Turner, I just know that bot ain’t my wife.”
“She’s an actress, those types are all phony as a three-dollar-bill.” And maybe this joker’s deck was short a few aces.
“You’ve seen her flicks, she’s not good enough to lay one over on her own husband.”
A nasty thing to say, but accurate. “So what do you want me to do about this. Seems like you should ditch the dame.”
“I need you to prove she isn’t my wife. Then, I want you to find my Lola, the real Lola.”
“I didn’t hang out a shingle for my health. I’m gonna need some scratch, maybe even a ticket to Mexico, if that’s the last place your Lola was peeped.”
“Anything. Just please, find her, Mr. Turner. She’s my whole world.” This from a man who married a toaster. But his life wasn’t my business.
At least, not until the check cleared.
A cluster of magpies stood around the door to my office when I got in the next morning. Well, it was more like early afternoon thanks to the Vat 69, but I still hadn’t been expecting a crowd.
A flatfoot came rolling out. “This your office?”
“You know full well it is, Sam. You’ve been here often enough. What, need dupes of those snaps of your ball and chain?”
“It’s worse than that, Turner.” He stepped aside, and I saw what all the fuss was about. Lola. Cogs-up on my rug.
I’d known she was all wet, but had no idea she was going to flood all over my floor.
“Whatd’ya know about this, Turner?” I loved these lawmen whose coats barely covered their heaters.
“I swear, I’ve only seen that appliance once before. She came to my office yesterday. Don’t even know what she wanted, her fathead husband appeared and she took a powder.” I didn’t mention the salad from her steady in my pocket. Wouldn’t jump her battery, so why complicate matters?
“You do know who the stiff is, don’t ya, Turner?”
“Yeah. Lola, some chippy who flashes her gams on the flickers.”
“Sure. But she’s also Lola Marquez. Wife of Jeff Shelburne, head of JCN Pictures.”
Some of that I was expecting. But the “head of” was a blindside. Jeff seemed like someone who didn’t know horizontal hold from vertical, but goes to show ya, assumptions generally make you an ass. Maybe his daddy owned the company.
“That’s no never mind to me, what she’s doing deceased in my igloo is where my query lies.”
“You’re honestly telling me that you have no idea why this dame appears to be taking a dirt nap in your digs?”
“None. But you may want to talk to a man named Juan in Tijuana.”
“That seems redundant. Why?”
I pointed at the serial number on her undercarriage. “I recognize his John Hancock. He does refurb. Not all of his jobs are above hover board, if you follow.”
“That’s all you got? You sure I shouldn’t take you downtown and sweat you out?”
I laughed. Once. “We’ve played that game before, Detective Leslie. Don’t waste the taxpayers’ dime.”
“Well, you go get yourself some joe while we clear this up. But your first dime goes to calling me if you get a line, understand?”
“You got it, Leslie.”
I hightailed it out of there and down the street to the corner shop. I’d lied to the copper. I was no stool pigeon, and I always danced with who brought me. I used my first dime to call Jeff. I knew the fuzz hadn’t told him the bad business and I wanted to be the first to hear his reaction.
“What’s the idea, Sherlock? Rousting me out of a meeting. This better be good.” His butler’d said he was playing tennis in his backyard. I supposed it counted as a “meeting” if the ball met the racquet.
“Cool off, mac. I got some important questions to ask. First, why didn’t you tell me you were the big cheese over there at JCN?”
“I thought you knew. Hell, I thought everyone knew. Where’ve you been, under a rock? The rags have pictures of me and Lola almost daily. You better have something for me, or I’m gonna ask for a refund. And maybe not the nice way.”
“Have you seen Lola?”
“Not since yesterday. She ran outta here, broke all the crystal before she left, too. See, when I got home, she was already oiled, and had my heater. She’d found out somehow that I’d made the decision to give a big role she’d been promised to another bot. Younger model. Took a few pot shots at me and said she was going to spend the night with a friend. I let her go. Figured she’d sleep it off and be back today.”
He seemed to be leveling, but it was hard to tell with Hollywood types. They’d craft an alibi faster than their next script. But I still had the one card up my sleeve.
“I don’t know who her friend was, but I do know where she’s sleeping it off.”
“Oh? Where?” He seemed only mildly interested, and not at all concerned. Either he already knew, or he didn’t care.
“On the floor of my dugout. She ain’t coming home.” He usually seemed quick to go all ape-man, I figured maybe that would rouse him.
“Well you tell the lynx to stay there, I’m tired of her two-faced mug. I’ve got better, newer models in line. If she ain’t grateful for all I’ve given her, she can go back to where I found her, in the second-hand shop. Good riddance to that rubbish.”
He hung up before I could break it to him.
The flatfoot was right, I did need a cup of joe. Or something stronger. But first, I had one more call to make.
I had forgotten my shades and he morning sun reflecting off the chrome and brass of the junkyard was blinding. I was early to my meeting, but it was too late for most of the sorry stiffs in this place. Pulling my lid down over my eyes, I went around to the back door and knocked. Ted, the bot morgue attendant I’d done business with before, opened up a moment later.
“Looks like you had a rough night.”
“You and me both, kid.” I went to walk past him but he held up his hand to stop me.
“I’m sorry, I can’t let you in this time, Mr. Turner. I’m under real strict orders,” he checked around to see if we were alone. “See, we got…”
“You got Lola Marquez in there.” Ted looked at me like I was Blackstone so I had to set the record straight. “She got her ticket punched yesterday in my office, so I’ve got what you’d call a personal investment in this case.”
“An investment, Mr. Turner?” Maybe the kid wasn’t as tarnished as I gave him credit for. I slipped him a fiver and he escorted me back to where he had her on ice.
“Sorry, mister, but you caught me mid-siphon, so she don’t look her best right now.” Ted threw the sheet back partway. I slipped him another fiver and told him to scram and send Jimmy in when he showed.
I was only alone with the frame for a minute or two when Jimmy came in.
“This better be good, Turner, to get me outta bed before noon on a weekend.”
“See for yourself,” I pointed at the chassis under the sheet.
“Is that…?”
“Yep, Lola Marquez. As you can see, she needs a little more than a spit shine.”
“So that’s why you needed those snaps.”
“Did you bring ’em?”
“Yeah, but you’re gonna owe me big. Next time, none of that penny ante shots through the motel window bull. I want one of the big cases…or you could just let me take one of Lola, here.”
Jimmy was a quick draw with his camera, but I was quicker. I put my hand up, covering the lens. “Sorry, pal, Teddy’d get booted for it, and he’s my in. Anyway, I have a hunch that photo wouldn’t be worth the paper it was printed on.”
He looked confused, but sighed and put the camera away. “Here’s what I got,” he tossed a series
of snaps on top the sheet. “These ones I took at the airport three weeks ago.”
There was Lola coming down the airstairs of a PanAm Clipper in Burbank, just like Jeff’d said. “What about the others?”
He pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. “I don’t know how you know about these, Turner. I don’t want to know. But if they get traced back to me, you won’t need to bother bringing me to the junkyard, they’ll be lucky to find a bolt.”
He handed them over reluctantly, and I laid them out next to the others. These weren’t paparazzi photos or publicity photos. A much younger Lola was stripped down to gears, along with a few other bots, doing the types of things you wouldn’t write home about.
“I can see why the studio wanted these kept hush-hush, but a dame’s gotta make dough somehow,” Jimmy couldn’t keep his eyes off the glossies covering the corpse, but suddenly jerked up and looked at me. “Hold the phone…”
I gestured at the sheet.
He pulled it up slowly, stared a moment, then reverently recovered her. “But that’s not…” he couldn’t seem to get out the words.
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. Just needed your snaps to make it for certain.”
I had ’em all collected in my wikiup like so many baseball cards. Detective Leslie had brought Juan, the refurb guy, in from Tijuana on the promise of immunity, even though Cali prisons beat the hell out of Juarez on the whole. Jimmy, the shutterbug, was also in attendance. Shelbourne was late to the party.
“What, had another big meeting on the tennis court? Sit down. I called you all here because the woman who came back from Mexico three weeks ago—the woman who took the big sleep right here on this floor yesterday—wasn’t the famous actress, your wife, Lola Marquez.”
Jeff rolled his eyes. “That’s what I hired a gumshoe to prove. This seems like a waste of time.”
He made to leave and I fingered the .45 I always carry in a shoulder holster. Detective Leslie chose to look the other way. “Yeah,” I said. “But the coppers still need the lowdown.” Rather abruptly, he sat back down. “Jimmy, if you’d do the honors.”
Mystery! Page 9