“Me? Ah, I’m always fine. The doctor worries about this, the doctor worries about that, and I live my life the way I want to. Business is good. Maybe too good. I’d rather do less, but my little shop has a reputation to support, yes?” Again, we both laughed. That was the same answer he’d given to that question since the first time I’d asked it, which was many years ago now. Sam slowly shook his head as he stopped laughing.
“So, Jeffry. Is there big trouble in our small town, or are you just passing through from one trouble to the next?”
“Nothing so terrible that we can’t handle it Sam. Although, I probably could use a good blade while I’m here. For my… collection.” Sam understood exactly what I meant.
“Do you need large, medium, or small?”
“Maybe I could make do with something medium.”
Sam pondered that for a moment. “So, large but not large, yes?”
Now it was my turn to ponder. “Mmm, that might be Okay, but I have to be able to walk around without drawing to much attention, Sam. A sword is out of the question.” We both laughed again. Sam refilled our glasses, Godsen’s needing only a few drops to top it up. Then he stood suddenly and said, “Wait right here, I might have just the thing for you Jeffry.”, then he walked out through the curtain, leaving us alone at the table.
Godsen took another cautious sip of her drink and set it down again. She couldn’t help herself, she had to ask.
“Jeffry, what are we supposed to be doing here?”
“You mean right now?”
“Yes, I mean right now. Tell me.”
“Two things. First, we’re dumping any possible tail we might have. Second, I need a new blade. I will not pass up the opportunity to acquire a fine new blade. Sam has them. He always has something special, and I am a collector.”
“So, we’re here buying you more weapons.” Then she added, “As if you needed them.”, showing her thanks in a round-about way for pulling her out of the fire this morning. I took the compliment at face value. What Godsen didn’t know about the field was practically everything. There had to be some allowances made. I tried.
“It’s not the individual so much as how the individual reads the situation, that’s all. I had a feeling, and I’m used to acting on them. That whole scene was just an automatic response, if you’ll forgive the pun.” Before she could answer me, Sam came back through the curtain, carrying a black box about a foot and a half long, six inches wide, and about three inches deep. The box was newly made, for sure. What was in it, Sam would let me know.
He made a fuss of placing it in front of me, first laying out a blue velvet cloth to set the box on. Then he sat down and drained what was left in his glass and poured himself another kirsch sitting there like the cat that ate the canary.
“So? What? You don’t want to look?” I smiled at the table in general and made ready to see what the fuss was about.
I undid the two stainless steel latches at either end and then took the key, which was hanging on a small blue ribbon from the handle in the centre of the case, and unlocked the thing. Slowly I opened the case, savouring each new moment of exposure, until the top half of the case laid flat against the table, and the contents of the case were revealed.
I was over whelmed by the beauty of the piece, the graceful simplicity, the obvious age and value. I had a small collection, but nothing of this class was in my display case at home. It was a wakizashi. Basically, a miniature version of a true Samurai sword. Not the ones you see people commit hara-kiri with on television. This was a fighting weapon, in all aspects. It looked very old, and very valuable.
My guess was the handle was made of a core of the hardest wood available at the time, placed in carefully constructed rings around a one-piece steel construction, and then carefully hand wrapped several times with cured suede, rough side up. The result was a handle that was very easy to hold onto, even under extreme circumstances. And the blade, oh, the blade. The edge shone and gleamed, even in the indirect lighting of the small room. I picked the knife up with both hands on the leather wrapping. The light seemed to seek out the edge, and then reflect, like it was a mirror. Sam took the loupe off of his neck, and handed it across the table, setting it down in front of me. I picked it up and looked at the edge of the weapon. It had never been sharpened by someone without the right skills, because I could see no trace of it at all. I used one hand to hold it while I used the other to try to find the balance point. It was just an inch or so in front of the handle. I looked up at Sam, then put it back in the case, picking up the scabbard. It was plain, made of some kind of hardwood and leather, the leather parts having been lovingly restored, with a strong Ostrich leather, in dark burgundy. That matched the wood, which had been stained an odd red colour. The age showed on the wood, it had several nicks and indentations. The grain of the wood was allowed to show through the stain, and it was a lovely grain, but the scabbard was not made to be beautiful. This was obviously a fighting weapon, not ceremonial. I placed the scabbard back in its place in the box.
Sam reached for the edge of the velvet and pulled it towards him, placing the knife within his reach. Then he looked at me and smiled.
“What do you think of my little jewel?”
“Sam, that is one of the most brilliantly crafted blades I have ever seen, and you know it. That’s an original, handmade to someone’s personal specifications. Probably a real Samurai, which gives us some idea of its age, and therefore value. Priceless. The scabbard has been reworked where the leather was replaced, as at least the top layer of wrap on the handle was. As for the blade itself, I can’t tell if it’s ever been worked on since it was made. That would seem to indicate that either the blade was never used, or when it was sharpened, it was done by the most capable Japanese sword specialist I’ve ever heard of, and even then, I just don’t believe the blade’s been tampered with since its creation. That blade is by far the most beautiful piece you’ve ever shown me Sam.” I raised my glass for a toast.
“To a magnificent work of art.” I downed my kirsch, as did Sam. Even Godsen took a sip, wanting to be in on it.
Sam kept on smiling, leaning over the table a bit, filled my glass, then went for Godsen’s but she was too quick for him, covering her small glass with one hand, then he sat back down.
“Well my friend, I have a further surprise in store for you.” Standing up, he took the weapon out of the case, being careful to touch only the handle. “Would you be so kind as to watch carefully as I demonstrate this for you?”
Firstly, he drew a small piece of paper out of his jacket side pocket with his left hand, holding the weapon now with his right. Moving the chair out of his way, he took one full step backwards, putting both Godsen and I out of his reach. With his left hand he held the paper high, for Sam anyway, and then let it drop. As the paper started fluttering towards the ground, Sam’s right hand moved like a striking cobra, flashing out and bisecting, then trisecting the once-whole paper. The three resulting pieces fell to the floor. Sam stood back, and gesturing with his left hand, said “Would you care to look at the pieces?”
I gave him a slight smile. He was having fun with this. “Certainly.” I stood and went around the table to bend over and pick up the three pieces of paper, then I went back to my seat. I looked carefully at the paper. It was cut irregularly, but the cut was so clean that with the naked eye I couldn’t tell a cut side from an original side. I picked up the loupe and had a closer look. With magnification, it was possible to see a difference in the original printer’s cut and the cut made by the blade. The one made by the blade was cleaner. I slowly raised my head and looked at Sam.
“This is the real thing, isn’t it?”
Sam moved his chair back into place and sat down, carefully holding the blade away from the table and us. Then he moved the knife over the table, resting it blade up on the blue velvet. With an admonishment to please be careful of the edge, he picked a long blonde hair from the right sleeve of his jacket. Mimicking a magician, he
asked us again to keep a close eye on the blonde hair. Then he carefully laid the hair gently on the velvet, across the blade. As soon as the hair touched the blade it parted in two. Then Sam placed the blade back in the case and sat back waiting for the reaction.
I was stunned. I’d seen magnificent examples of the blade-makers’ art before, but… never like this, and I thought I’d seen it all.
“Sam. How.., No. Where did this come from? Is it the real thing, or have I just been hoodwinked?”
“Oh, oh, oh, ha, hmm.” Sam had the oddest laugh, it took some getting used to. Godsen gave me a ‘What’s Up’ kind of look.
“Jeffry, if I could tell you the story of this weapon, I could write a book that would make me a very rich man.”
“Sam, you already are a very rich man.” I pointed out. He waved away my comment with a complete sense of true modesty.
“This knife, Jeffry, is the real thing. You noticed the stamp of the maker in the blade next to the handle?”
“Yeah, but I don’t read Japanese very well.”
“It’s not a book that you must read, Jeffry. It is only the ideogram of the maker. Like a graphic symbol to us Western world types. This is the real thing, and it was made by one of the best sword maker’s in Japan’s history, Goro Nyudu Masamune. Every piece that he ever made is in a collection somewhere, private or otherwise. The Japanese Historical and Cultural Museum has two or three of his works. All ‘Samurai Swords’, by the way. As are all known pieces attributed to him. Ten years ago, there was a great scandal about one of his swords in a museum purchase that went through, and then during the preparation for display there was a small accident. A student under the tutelage of the weapons curator of the museum in question,” He leaned closer and whispered, “Boston,” as if it were a dirty word. “actually dropped the sword. It hit the leg of the work table as it fell to the floor. It produced a nick in the table leg, naturally, and cut through the tiles on the floor as it dropped. This produced a nick in the edge of the blade. Too small for the human eye, but extremely visible with electronic magnification. Masamune’s blades don’t have any nicks in them. I’ve had this blade tested at the University of Zurich, where I have a friend or two. Under the electron scanning microscope, we discovered that there were no nicks in the blade edge whatsoever except the ones that were done when it was made, and they aren’t nicks or scratches. They are the natural flow of the edge of the steel as it is rolled, over and over, until the result is what you see here today.
It has never had a sharpening. Unwrapping the rotted leather binding on the handle, showed us the wooden core of circlets that make up the main core. The wood is the same as that of the scabbard, except that it is in far finer condition, having been covered for all these years. Using carbon dating techniques from a sliver of wood on the core gave us the approximate age of the weapon. It is, as you say, ‘The Real Thing’.
How I came to be in possession of this particular piece is another story for another day. I’ve been saving it for something special, and now I know what that is.” He stood and formally stated his aim. “I wish to make a present of this very special weapon to my favourite collector. You, Jeffry.” He held out his hand. I stood and took it, shaking on the statement of giving and of my acceptance. I tried one time to allow Sam a way out of this.
“Sam, you have always been a good friend to me. Don’t you think this is too much though?”
“No, I do not. Yes, I comprehend the value of the piece, but I’m not getting any younger, and I’d prefer that you have possession of this piece rather than anyone else I know.”
“I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I will always be indebted to you.”
“Ah, but it is the other way around, my friend. This is just a small token of my affection for you, and for what you’ve done for my family. Consider this thing done. I also have a special carrying rig, custom made by myself, naturally. I will get it.” He left the room again.
Godsen could hardly wait until Sam had left the room. When she started in on me it was practically a whisper.
“Jeffry, what’s going on here? Is this… knife, I suppose you’d call it, really as valuable as all that? Even if it is, we have work to do. Shouldn’t we be getting out of here now?”
“Yes, and yes. Just sit tight for a moment or two more.”
Sam came back into the room holding a tan-coloured leather harness with scabbard attached. He came over to me as I rose from my seat. He pulled a tailor’s measuring tape out of his pocket and quickly made some measurements, then adjusted the harness. Slipping behind me, he held the shoulders of my jacket waiting for me to shrug it off into his hands. I shrugged.
It was obvious that he planned on fitting me with the harness right here and right now. Sam was familiar with the fact that I had carried twin Colts in the past, so there was no surprise when the jacket came off and my rig was exposed. As he came around the front again though, he spotted the H&K right away, and paused to look at it then me.
“Jeffry. What are you doing with this gun? This is new, yes? I thought you would never part with those two Colts you used to wear. Your ‘twin brothers’, you used to call them. Now you have only one?”
“No, Sam. I still have the other one. This H&K is a gift from my new friends, and I’m just testing it out to see if I like it.”
“Ahh. I see, and would some of this testing have already taken place in Dietikon this morning?”
“One with the Colt, one with the H&K. It works alright.”
“I should have known.” He shook his head. He knew something about it.
“Sam, tell me what you know.”
“It’s not what I know, my friend, it’s what I don’t know.”
“Okay, elaborate then.”
“So, I’ll work while I talk. I want this to go underneath the rig you’re wearing now. Can we take it off for a minute?”
“Sure. Hang on.” I reached up with both hands and pulled the H&K out with my left, and the Colt with my right. Then I stood there, holding both of my guns, one in each hand, arms down by my side. “Okay, go ahead.”
Sam started removing my rig while I shifted my attention from left to right hand as he worked.
“There were rumours going around town. When I say around town, I mean that Bruno Scarpatto himself was overheard by a mutual friend whose details we’ll skip over just now, telling his lieutenants that there was someone making very large scores in his territory, and he wasn’t happy about it. He wanted the names of the gentlemen involved, and the name of the organization they worked for. Apparently, the last team he’d sent out had failed to return. To anywhere. This was making Bruno irritated, and he had called in four of his ‘compadres’ from Sicily. The Sicilians do everything the easy way, once.
These people run Europe, Jeffry. It is of no concern to anyone outside his organization how that works. We, on the other hand, know all too well how it works. That was several days ago. They were under strict instructions to check in twice a day with Bruno. Yesterday they failed to make the second report. They had traced some of the soldiers back to Zurich, and were going to pick them up and bring them in to Bruno’s Chalet for a face to face chat. It hasn’t happened yet, and the way things look, it isn’t likely to happen any time soon. These must be the people you are looking for, or who are looking for you? However, it is, I hope that you succeed well, because these people are very dangerous. More than in the old days and it was bad then. The ones you, shall we say entertained?, at your hotel this morning had no records and no identification of any kind. Interpol is involved, and they also know nothing. One thing I do know these men are hard, like from the old school. They’re trained, and they have access to superior materials than the police do. That’s all I know for now. Would you like if I should see what I can find out?” As he wound down with the question, he stepped back and said, “So, try it, now.”
First, I put both of my .45’s back in their holsters. Then, I stepped over to a full-length mirror in the corner
of the room. The way he’d made the rig for the blade used a latch-lock over the handle, which was hanging downwards at a twenty-five-degree angle from my underarm. I reached over with my right hand and slipped the blade out of its rig. The latch-lock unhooked easily with a thumb flick, which dropped the handle right into my hand. Mindful of the blade edge, I slipped it out of the scabbard. It came out easily. Putting it back was a two-handed job though. With the knife he had to work with, he’s done an excellent job. As usual. The big thing for me though was that it didn’t interfere with either gun. The knife was eighteen inches in overall length, and the blade was twelve of those inches. I turned back to Sam.
“This is a lovely rig Sam, and an absolutely beautiful blade. Under the loupe, it showed no nicks or scars on the edge, yet it’s three hundred years old. Was it never used for anything more than decoration?” Sam gestured with his fingers, the universal ‘give it here’ sign. I carefully released the catch, letting the handle drop into my hand, and slipped the blade out of the scabbard for the second time, and handed it to Sam two-handed. Carefully.
Sam was grinning ear to ear by now. Behind his seat at the little table was a small workbench with a vise. He had a ¼ inch round iron file in the clamps of the vise. Maybe doing some touch-up work, because the file was a very fine grade, you couldn’t pick out the lines on it, it was that smooth. Sam moved to the workbench and carefully gauging the whereabouts of the occupants in the room, drew his right hand up and back, and then let loose with a swooping motion to the left. There was a small ‘clinic’ of sound as the top half of the file fell to the top of the workbench. He then walked back over to me and handed the knife back, two handed, the way I’d given it to him.
“You can go ahead and check the edge if you want to, but you won’t see anything there. Possibly on the back of the knife you might find a few flakes of the iron file, but that comes off with a soft cloth.”
I was stunned. And so was Godsen. Neither of us had seen anything like it before. I’d heard the stories of the ancient Samurai swords that were custom made for each Samurai family, and the special ones that were made by the secret traditional method that passed only from father to son, and remained within the Family that the Samurai belonged to. I was holding one in my hands now, and I couldn’t believe it. This was the real thing. This was a gift of immense proportions. Sam had been old and white haired when I first met him, and that had been years ago now. I think he was trying to settle up in his own way. I wasn’t quite sure what to say, and the occasion called for some words on my part.
The Diamond Dust on Dragonfly Wings: A Jeffry Claxton Mystery Novel Page 40