Shadows of Tokyo

by Matthew Legare

  Kill a woman? Ridiculous!

  “Stop hiding behind your wife, Onishi-zan,” Nakajima said.

  Disgust appeared on Baroness Onishi’s face alongside rage and panic.

  “You impudent peasant,” she sneered.

  There was no time for this. Sheathing the sword, he pulled out the Nambu and aimed it straight at her face.

  “Move. Now.”

  “What kind of man are you? Pointing a gun at a woman?” she said, swatting the Nambu away. On the floor, Baron Onishi hacked and wheezed. “I spit on your ancestors, your family, and you!”

  A chorus of gasps erupted from behind. Nakajima turned and found three servants gathered by the doorway, their faces disfigured in horror. He spun the pistol around and ordered them out. But despite their transparent fear, they remained still.

  “Get out,” the Baroness commanded. “Call the Police.”

  The servants nodded and obeyed, retreating from the room. Ah, such loyalty was admirable, even if it was to the corrupt Onishi family. He turned back to face the dying Baron.

  “Leave me,” Onishi said to his wife. “Please.”

  “Never,” she said, kneeling beside him. Her tears fell to the floor, mixing with his blood. “My life ends with yours.”

  Perhaps these well-fed aristocrats did have a sense of honor. Nakajima lowered the pistol. Baron Onishi’s face rapidly drained of color, but maintained a grim resolution. Clutching him in her arms, the Baroness was soon awash in his blood.

  “Get me…get me,” Baron Onishi strained through gasps, “our family sword.”

  The Baroness nodded and started for the wakizashi short sword, still perched on the daisho. Ah, the Baron was going to commit seppuku. An honorable death, but resentment welled deep inside Nakajima. Baron Onishi’s death was to be assassination, not ritual suicide. He looked up and saw Chitose-oneesan in the corner, staring at him with wide, burning eyes.

  “Kill them, Hajime,” she said. “Kill them both.”

  As the Baroness shuffled back to her husband, clutching the wakizashi, Nakajima took aim and fired. A massive hole exploded out of the Baroness' temple, spraying the bookshelf with gore. Her dainty body collapsed onto the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Baron Onishi’s composure finally cracked and he vomited an agonized scream. Now he held her and stroked what was left of her gray hair. His pained face looked ready to shatter into a thousand pieces.

  “Now you know loss, Baron,” Lieutenant Nakajima said, the Nambu hanging by his side. “Now you are the hungry farmers, the unemployed, the girls sold like cattle. The New Japan begins with your death.” He took aim once again. “Tenchu!”

  He saw Chitose-oneesan smile and opened fire.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Standing at full attention before Superintendent Shimura’s desk, Aizawa tried not to let his anger show.

  “Sir, please reconsider,” he said.

  “Kuroki-san is not a threat to anyone. When I released him, he personally apologized to me for the trouble he caused.”

  “Sir, Kuroki was close to confessing. We just needed to chill him a little longer.”

  “Enough!” the Superintendent said, bolting from his chair. “We have real crimes to contend with, Inspector. Why should the Metropolitan Police concern itself with some brainless patriot who only wants to kill himself?”

  Aizawa clenched his jaw and tightened his fists. “Sir…I beg you to reconsider. Baron Onishi’s life is in danger. This might seal his fate.”

  Shimura sank back into his chair. “Our duty is to maintain law and order, not follow aristocrats around like servants. Besides, rich men can afford bodyguards.”

  Aizawa maintained an erect poise, despite the anger and frustration pulsating through his body.

  “As you wish, sir. Then the case is closed?”

  Shimura narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t say that. If you think Onishi’s life is in danger, then convince me in a report. I want a sound theory with a motive, not just conjecture.”

  “Yes, Superintendent,” Aizawa said, forcing the words out.

  “You’re dismissed, Inspector.”

  *****

  Back in his office, Aizawa reviewed his notes and scribbled out a summary of the plot’s details so far. At the center of it all was General Yori Sakamoto, future shogun and wirepuller of Masaru Ryusaki, who in turn had puppeteered Makoto Kuroki. But why would Sakamoto want Baron Onishi dead? He thought back to what the Baron had said over tea.

  Last week, General Sakamoto met with the Baron and demanded the government go off the gold standard in order to increase the military budget. Onishi refused. Frustrated, the General must have decided to simply overthrow the government rather than take power through legitimate means. As shogun, Sakamoto could increase the military budget tenfold.

  What was he planning? A new war most likely. But with who? There were so many potential enemies. The Chinese were almost finished in Manchuria but the Kwantung Army could still press southward onto Peiping, Tientsin, and Nanking. Soviet Russia was another possible enemy that many in the Army leadership wanted to fight. A “fake warrior playing with his toy sword,” as Sakamoto had called it. However, according to the Navy brass, Japan’s greatest enemy was the United States. With an increased military budget, a decisive battle at sea would turn the Pacific Ocean into a Japanese lake.

  Aizawa lit a Pall Mall and pictured how the coup would unfold. Shortly after Baron Onishi’s death, Ryusaki’s soshi would dynamite the Imperial Diet and other government buildings, causing riots and mayhem. General Sakamoto would call in troops and declare martial law, installing himself as shogun. It was so simple and yet it all hinged on Baron Onishi’s assassination. If he became prime minister, he’d have the power and influence to transfer Sakamoto far away from Tokyo and order the entire Metropolitan Police to hunt Masaru Ryusaki into the bowels of the city.

  Aizawa took a deep drag on the Pall Mall and considered his options. He couldn’t mention Ryusaki until he had definite proof. Superintendent Shimura might tell him that he was a suspect, possibly compromising his mysterious informant. He could tail Makoto Kuroki, though he doubted that would turn up much. Is that all that Superintendent Shimura wanted to tell him? The entire exchange could have been handled over the telephone. So why wasn’t it?

  Unless…it was to draw him away from the Baron. His chest tightened as he reached for the phone.

  “Hello, operator? The Onishi estate in Azabu, please.”

  Aizawa took enormous drags in between rings and waited. Suddenly, a panicked voice picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “This is Inspector Aizawa. Is everything—”

  The voice cut him off with a sob.

  “Inspector, something terrible has happened…” Another choked gasp. “The Onishis…the Onishis have been murdered!”

  The words slapped Aizawa hard. “Who did it?”

  “I don’t know who…he put a gun to my neck while I was working on the Baron’s Mercedes. The other servants saw that he wore an Army uniform. After he…after he… murdered the Baron and Baroness…they say he fled into the woods and disappeared.”

  Lieutenant Nakajima. It had to be him.

  “Let me speak to Sergeant Murayama.”

  Another sob. “He’s also dead...”

  Aizawa steadied himself. There would be a time to mourn, but not now.

  “When did this happen?”

  “About twenty minutes ago. I fainted during it…I’m….I’m so ashamed….”

  “Have you called the Police?”

  “Y-yes…they’re on their way…”

  Aizawa slammed the receiver down and took a final drag on his Pall Mall. He had to concentrate and not let his mind wander. He’d need a clear mind for the coming battle ahead. But haunting, mocking images passed by, distracting his focus; Sergeant Murayama’s wife and three children without a man to provide for them, the slaughtered remains of the Onishis, and Masaru Ryusaki laughing in his face.

 
; CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Inside her apartment, Reiko’s eyes darted between wall posters of Louise Brooks in Diary of a Lost Girl and Anna May Wong in Piccadilly. If anyone could understand her predicament, it was these ladies. What hell they had endured for men. She sat on her Western-style bed while Masaru stared out the window in tense silence, arms folded behind his back. A good mistress would offer words of encouragement but his earlier behavior in Ginza had left her bitter. Now, all she wanted was a smoke.

  “Where are your cigarettes?”

  Masaru kept his back turned and said, “In my coat pocket.”

  Reiko hopped off her bed and walked across the cold wooden floor to the coat rack. Digging through Masaru’s long blue overcoat, she pulled out his Golden Bats along with a folded pamphlet. She opened it up and stared at a strange illustration; a giant samurai in full armor about to bring an enormous sword down on the Imperial Diet Building.

  “What’s this?”

  Masaru turned around and smiled. “Ah yes, I wanted to show you that. Tomorrow, my followers will pass those pamphlets out all over Tokyo. The Kusanagi Society will have to increase its ranks to cause the incident that will bring General Sakamoto to power.” He glowed with triumph. “Now, after months of persecution, our hour or triumph is at hand!”

  Reiko nodded and stuffed the pamphlet back into the coat pocket. Lighting a cigarette, she took a deep puff and turned up the electric heater next to the bed. Even with the heater at full power, it remained freezing inside the cramped apartment.

  She retreated back to the bed. Masaru drew away from the window and sat beside her.

  “Reiko…I’m sorry.”

  She took a deep drag. “For being such a coldhearted man?”

  His long fingers twirled her bobbed hair.

  “A patriot must love his nation above everything…but don’t ever think that you’re not important to me,” he whispered into her ear.

  She held the cigarette between her fingers and faced him. “How important?”

  He smiled. “You’re my morning sun…my cherry blossom in full bloom.”

  Trite words, but what else could she expect from a writer? Still, it lowered her defenses and soothed her bitterness. Reiko took another drag and studied his features. Although he could be cruel at times, at least Masaru was handsome…in an overeducated, rich-boy way. Not every mistress could say that.

  “Masaru…what will happen to us…in the New Japan?”

  He reached over and took the cigarette from her. “A man needs the support of a woman, in mind and body.”

  “So you’ll keep me around as your mistress?”

  He took a drag and eyed her. “Reiko…our nation is in peril. Every citizen will have to sacrifice in the coming months. There will be no room for selfishness in the New Japan.”

  Words that proclaimed the coming of a new era. Like a tsunami, if you stood tall against it, you’d be swept away. The only hope was to seek higher ground and hope it passed you by. Her eyes darted between the Louise Brooks and Anna May Wong posters, then to her shimada wig perched next to the open closet full of drop-waist dresses, pea coats, and her black kimono. The whole room seemed to swirl around in a typhoon of banality.

  The shrill ring of the nightstand telephone ripped her out of self-pity. She grabbed the receiver and snapped, “What?”

  “Put Ryusaki-zensei on the phone,” Lieutenant Nakajima said, his buzzing accent digging into her ear.

  “Is that Nakajima-san?” Masaru asked, the smoldering cigarette hanging from his lips.

  Her heart sank as she handed over the receiver.

  “Lieutenant? Yes! Excellent work,” Masaru said, punctuating every statement with a sharp nod. “A great victory over evil! Yes, I will see you tomorrow. For the New Japan! Banzai!”

  Beaming, Masaru hopped off the bed, hung up the receiver, and stubbed out the Golden Bat in a nearby ashtray.

  “Baron Onishi is dead!”

  The words made the apartment feel even colder. Still, better to remain on Masaru’s good side.

  “Justice has prevailed. We can thank the gods for this great victory,” she said, hoping the words didn’t sound too mechanical or forced. “What will happen now?”

  “Tonight, we celebrate! And tomorrow, we will throw Nakajima-san a party for his departure to Manchuria.” He took in a deep breath. “He told me he’s going to pray at the Yasukuni Shrine, like a true soldier.”

  At least that miserable country monkey would finally be out of her life. She’d silently toast that his death in Manchuria would be painful and ignominious. She cursed that bastard Nakajima for what he’d turned Masaru into. Now she was the mistress to a murderer. There was no going back. At least she’d tried to stop it all.

  “Unfortunately he had to kill a police officer,” Masaru said, donning his fedora.

  “A police officer?” she spat out.

  “Some sergeant. It’s regrettable to kill a man who was only doing his duty, but this is war.” He balled his fist. “If only it had been Aizawa…but I had Superintendent Shimura call him back to Police Headquarters. No matter. He’ll be disposed of soon enough.”

  Sympathy washed over her; for the Baron, for that police officer, and for the fate that awaited poor Inspector Aizawa. But her pity was soon drowned out by a swelling hatred for that devil soldier who had spoiled her happy life.

  “I’ll return shortly,” Masaru announced, buttoning up his overcoat. “With a bottle of Kirin beer to celebrate.”

  He slipped on his shoes and practically leaped out the door, leaving Reiko alone with her anger. If the gods wouldn’t punish that country monkey, she would.

  She grabbed the receiver and said, “Connect me to Metropolitan Police Headquarters please.”

  One short ring later, there was an answer.

  “Metropolitan Police,” a curt voice said.

  “Yes, please put me through to Inspector Aizawa.”

  “Hold please.”

  Moments of silence passed.

  “Inspector Aizawa here.” He sounded listless and numb.

  “Your assassin is heading to the Yasukuni Shrine,” she said and slammed the receiver down. Her burning hatred began to cool. The shame of an arrest would permanently stain Nakajima’s honor but with luck, Inspector Aizawa would gun that bamboo sword down before he could even reach Manchuria. Reiko collapsed onto the bed with a deep sigh. Moments later, the door swung open with a loud creak. She poked her head up and found Masaru standing in the doorway empty-handed.

  “Are the stores closed?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “I was thinking…we should join Nakajima-san in prayer at Yasukuni. Both of us have shameful pasts. We’ve been selfish, decadent, and acted like foreigners. Going forward, we must behave like true patriots.”

  “But Masaru…it’s so cold outside…”

  “Cold? While we lounge next to an electric heater, our brave soldiers face the cruel Manchurian winter!”

  Trying not to let her panic show, Reiko cursed how easily the Japanese were governed by shame.

  “Alright, Masaru…I’ll get dressed.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Aizawa hung up the receiver and puffed away on his Pall Mall. The past few minutes had turned into a nightmare before becoming a bizarre fantasy. That disembodied, husky voice had come to his aid again, even if it was too late for the Baron.

  He reviewed the facts. Onishi’s assassin wore an Imperial Army uniform. According to the mysterious informant, he was heading toward Yasukuni, where all of Japan’s war dead lay enshrined. All the pieces fit and pointed the way to a final showdown with Lieutenant Nakajima.

  Aizawa stubbed out his cigarette, then grabbed his overcoat and fedora. He felt for his Colt pistol, snug in its chest holster. He’d need it soon enough. The junsas could clean up at the Onishi estate.

  *****

  Snow crunched under Lieutenant Nakajima’s boots as he approached the enormous torii gate of the Yasukuni Shrine. During the day, the
sides were lined with booths of shrine maidens selling trinkets and charms to soldiers departing for Manchuria, all guaranteed to make them invincible in battle. But the shrine was deserted after dark, except for the thousands of souls that dwelled here. He couldn’t face the gods with unclean hands, still stained with the Baron’s foul blood. He washed them in the nearby purification fountain and then headed past the main torii, into the very soul of the Japanese Empire.

  The main worship hall came into view with its white banner and chrysanthemum crests; white for the color of death and chrysanthemum insignia representing the Imperial throne. After depositing a few coins as an offering, Nakajima shook the bell and clapped his hands. He bowed his head in prayer as the gods surrounded him. Once men, they had been exploded, stabbed, and shot into godhood, and now saturated this lowly rice farmer with their divine presence. He would soon join their ranks, but for now, he continued in silent prayer; for his dead sister, for the Emperor, for the New Japan, and that his death in Manchuria would be utterly glorious.

  Several minutes of silence passed until the sound of crackling snow interrupted him. Nakajima turned and found two figures rapidly approaching. Ryusaki-sensei wore a long blue overcoat and fedora, looking more like a salaryman than the leader of the Kusanagi Society. Reiko Watanabe lurked behind him, like a snake slithering quickly to keep up. Instead of her geisha rags, she also wore Western clothes; a fancy pea coat, cloche hat, and high heels, as if flaunting her decadence.

  “Ryusaki-zensei…I’m honored by your presence.”

  “Your patriotic actions were so moving that I decided to join you in prayer, Lieutenant,” Ryusaki-sensei said with frosted breath. “On behalf of our nation, I thank you.”

  Nakajima suppressed an inner glee and remained stoic. “I only did my duty, zensei.”

  Ryusaki-sensei beamed. “We must thank the gods for this great victory.”

  Such a triumph over evil would rank among the greatest victories of Japanese history right alongside the Battles of Tsushima and Mukden. But somehow, Reiko Watanabe’s presence sullied the moment, like a stinking odor.