Shadows of Tokyo

by Matthew Legare

  She sighed and turned away.

  “We’re not married yet, Masaru.”

  “Soon. I promise.”

  The proposal might have meant something a few months ago. Even up until last week her acceptance would have been genuine. But now, despite his mobo clothes, Masaru Ryusaki’s war mask had become his face. And what about her? Her makeup hid many Reiko Watanabes; geisha, moga, and poison woman. She finished her cigarette and stubbed it out on the ashtray.

  “Masaru, I—”

  He cut her off with a kiss, melting her.

  “Don’t talk, Reiko. Just listen.”

  Masaru walked over to the Sharp radio and turned the dial. The blissful melody of “My Blue Heaven” filled the room. He held out his hand and beckoned her like a hypnotized doll. Dutifully she obeyed, intoxicated by the sweet nectar of jazz. She rested her head on his shoulders as they rocked back and forth, like a little ship in the open sea.

  They moved as one, slow and steady, animated by the flow of music from the radio. “My Blue Heaven” was replaced by “Sing Me a Song of Araby”, and finally, “The Japanese Sandman.” Just an instrumental version, but he filled in the lyrics by singing to her. For weeks, she’d tried to seduce him with jazz, never expecting the same tactic to be used on her with such devastating effectiveness.

  The bastard. After everything that had happened, why did he do this to her now? She couldn’t hold the tears back that soon wetted his jacket. Dual suicides were how many Japanese romances ended, but she’d already figured out that death was a scam. Besides, Reiko Watanabe wouldn’t die. She would just get tired of living one day.

  Still, shame rose in her throat like bile as she stared into the eyes of the man she loved. What was that old saying? Oh yes, bound together by red string. Not that it mattered, since their red string of love would be cut in a few hours. So long as she could warn Inspector Aizawa in time.

  The melody faded out and so did Masaru’s singing.

  He was right. The lyrics were just nonsense.

  *****

  The ambulance closed its doors and drove off with a screeching whine. The workday had started and the only ones left on the street were a dozen or so reporters from the Asahi, Nichi Nichi, and Yomiuri, along with a few smaller papers. Standing in front of the Marunouchi Building, Aizawa took questions from the press.

  “Inspector,” the Yomiuri reporter called out. “Who was this man?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll find out soon.”

  “Any idea why he wanted Isamu Takano dead?” the Nichi Nichi man asked.

  Aizawa shrugged. “Who hasn’t thought about killing a banker these days?”

  Laughter rippled through the crowd. He was about to call on another reporter when a bulky shadow dwarfed him. He turned around and stared at one of Takano’s sumo bodyguards.

  “Excuse me, Inspector. But Takano-san wishes to see you right away.”

  “So, all I had to do was save his life to get an appointment with him?” Aizawa asked.

  The sumo gave an offended look.

  “Never mind. Tell Takano-san I’ll be right up.” He turned back to the reporters. “I must ask a favor from all of you. I’ve treated you all with fairness in the past, but I need you to bury this story. At least for a few days.”

  Confused stares were the immediate response.

  “Inspector, we won’t use any names but shootings in the financial district don’t happen often. We can’t keep this buried,” the Asahi man remarked.

  “And Inspector, what were you doing here? Has Takano-san been threatened before?” the Yomiuri reporter asked.

  What didn’t they understand? Most police officers viewed the press as an enemy, or at best, a puppet. He couldn’t have the details of this investigation showing up in the evening papers. Not unless he wanted Ryusaki to figure out he had an informant in his midst.

  “This is outrageous Inspector. After all, we have a duty to our readers!”

  “If you don’t keep quiet, then your paper will be in violation of the Peace Preservation Law,” Aizawa said.

  A hostile silence swept over the reporters. Freedom of the press was a privilege in Japan and something that the Metropolitan Police could easily take away. All that was needed was to invoke the Peace Preservation Law, the legislation that made even ‘dangerous thoughts’ illegal. It seemed like something out of the mind of a Bolshevik commissar, even though it was used specifically to crush the Japanese Communist Party. For the most part, newspapers practiced self-censorship, if only because they realized how easy it would be to close them down, one by one.

  The reporters gave submissive nods, understanding their place, except the Asahi man, who broke away and stormed off. Aizawa sympathized but reminded himself that a police officer must uphold the law, even that one. All that mattered now was Masaru Ryusaki. This battle of theirs had ceased being a conflict between men. Two concepts warred for superiority now. Order against revolution, law against crime, giri against ninjo and Japan’s future hung in the balance.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  The elevator dinged, depositing Aizawa and his sumo escort on the third floor of the Marunouchi Building. A tense stillness hung in the lobby, amplifying their footsteps and the secretary’s clacking typewriter to an almost deafening pitch. She looked up with a nervous glance before returning to work.

  Down the hallway, a gold plaque reading “Isamu Takano, President” in both English and Japanese ornamented the heavy wooden doors of the banker’s private office. The sumo knocked and said, “Inspector Aizawa to see you, sir.”

  “Enter.”

  Aizawa followed the sumo inside and found Takano standing beneath that majestic portrait of the Emperor, coolly smoking a cigarette. Returning to his personal kingdom must have revived his confidence. He wore a mask of composure while his stone-faced American guest sat in the exact spot where Baron Onishi had only days earlier. A final indignity to the dead.

  The American rose and said a few words of clipped English to Takano, who responded with a supplicating bow and polite smile. Takano escorted the American to the door, who gave a curt nod to Aizawa as they walked past. Aizawa hadn’t seen many Americans up close, but this one looked strange as most white men did. His skin was pale with splotches of pink, offset by his head of snowy-white hair, and a large, sharp nose. They made an odd couple; Takano, smiling and diminutive. The American, stern and towering. Their only commonality was a taste for elegant three-piece suits and flashy Rolex wristwatches.

  They shook hands and the American walked out, followed by the lumbering sumo bodyguard, who closed the heavy doors behind him. Once they were alone, Takano turned his attention to Aizawa.

  “My sincerest apologies, Inspector.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  Takano continued to smile. “A business associate. He arrived a few days ago from New York City. He represents an American bank that has a branch here in Tokyo. After the Great Earthquake, he secured huge loans for our nation to rebuild.”

  “Is that so? Please tell them I said ‘thanks.’”

  The banker laughed. “It was a form of payback, really. When San Francisco was destroyed by an earthquake in 1906, it was the Japanese who sent the most foreign loans for reconstruction. Even the Meiji Emperor donated over 200,000 yen.”

  “Don’t many Japanese live in San Francisco?”

  Takano’s smile remained frozen. “You doubt the sincerity of our people?”

  “Forgive me, Takano-san. Dealing with criminals makes me see shadows everywhere.”

  Takano led him to the table and gestured for him to take a seat, now as an equal. He pulled out a pack of foreign cigarettes and offered one.

  “I smoke Chesterfields, but I also have Lucky Strikes and Pall Malls.”

  “No thanks,” Aizawa said, lighting up a Golden Bat, a subtle reminder to the banker that they were Japanese. They smoked their cigarettes in silence for several moments while eyeing each other through the thin haze.

  “
Thank you for your bravery out there, Inspector,” Takano finally said. “Such an unfortunate incident. It reminds me of when Prime Minister Hamaguchi was shot last year.”

  “Baron Onishi was also shot,” Aizawa said, “just a few days ago.”

  Takano gave a brief contorted look, like a man in pain.

  “Oh yes. Such strange times we live in.”

  “Tell me, Takano-san. Why anyone would want to kill you?” Aizawa asked.

  “Many people blame the banks for the state of the economy.” He shrugged. “We’re an easy target.”

  This would take all day if he went the standard path of Japanese politeness. He could already see how it would end. Takano would deny everything and promise to aid the investigation with the utmost sincerity. However, to outright accuse him of murder seemed unthinkable. After all, he only had a hunch based on what Reiko Watanabe had told him. He took a long drag on his Golden Bat and thought. Would shame work for someone like Isamu Takano?

  “That is true,” Aizawa said. “But these soshi nationalists are so imaginative. They invent wild stories about the zaibatsu. They even have one about you, Takano-san.”

  “Is that so?” Takano asked, taking a puff on his Chesterfield. “What are these fantasies they entertain about me, Inspector?”

  “It’s ridiculous really,” Aizawa continued. “Something about you manipulating General Sakamoto into ordering the Kusanagi Society to assassinate Baron Onishi. After all, you fund the Seiyukai, so it stands to reason that you would want them in power for selfish reasons. At least, that’s what these soshi say.”

  Takano stared at his smoldering Chesterfield as if entranced by the curls of smoke. What was he thinking? Maybe the most polite way to have his bodyguards throw him out? Or maybe shame had penetrated this cynical man. International banker or not, Takano was still Japanese.

  “Inspector Aizawa,” the zaibatsu said, returning his attention to him. “I just had a satisfying conversation with my colleague from Wall Street. I feel the Americans have a much better way of discussing business. Direct and to the point. Would you be offended if I suggested we acted like Americans?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” Takano said, taking a drag. “Please tell me what you’re really thinking.”

  Under normal circumstances, Aizawa would never directly insult such a powerful man without hard evidence. But they were Americans now.

  “I know that you orchestrated the assassination of Baron Onishi for financial gain.”

  Takano took another drag. “Did I?”

  “I also know that your bank has bought millions in American currency. Going off the gold standard will allow you to double your profits when you convert your dollars back into yen.”

  “You know more about economics than most policemen,” Takano said, flashing a hollow smile.

  Aizawa forced his own phony smile and took a drag on his cigarette. “Money is the primary motivation for most criminals. Even well-dressed ones like yourself.”

  Takano frowned and said, “Inspector, I am grateful for your actions today. But I will not allow you to insult my patriotism.”

  Aizawa scoffed. “You? Patriotic?”

  “Yes…everything I did was for Japan,” Takano stated without a hint of insincerity. “How much do you know about the Smoot-Hawley Tariff?”

  Aizawa searched his memory for every newspaper article he’d read about the subject. “It’s why we’re in this depression now. Our businesses can’t afford to pay these import taxes so the Americans aren’t buying what we make.”

  Takano sneered. “Ridiculous! Two fools in America wrote a law to protect their industry and the world’s economy collapses. That’s democracy for you.”

  Aizawa chuckled. “Spoken like a true shadow shogun, Takano-san!”

  “A shadow shogun?” Takano scoffed. “You think too highly of me Inspector. I’m simply a patriot who wants to use his influence to help Japan.”

  “You own the Seiyukai Party, correct?”

  Takano flicked his cigarette ash and said, “I don’t own, anything. Several zaibatsu fund the party, but yes, I’m the largest donor.”

  “And Prime Minister Inukai?”

  Takano pursed his lips. “He takes my advice.”

  “You mean he takes your orders,” Aizawa said.

  The banker sighed and stubbed out his Chesterfield. Aizawa took an enormous drag and followed suit.

  “Come over here please,” Takano said as he stood up. They walked over to a massive desk, where a beige globe was planted. The banker’s thick, weathered hands ran across the sprawling Pacific Ocean until it reached the United States. “What do you see, Inspector?”

  “Your palm over America.”

  “You see just a nation. But it’s more than that. It’s oil, wheat, tobacco, scrap metal, coal, and cotton. And more importantly, a hundred million consumers.” Takano swished the globe back across the Pacific, settling on the tiny string of islands labeled, ‘Japan’.

  “Now, look at our paltry nation and its worthless colonies, Korea and Taiwan,” the banker continued. “What do we produce? Rice and silk. An empire cannot run on food and garments alone.”

  Aizawa pointed to the vast region of northeast China. “What about Manchuria? Isn’t it supposed to be the ‘lifeline of our empire’?”

  Takano nodded. “True, it does have large quantities of coal and iron ore. But those fools in the Kwantung Army didn’t consider how much a military occupation would cost Japan, considering that we’re almost bankrupt.”

  “The Army leadership says Manchuria will pay for itself.”

  The banker gave the globe a hard spin. “We don’t have the money. But we will soon.” Takano looked up. “Do you remember the financial panic of 1927?”

  “I remember helping with crowd control during all the bank runs.”

  “That’s all it was. One gigantic run on the banks. After the Great Kanto Earthquake, the government issued bonds to prop up unstable banks. But during the spring of 1927, rumors circulated that a bank had failed, and a wave of runs ensued.” Takano shook his head. “My bank would have gone under, if not for emergency loans from my American colleague.”

  Aizawa wondered where this was headed but didn’t wish to interrupt a full confession. “You seem to be doing well now,” he simply said.

  Takano waved his hand. “If we continued our old economic policies, I’d go out of business in a year. The panic scared enough people to return to the gold standard as a way to stabilize the market. That outdated system is what’s choking the world economy today. But back in September, while the Kwantung Army started its little adventure in Manchuria, Britain went off gold.”

  “Why?”

  “Without being tied to gold, Britain can print as much money as they want and spend their way out of the depression. It’s working. British employment is on the rise.”

  Economics was out of a police officer’s element. The maddened frenzy on the Tokyo Stock Exchange was an affront to any policeman’s sense of order. But still, Aizawa remembered what Baron Onishi had said days before.

  “Aren’t you worried about inflation? Like what happened in Germany?” he asked.

  Takano frowned. “I’m more worried about a military occupation of Manchuria bankrupting the nation. Despite our posturing in the League of Nations, Japan is poor and the depression has made us poorer.”

  Aizawa fixed Takano with an accusing gaze. “And that’s why you had Baron Onishi assassinated?”

  For several moments, the office was silent aside from the belching stock ticker.

  “The man was a relic. A puffed up daimyo lord who still thought it was the Tokugawa Era,” Takano said, shaking his head. “His adherence to the gold standard was only because of his family fortune. He cared nothing for common people like us.”

  Aizawa was taken aback. “Us?”

  “We’re both commoners,” Takano said. “Men who have worked our way up. Too many of the Emperor’s advisers have a bias against our cl
ass. They favor aloof aristocrats like the honorable Baron.”

  “I’m sure you can buy yourself a title.”

  Takano hissed like a tea kettle. “You laugh, but the Japanese Empire was almost handed over to that incompetent fool just because of his family name. Not only would he have remained on the gold standard, dooming millions to the abyss of unemployment, he would have even ended trade with the United States. All because his feelings were hurt.”

  Aizawa thought back to Baron Onishi’s study and remembered the books that all detailed a future American-Japanese war. All the snide comments and warnings took the shape of a dark fortune.

  Takano sighed and said, “America and Japan should maintain a symbiotic relationship.”

  “They give us baseball and we give them silk?”

  “A simplification, but in a sense…yes.” Takano walked behind his desk and sat. The Emperor’s portrait seemed to stare down at them.

  “Is that what your friend from Wall Street was here for?” Aizawa asked.

  “Partly. Other zaibatsu and I have purchased dollars from the bank he represents. The Americans have no intention of going off gold yet.” Aizawa was about to speak but Takano held up a hand. “I can sense your righteous anger now, Inspector. How dare these zaibatsu, already bloated with money, make millions while poverty festers in our nation?”

  “You said it,” Aizawa said, gritting his teeth. “Not me.”

  “The other zaibatsu and I tried to convince Prime Minister Wakatsuki to abandon the gold standard but that fool wouldn’t listen.”

  Aizawa thought back to the past few days. What was it that had forced Reijiro Wakatsuki to resign as prime minister? Oh yes, one of his cabinet members, Kenzo Adachi, refused to attend cabinet meetings.

  “You bribed Adachi-san,” Aizawa said flatly.

  Takano sighed. “Adachi wanted to start his own political party. Regardless, it forced Wakatsuki's resignation. But that eliminated only one of our problems.”

  “What was the other?”