Kamakura Inn

by Marshall Browne

  The oil level was low in the lamp outside Chef Hatano’s room, but it still gave a feeble light to the corridor. Aoki paused outside the door, listening, but heard nothing. Ito stood back, his face obscure, his breathing now a faint sighing. A slight sound came from within. The chef was there. Someone was. Aoki reached for the door.

  It was sliding open as if by its own volition. Aoki peered at the disheveled man in the doorway—every bit of him. He said, “Shoba is dead.”

  Hatano’s eyes momentarily squeezed almost shut, then flicked past the detective to Ito. The tight mouth twitched. “So. I won’t have to feed the greedy asshole anymore.”

  Aoki spat out, “Where’ve you been this past hour?”

  Hatano hunched his shoulders, then reset them. “Why should I tell you? Shoba was pretty smart. He said you’ve got no authority, no badge.” The sneering voice echoed in the corridor, in Aoki’s brain. His anger boiled up—and the fear. Every muscle and nerve in him felt like a trip wire. Watch it, he warned himself, within an ace of grabbing the chef by his throat. He clamped his jaw tight.

  Ito stood immobile, a dazed, dumb spectator.

  The chef had decided something. He leaned forward. “Shoba dies and you come running here! Listen, I’ve been here all the time since nine forty-five. Have you got that?”

  Aoki stared at the ex-husband of Madam Ito. This bastard seemed to’ve overlooked the meal he’d put together and taken to Saito’s room at 10:50 P.M.—another lie to circulate in this maze. He wasn’t worrying about how Shoba’d left the world, either.

  “Show me your hands. “

  “Get fucked.”

  Aoki grabbed them and pulled the chef out into the light. Clean as one of the kitchen knives. Still gripping his hands, he scrutinized the man’s clothes. He dropped the hands in disgust. Hatano’s visit to Saito’s room? No. He’d keep the wraps on it; this bastard didn’t know he knew about that yet. He pushed the man aside and went into the small room. There was nothing that looked out of place.

  Aoki turned on the chef. “Okay, the cops’ll be here before you can pick your teeth. Then we’ll see about your fancy answers and look into your doubtless dirty past.”

  He turned his back on the wiry figure, the furious face, beckoned to Ito, and left. The man’s gaze felt like it was boring between his shoulder blades. They climbed the stairs and stopped on the landing. Behind him Ito mumbled something, and he ignored it. Saito? What would he gain by interviewing the Go-player? He’d only get another theorizing filibuster with its undertone of contempt and black humor. There’d be no blood on that fellow, no weapon in evidence. Nonetheless, he led the banker to the northeast corner and stopped outside the Chrysanthemum Room. The sounds of heavy snoring came from within. Aoki’s tongue flicked over his lips. Irresolute, he stared at the flower on the door; then, gesturing to Ito, he turned on his heel and headed for the office.

  He strode through the ryokan. A yakuza was here, smuggled in the day Aoki arrived, or maybe the day before, emerging to do his brutal work, vanishing back into his lair, protected by a resident. He had no evidence on the chef, nothing on Saito beyond the Osaka man’s briefing notes on himself and the missing woman. What he did have was an overwhelming gut feeling that they were both involved in the two murders.

  As he ran his hand up the ice-cold bannister, the words of the Zen motto in Yamazaki’s room chanted in his head: “If you meet a Buddha, kill him./If you meet a patriarch of the law, kill him.” Chairman Ito, nicknamed Buddha, and Inspector Hideo Aoki, were the ones next in the killer’s frame, aided and abetted by Superintendent Watanabe. No yakuza Aoki had ever dealt with or heard of had a taste for haiku or Zen mottoes, had ever crossed over into that rarefied world. But Saito! The fellow said plenty about the cultural life. They were his line, right enough, unless it was all fakery. He shook his head. He was numb with shock and weariness.

  ~ * ~

  At 6:30 A.M., under Inspector Aoki’s instructions, two squeamish housemen, whispering to each other, carried Shoba’s quilt-swathed body down to the next level and laid it beside Yamazaki’s in the Azalea Room. They’d woken up fast. Aoki led the way, carrying the head in a plastic laundry bag, yet again a body-parts courier.

  The phone and electricity were still out, might never have existed at Kamakura Inn.

  Returning to the upper levels, the banker close behind, Aoki found the cat sitting on a landing. It came to him, and he reached down to stroke it. A fragment of normality in this enclave of madness—though was that true? “What did you see last night, wandering one?” he murmured.

  “What did you say?” Ito said suspiciously.

  Aoki ignored the question.

  In the office, Aoki read the new horror in Kazu Hatano’s eyes. Nonetheless, her composure was extraordinary. Her ryokan had turned into a slaughterhouse and a morgue, and she was still functioning, but he saw that her composure had become fragile. The corpse had been wrapped up when she’d arrived at the Lily Room. Eyes wide, she’d stared at the great red splash on the door and wall behind where the late Shoba had been sitting. Aoki had stopped the maids from cleaning it away. A liar about her sister, and how much else? The freckles beneath her eyes seemed larger and darker. Fascinated, Aoki stared at her: no makeup, no time. He swallowed down his sudden emotion. “Surely the road’ll be reopened today?”

  “My men say it may take until tonight. The phone and electricity could be back on at any time. It depends how high up the mountain the breaks are.” Her voice was faint.

  Aoki meshed his hands and squeezed hard on the fingers. It seemed ages since the snow had stopped. Last night he’d been in this room, and what he’d found out was waiting to be dealt with. He gazed at the desk, but the Fatman’s visit here in the spring was the main item on his agenda. He turned to her. “Could I see your guest register for last spring, the Tamaki party?” She gave him a quick look and fetched it from a cupboard under the counter outside. Of course! She laid it on her desk and riffled pages, then abruptly presented it to the detective, her slim, pale hands moving efficiently; moving in him.

  As if a trigger had been pulled, Superintendent Watanabe’s name shot up from the page; the characters seemed to pulsate before Aoki’s eyes. Ahh. Aoki looked up slowly, into her intense stare. The traffic of evil flowing in through her devil’s gate must be beyond her most catastrophic fears. When would she speak what was on her mind? Not yet: probably not ever, to him. And Saito, doubtless, was still tucked up under his quilt, while the ryokan was drenched in blood and horror—and unanswered questions.

  ~ * ~

  In the hall, the housemen had forced the door open, the shutters back, and were beginning to dig out. They were going at it with a will, glad to be done with carrying a headless corpse around and smelling the faint but intrusive odor of the other body. Yeah, Aoki thought. He watched for a moment, wincing at the incoming blasts of icy air, then lit a cigarette to steady his nerves and warm up his insides.

  His boss’s calculating looks and silences were now landmarks in their recent relations. A member of the Fatman’s inner circle—a classmate! The knowledge was like a rock in Aoki’s gut. His health and welfare! The Fatman’s protection from investigation, prosecution, and then the perceived danger of revenge from an unstable and vengeful Aoki was what it had been about. Aoki shook his head, still not quite believing it. Most men with classmates who’d become famous made a big thing of their connection to that fame, but Watanabe was working down deeper. And the Fatman’s Club was like a secret society, with members’ identities sacrosanct. After the night Aoki saw him in the Ginza wearing the badge, he must’ve worried whether his junior officer had made a connection, or in due course would make it. It must’ve been festering away . . .

  Why had he gone bad? The Fatman must have sucked him in with the classmate stuff, and money—and his permanently stalled promotion. Not hard to get the picture. Now Hideo Aoki was set up for the chop.

  Aoki stubbed out the cigarette. He was believing it all. During his i
nterview with Kazu Hatano, Ito had sat down on the bench that Shoba had briefly made his own. The banker had some talking to do. Aoki turned, but the bench was vacant.

  “He has returned to his room, sir,” a maid said.

  ~ * ~

  Aoki hurried to Ito’s room. What was the fool thinking of? He smelled the odor of murder in the corridor. Not many would have identified it, but he had his long experience. He glanced down: Blood was smeared on the sleeve of his kimono. He sighed with relief when Ito’s voice bade him enter. The bank chairman stood at a radio, its aerial up, moving the tuner, receiving static. He glanced at Aoki, switched off the set, and turned to face the detective. Aoki thought, He’s doubtless picked up a lot more than I’ve heard.

  “What have you found? “ The banker’s face was haggard and his voice cracked.

  Aoki studied him. The hands were shaking, and the eyes, above their dark pouches, were moist. Fear resonated in the room; the previous anger and contempt had been wiped away, and why wouldn’t they be? The two guys closest to him here, slaughtered like animals. Aoki felt the same fear.

  “I’m unable to tell you anything.” Aoki paused, considering how to use the fear. “I’m working under bad conditions, no backup, no resources, no weapon, no official position. The police should be here tonight—latest, by morning. In the meantime you’re in great danger. If I hadn’t arrived at the moment I did—” He shrugged. “The best I can do is to try to keep you alive.” He rubbed his mole with a thumb; he didn’t intend to tell this man of his own danger. “If I knew why you’re here, why Mr. Yamazaki was here, maybe that’d help.”

  The bank chairman gazed across the room at a point on the wall, his waxlike features recast into new fissures by his desperate concentration. Tea had been brought but remained untasted. The reddened eyes turned to the policeman, and he spoke in a harsh whisper. “The yakuza.” Aoki waited. “Yamazaki and I came to the ryokan to mark the seventh anniversary of my wife’s disappearance, to say prayers at her shrine, to discuss her case. It’s become more troubling to me as each year passes. Yamazaki had no religion, but he came to accommodate me, and for another reason—we wished to discuss the bank’s situation. To review action we proposed to take—”

  Aoki’s eyes jumped wide open. The banker had grabbed at his fleshy throat with both hands, was choking. Aoki leaped forward, but the spasm passed as quickly as it had come. The detective splashed tea into a cup and put it to the chairman’s mouth. Ito drank it and broke into coughing.

  Aoki stepped back, watched and waited. Ito swallowed hard and shook his head. His eyes were streaming; he wiped them and refocused on Aoki. “No doubt. . . you’ve heard the radio broadcasts. The bank’s problems lie in various directions, but the catalyst of the present disaster is loans to certain corporations under yakuza control, some of which were introduced by Governor Yukio Tamaki. A name very familiar to you.” He gasped in more air. “We’ve stopped all new lending to these companies. I personally canceled the loan for a project at Yokohama. I received threats. I’d decided to reveal to the media the full extent of the bank’s yakuza connection—after a board meeting next week, regardless of how our directors voted.” He’d become calmer. He stood now like a witness giving evidence, his small red hands laced tightly over his belly.

  Buddha at bay, Aoki thought. His lips twisted sardonically, recalling the first interview with the banker, when the fellow had been sitting on all of this.

  Anger flared on the banker’s face. “My intentions were leaked, and Tamaki stepped in and sidelined me and the board.” Bitterly he shook his head, then glared into the alcove. “Did he act to protect the bank’s stakeholders, to protect the banking system? Forget it! To protect himself and the yakuza loans. Fie will find a way to patch up the bank, to keep those loans current, and even lend more!” Fie barked a sarcastic laugh. “The yakuza carry out their threats. Mr. Yamazaki received one, after a speech he made. They are here. “

  Aoki’s eyes narrowed. It was just the way he read it. “Who do you suspect?”

  Ito spread his hands. “They’re among the staff here.”

  “What about Saito?”

  Ito’s eyebrows lifted. Obviously, that hadn’t occurred to him. “The Go-player?” he murmured. “A rich fellow, and that age? No.”

  Aoki was silent. Ito had only been planning to come clean because the bank had reached the end of the road, to fall on his sword, in an honorable way, as these men considered it. The game was over, the bank fucked; even Yamazaki’s protection hadn’t been effective any longer. Fie stepped forward. “Who were you dealing with on that Yokohama transaction? Names.”

  “The executives are the front men. We never met the yakuza daimyo.”

  Aoki nodded. That would’ve suited both sides. “I heard you arguing with Mr. Yamazaki in his room. What was that about?”

  The moist red eyes flicked at him with understanding. “I was going to offer a deal to Tamaki to keep his name out of my revelations— if he held his committee off the bank and gave us time to negotiate a merger. At least the bank might have survived. My own survival wouldn’t have been possible.” He stared at the floor. “Yamazaki didn’t agree. Everything must be revealed, he said. If I didn’t do it, he would. “

  Aoki grimaced, showing his disbelief at the devious MOF man’s disregard of the consequences.

  Ito grunted impatiently. “I told you he was afraid of nothing, and that was the truth. He knew he was finished—whatever was done. He planned to retire to Toyama prefecture, where he had a house, and he was confident the MOF would let him go.” He paused. “That is the way it works. They don’t want their dirty laundry aired any more than can be helped, and he knew plenty of other things.” His tone had become obdurate and guarded.

  Aoki kept his eyes level. Yamazaki—not afraid, but not that smart, either. These men had gotten in way over their heads.

  “The yakuza,“ Ito spat out again.

  “Why was Mr. Yamazaki mutilated?”

  Ito closed his eyes and shook his head, as though unable to speak of this.

  “Okay. I’ll take you to the anteroom, and you must stay there. If you need to leave it, I’ll accompany you. I’m counting on the police being here soon.” The local cops didn’t know what a mission they had ahead! “If they don’t arrive by this evening, I’ll keep watch outside your door tonight.”

  Ito looked down at the glowing charcoal in the kotatsu. “I am going to be brought down, but I’ll take Tamaki with me. “ The overbearing voice was back. Aoki stared at the banker, stepped out of the room, and shut the door. He looked at the swath of blood on the wall. It resembled a giant brushstroke of calligraphy. What was the story on Yamazaki’s mutilation? Why had one of his inner organs been removed and taken, when the other bits had been left on display? To throw dust in the eyes of the investigators? And was something similar intended for Ito? Himself?

  Aoki turned colder, in body and spirit. Hell, he wished he had the pistol locked away in Watanabe’s drawer in Tokyo. That made him think of something else. Going through his father’s effects, he’d been startled to find a 1940s army revolver, .45 caliber. Examining it with professional interest, he doubted it’d ever been fired. His father had served in a clerical position in the army during the war, but for the gentle old man to have kept this relic? The old man’s commission as a lieutenant and his discharge papers were in an envelope. He’d rewrapped the revolver in its protective covering and returned it to its place . . .

  He nodded solemnly to himself. Ex-governor Tamaki and Superintendent Watanabe had now settled in deep runnels in his mind. They each had an appointment with him that they didn’t know about.

  “If I can make it through tonight,” Aoki murmured.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Nineteen

  AT 10:15 A.M. INSPECTOR AOKI escorted Chairman Ito, who was carrying a folder, to the anteroom. The fire was crackling away, but Ito chose to sit near the frost-rimed windows. Saito wasn’t there, but the Go board remained in place. Ao
ki stared at it. The black stones had been removed and put into a deep bowl beside the one that contained the vanquished white ones. Aoki glanced at the two maids who were mopping the floorboards. After making their bows, they kept their eyes down, keeping the bloody horror at bay, he knew.

  He turned and hurried back to the front hall. The housemen were still digging in the trench, their faces glowing red. He entered the office.

  Kazu Hatano was there, having put paperwork aside, gazing into her own small fire. Aoki cleared his throat. “Is Mr. Saito in his room?”

  She rose to her feet. “Yes, he doesn’t wish to be disturbed. He’s in meditation.“