The Diamond Chariot

by Boris Akunin

  ‘Well, and what if it isn’t a descendant of the medieval ninja?’ the doctor exclaimed. ‘What if it’s someone who taught himself? After all, there are treatises with detailed descriptions of the ninja’s methods, their instruments, their secret potions! I myself have read the Tale of the Mysteries of the Stealthy Ones, written in the seventeenth century by a certain Kionobu from a renowned shinobi family. And after that there was the twenty-two-volume work Ten Thousand Rivers Flow into the Sea, compiled by Fujibayashi Samuji-Yasutake, a scion of yet another family respected among the ninja. We can assume that there are other, even more detailed manuscripts not known to the general public. It would have been quite possible to resurrect the lost art using these instructions!’

  The inspector did not answer, but the expression on his face made it quite clear that he did not believe in the probability of anything of the kind. Moreover, it seemed to Fandorin that Asagawa was not much interested in discussing the shinobi in any case. Or was that just Japanese reserve?

  ‘So,’ said Erast Petrovich, casting a keen glance at the inspector as he started his provisional summing-up. ‘So far we have very little to go on. We know what Captain Blagolepov’s presumed killer looks like. That is one. But if this man does possess the skills of the shinobi, then he can certainly alter his appearance. We have two identical thumbprints. That is two. But we do not know if we can rely on this method of identification. That leaves the third lead: the owner of the Rakuen. Tell me, Agasawa-san, has your investigation turned anything up yet?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Japanese replied imperturbably. ‘If you have finished analysing your theory, with your permission I shall report on the results of our efforts.’

  ‘B-by all means.’

  ‘Last night, at sixteen minutes past two, Semushi left the Rakuen via a secret door that my agents had discovered earlier. As he walked along the street he behaved very cautiously, but our men are experienced and the hunchback did not realise he was being followed. He went to the godaun of the Sakuraya Company in the Fukushima quarter.’

  ‘What is a g-godaun?’

  ‘A warehouse, a goods depot,’ Lockston explained quickly. ‘Go on, go on! What did he do there, in the godaun? How long did he stay there?’

  Without hurrying, Asagawa took out a small scroll completely covered with hieroglyphs and ran his finger down the vertical lines.

  ‘Semushi spent fourteen minutes in the godaun. Our agents do not know what he did there. When he came out, one of my men followed him, the other stayed behind.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Fandorin said with a nod and immediately felt embarrassed – the inspector clearly knew his business and had no need of the vice-consul’s approval.

  ‘Seven minutes after that,’ Asagawa continued in the same even voice, ‘three men came out of the godaun. It is not known if they were Satsumans, since they did not speak to each other, but one was holding his left arm against his side. The agent is not entirely certain, but he got the impression that the arm was twisted.’

  ‘The man with the withered arm!’ the sergeant gasped. ‘Why didn’t you say anything earlier, Go?’

  ‘My name is Goemon,’ the Japanese corrected the American – apparently he was more protective of his name than Fandorin. But he left the question unanswered. ‘The agent entered the godaun and carried out a search, trying not to disturb anything. He found three finely made katanas. One katana had an unusual hilt, covered with glasspaper …’

  At this point all three listeners started talking at once.

  ‘It’s them! It’s them!’ said Twigs, throwing his hands up in the air.

  ‘Damnation!’ said Lockston, flinging his cigar away. ‘Damn you to hell, you tight-lipped whore.’

  Fandorin expressed the same idea, only more articulately:

  ‘And you only tell us this now? After we’ve spent the best part of an hour discussing events that happened in the sixteenth century?’

  ‘You are in charge, I am your subordinate,’ Asagawa said coolly. ‘We Japanese are accustomed to discipline and subordination. The senior speaks first, then the junior.’

  ‘Did you hear the tone that was spoken in, Rusty?’ the sergeant asked, with a sideways glance at Fandorin. ‘That’s the reason I don’t like them. The words are polite, but the only thing on their minds is how to make you look like a dumb cluck.’

  Still looking only at the titular counsellor, the Japanese remarked:

  ‘To work together, it is not necessary to like each other.’

  Erast Petrovich did not like it any more than Lockston when he was ‘made to look like a dumb cluck’, and so he asked very coolly:

  ‘I assume, Inspector, that these are all the facts of which you wish to inform us?’

  ‘There are no more facts. But there are hypotheses. If these are of any value to you, with your permission …’

  ‘Out with it, d-damn you. Speak, don’t d-drag things out!’ Fandorin finally exploded, but immediately regretted his outburst – the lips of the intolerable Japanese trembled in a faint sneer, as if to say: I knew you were the same kind, only pretending to be well bred.

  ‘I am speaking. I am not dragging things out.’ A polite inclination of the head. ‘The three unknown men left the godaun unarmed. In my humble opinion, this means two things. Firstly, they intend to come back. Secondly, somehow they know that Minister Okubo is now well guarded, and they have abandoned their plan. Or have decided to wait. The minister’s impatience and his dislike of bodyguards are well known.’

  ‘The godaun, of c-course, is under observation?’

  ‘Very strict and precise observation. Top specialists have been sent from Tokyo to assist me. As soon as the Satsumans show up, I shall be informed immediately, and we will be able to arrest them. Naturally, with the vice-consul’s sanction.’

  The final phrase was pronounced in such an emphatically polite tone that Fandorin gritted his teeth – the odour of derision was so strong.

  ‘Thank you. But you seem to have d-decided everything without me.’

  ‘Decided – yes. However, it would be impolite to make an arrest without you. And also without you, of course, Mr Sergeant.’ Another derisively polite little bow.

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Lockston, with a fierce grin. ‘That’s all we need, for the local police to start treating the Settlement like its own territory. But what I have to tell you guys is this. Your plan is shit. We need to get down to that godaun as quickly as possible, set up an ambush and nab these perpetrators on their way in. While they’re still unarmed and haven’t got to their swords yet.’

  ‘With all due respect for your point of view, Mr Lockston, these men cannot be “nabbed while they’re still unarmed and haven’t got to their swords yet”.’

  ‘And why so?’

  ‘Because Japan isn’t America. We need to have proof of a crime. There is no evidence against the Satsumans. We have to arrest them with their weapons in their hands.’

  ‘Agasawa-san is right,’ Fandorin was obliged to admit.

  ‘You’re a new man here, Rusty, you don’t understand! If these three are experienced hitokiri, that is, cut-throats, they’ll slice up a whole heap of folks like cabbage!’

  ‘Or else, which is even more likely, they’ll kill themselves and the investigation will run into a dead end,’ the doctor put in. ‘They’re samurai! No, Inspector, your plan is definitely no good!’

  Agasawa let them fume on for a little longer, then said:

  ‘Neither of these two things will happen. If you gentlemen would care to relocate to my station, I could show you how we intend to carry out the operation. And what’s more, it’s only a five-minute walk from the station to the Fukushima quarter.’

  The Japanese police station, or keisatsu-syho, was not much like Sergeant Lockston’s office. The municipal bulwark of law enforcement made a formidable impression: a massive door with a bronze sign-plate, brick walls, iron roof, steel bars on the windows of the prison cell – all in all, a true bulwark, and
that said it all. But Asagawa’s offices were located in a low house with walls of wooden planks and a tiled roof – it looked very much like a large shed or drying barn. True, there was a sentry on duty at the entrance, wearing a neat little uniform and polished boots, but this Japanese constable was quite tiny and he also had spectacles. Lockston snickered as he walked past him.

  Inside the shed was very strange altogether.

  The municipal policemen paraded solemnly, even sleepily, along the corridor, but here everyone dashed about like mice; they bowed rapidly on the move and greeted their superior abruptly. Doors were constantly opening and closing. Erast Petrovich glanced into one of them and saw a row of tables with a little clerk sitting at each one, all of them rapidly running brushes over pieces of paper.

  ‘The records department,’ Asagawa explained. ‘We regard it as the most important part of police work. When the authorities know who lives where and what he does, there are fewer crimes.’

  A loud clattering sound could be heard from the other side of the corridor, as if an entire swarm of mischievous little urchins were wildly hammering sticks against the boards. Erast Petrovich walked across and took advantage of his height to look in through the little window above the door.

  About twenty men in black padded uniforms and wire masks were bludgeoning each other as hard as they could with bamboo sticks.

  ‘Swordsmanship classes. Obligatory for all. But we’re not going there. We’re going to the shooting gallery.’

  The inspector turned a corner and led his guests out into a courtyard that Fandorin found quite astonishing, it was so clean and well tended. The tiny little pond with its covering of duckweed and bright red carp tracing out majestic circles in the water was especially fine.

  ‘My deputy’s favourite pastime,’ Asagawa murmured, apparently slightly embarrassed. ‘He has a particular fondness for stone gardens … That’s all right, I don’t forbid it.’

  Fandorin looked round, expecting to see sculptures of some kind, but he didn’t see any plants carved out of stone – nothing but fine gravel with several crude boulders lying on it, arranged without any sense of symmetry.

  ‘As I understand it, this is an allegory of the struggle between order and chaos,’ said the doctor, nodding with the air of a connoisseur. ‘Quite good, though perhaps a little unsubtle.’

  The titular counsellor and the sergeant exchanged glances. The former with a baffled frown, the latter with a smirk.

  They walked underground, into a long cellar illuminated by oil lamps. Targets and boxes of empty shell cases indicated that this was the firing range. Fandorin’s attention was drawn to three straw figures the height of a man. They were dressed in kimonos, with bamboo swords in their hands.

  ‘I most humbly request the respected vice-consul to listen to my plan,’ said Asagawa. He turned up the wicks in the lamps and the basement became lighter. ‘At my request, Vice-Intendant Suga has sent me two men who are good shots with a revolver. I tested them on these models, neither of them ever miss. We will allow the Satsumans to enter the godaun. Then we will arrive to arrest them. Only four men. One will pretend to be an officer, the other three ordinary patrolmen. If there were more, the Satsumans really might commit suicide, but in this case they will decide that they can easily deal with such a small group. They will take out their swords, and then the “officer” will drop to the floor – he has already played his part. The three “patrolmen” (they are the two men from Tokyo and myself) take their revolvers out from under their cloaks and open fire. We will fire at their arms. In that way, firstly, we will take the miscreants armed and, secondly, ensure that they cannot escape justice.’

  The American nudged Erast Petrovich in the side with his elbow.

  ‘Hear that, Rusty? They’re going to fire at the arms. It’s not all that easy, Mr Go. Everyone knows what kind of marksmen the Japanese make! Maybe the plan’s OK, but you’re not the ones who should go.’

  ‘Who, then, if you will permit me to ask? And permit me to remind you that my name is Goemon.’

  ‘OK, OK, so it’s Gouemon. Who’s going to go and aerate those yellow- … those Satsumans? In the first place, of course, me. Tell me, Rusty, are you a good shot?’

  ‘Fairly good,’ Erast Petrovich replied modestly – he could plant all bullets in the cylinder on top of each other. ‘Naturally, from a long-barrelled weapon and with a firm support.’

  ‘Excellent. And we know all about you, Doc – you shoot the way you handle a scalpel. Of course, you’re an outsider and you’re not obliged to perform in our show, but if you’re not afraid.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Twigs, brightening up. ‘You know, I’m not at all afraid of shooting now. Hitting the target is much easier than sewing up a muscle neatly or putting in stitches.’

  ‘Attaboy, Lance! There you have your three “patrolmen”, Go. I’ll dress Rusty and Lens up in uniforms and we’ll be like three thick-headed municipal policemen. OK, so we’ll take you as the fourth – supposedly as our interpreter. You can make idle chat with us and then drop to the ground, and we’ll do the rest. Right, guys?’

  ‘Of course!’ the doctor exclaimed enthusiastically, very pleased at the prospect of being included.

  Erast Petrovich thought how once a man had held a gun in his hand, even a man of the most peaceable of professions, he could never forget that sensation. And he would be eager to feel it again.

  ‘Pardon me for being so meticulous, but may I see how well you shoot, gentlemen?’ Asagawa asked. ‘I would not dare, of course, to doubt your word, but this is such an important operation and I am responsible for it, both to the vice-intendant and the minister himself.’

  Twigs rubbed his hands together.

  ‘Well, as for me, I’ll be glad to show you. Will you be so good as to loan me one of your remarkable Colts, sir?’

  The sergeant handed him a revolver. The doctor took off his frock coat, exposing his waistcoat. He wiggled the fingers of his right handle slightly, grasped the handle of the gun, took careful aim and his first shot broke one of the straw figure’s wrists – the bamboo sword fell to the floor.

  ‘Bravo, Lance!’

  Twigs gagged at the powerful slap on his back. But the inspector shook his head.

  ‘Sensei, with all due respect … The bandits will not stand and wait while you take aim. This is not a European duel with pistols. You have to fire very, very quickly, and also take into account that your opponent will be moving at that moment.’

  The Japanese pressed some kind of lever with his foot and the figures started rotating on their wooden base, like a carousel.

  Lancelot Twigs batted his eyelids and lowered the revolver.

  ‘No … I never learned to do that … I can’t.’

  ‘Let me try!’

  The sergeant moved the doctor aside. He stood with his feet wide apart, squatted down slightly, grabbed his Colt out of the holster and fired off four shots one after the other. One of the straw figures flopped off the stand and clumps of straw went flying in all directions.

  Asagawa walked over and bent down.

  ‘Four holes, two in the chest, two in the stomach.’

  ‘What did you expect! Walter Lockston never misses.’

  ‘It won’t do,’ said the Japanese, straightening up. ‘We need them alive. We have to fire at their arms.’

  ‘Aha, you try it! It’s not as easy as it sounds!’

  ‘I’ll try it now. Would you mind spinning the turntable? Only, as fast as possible, please. And you, Mr Vice-Consul, give the command.’

  The sergeant set the figures whirling so fast that they were just a blur.

  Asagawa stood there, holding his hand in his pocket.

  ‘Fire!’ shouted Fandorin, and before he had even finished pronouncing this short word, the first shot rang out.

  The inspector fired without taking aim, from the hip. Both figures stayed where they were.

  ‘Aha!’ Lockston howled triumphantly. ‘Missed!’

&n
bsp; He stopped swaying the lever with his foot, the figures slowed down, and it became clear that the hand in which one of them was holding its sword had twisted slightly.

  The doctor walked over and bent down.

  ‘Right in the tendon. With a wound like that, a man couldn’t even hold a pencil.’

  The sergeant’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Damnation, Go! Where in hell did you learn to do that?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Fandorin put in. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it, not even in the Italian circus, when the bullet maestro shot a nut off his own daughter’s head.’

  Asagawa lowered his eyes modestly.

  ‘You could call it the “Japanese circus”,’ he said. ‘All I have done is combine two of our ancient arts: battojutsu and inu-omono. The first is …’

  ‘I know, I know!’ Erast Petrovich interrupted excitedly. ‘It’s the art of drawing a sword from its scabbard at lightning speed. It can be learned! But what is inu-omono?’

  ‘The art of shooting at running dogs from a bow,’ the miracle marksman replied, and the titular counsellor’s enthusiasm wilted – this was too high a price to pay for miraculous marksmanship.

  ‘Tell me, Asagawa-san,’ said Fandorin, ‘are you sure that your other two men fire as well as that?’

  ‘Far better. That is why my target is the man with the withered arm, one well-placed bullet will be enough for him. But no doubt Mr Vice-Consul also wishes to demonstrate his skill. I’ll just order the targets’ arms to be reattached.’

  Erast Petrovich merely sighed.

  ‘Th-thank you. But I can see the Japanese police will conduct this operation in excellent fashion without involving us.’

  However, there was no operation; once again the net that had been cast remained without a catch. The Satsumans did not return to the godaun, either in the daytime, the evening twilight or the darkness of night.