Hoch's Ladies

by Edward D. Hoch

  Looking out at the wakening city, Susan was surprised at the amount of early-morning activity. By the time she went down to breakfast at seven, the streets resembled a New York rush hour. The hotel restaurant served a passable Western breakfast. Back in her room she wrapped a small gift she’d brought for Keio, remembering that unwrapped gifts were considered rude in Japan. When she left the hotel just after nine, she noticed a Japanese youth follow her out.

  As she waited for the traffic light to change, she suddenly had the impression of being shoved in the small of her back, but it happened so quickly she couldn’t call it a deliberate act. Then she was falling, her leather briefcase flying from her grasp, just as a speeding taxi bore down on her. She landed on her hands and knees, feeling the pain, bracing for the instant impact of the taxi. Then a dozen hands were on her, yanking her out of harm’s way as the driver slammed on his brakes.

  “I— thank you,” Susan managed to gasp, looking down at her skinned and bleeding knees.

  “Here, let me help you,” a kindly British voice said. She looked up to see a slim man in a gray topcoat reaching out his hand to help steady her. “Are you staying at the hotel?”

  “Yes.” She grimaced in pain.

  “I’ll help you back inside and we’ll see about those knees. You almost got yourself killed.”

  “The crowd just seemed to push me—”

  Inside the lobby the Englishman issued a quick command in Japanese. “It doesn’t look serious but you should get it cleaned off. I’ve asked that someone escort you to your room.”

  She flexed her knees and both of them seemed to work properly despite the pain. “Thanks so much.”

  He presented his card. “I’m Geoffrey Peters, Miss Holt. With the British Trade Delegation. Please call me if I can be of further service.”

  She smiled at him, brushing the loose grime from her hands. “I will. Thanks again.”

  Upstairs she bathed her sore knees and put on a fresh pair of pantyhose. Luckily she still had time to reach the store by ten. It was not until she was halfway across the street, remembering the kindness of Geoffrey Peters, that she wondered how he had known her name.

  Takeo Keio was awaiting her in his office on the seventh floor of Fuji Star, a massive department store filled with wonders Susan could barely imagine. After exchanging traditional gifts and sipping tea served by Rumiko, his pretty secretary, they set off to tour the store together.

  “Did you take the escalator to my office?” Takeo asked.

  “I was running a little late,” she admitted. “I took the elevator.” She told him about falling in the street.

  “That is terrible! You could have been seriously injured or even killed! People here are so thoughtless at times with their pushing. You must avoid our subway tubes at all costs, especially during the rush hour when people are jammed together like cattle.” He took her arm gently, as if to protect her. “But come—the first wonder of Fuji Star is at our escalators.”

  As they approached she saw a small Japanese woman dressed in a traditional kimono standing next to the moving staircase. The woman bowed politely and said something in Japanese. Only then did Susan realize she was looking at a robot, an automaton equipped with an audiotape to supply information. “What did she say?”

  Keio smiled proudly. “The ones at the escalators warn women to lift their kimono sleeves so as not to get them caught. Others around the store inform shoppers of special products and sales. I will admit we borrowed the idea of the automatons from Mitsukoshi, our largest competitor.”

  “It’s wonderful!”

  “Something for New York, perhaps?”

  “Well—the bowing is what gives them charm, and that wouldn’t be suitable in American stores.”

  “Ah yes!” Takeo Keio said. “A different culture.”

  It was obvious he was withholding the webs for the tour’s finale, and they finally reached a small softly lit gallery on the top floor, not far from Keio’s office. The sign next to the entrance was in both Japanese and English: The Strange Webs of Professor Hiraoka.

  Susan entered slowly, seeing at first only a dozen glass-covered cases positioned on the walls, their contents shrouded in shadow. Then the spotlights went on, all at once, and she stood stock-still, frozen by the beauty and wonderment of what she saw. “These are exquisite,” she said softly, as one might speak in church. Each of the cases held a single large spider web, its strands glistening with something like dew. The first web seemed perfect in all respects, the second off-center a bit. They seemed to grow more bizarre, of wilder formation, as she moved around the gallery. Here was one with two centers, and another with a dead fly caught at the end of a funnel-shaped tunnel. All of them glistened in the spotlights, shimmering magically. Susan stood for a moment at each one, even the most outrageous, as if expecting the web’s maker to appear in one corner, carefully inching its way toward that dead fly.

  “You are impressed?” the Japanese asked her with a proud smile. “I must have these for New York. They are works of art.”

  “I cannot negotiate for America. You must speak directly with Professor Hiraoka. I know the prime minister himself has promised to come if he shows the webs in Tokyo next Christmas.”

  “Where can I find him?” she asked, unable to shift her gaze from the mesmerizing webs.

  “He has been coming in every few days to tend to the webs, but tomorrow is the final day of the exhibit. The webs will be packaged carefully and returned to him.”

  “What tending do they need?”

  “These glass fronts lift open and the professor sprays a special moisturizer on the webs. That accounts for their shimmer and dewlike effect.”

  “Where does he live?”

  “Professor Hiraoka teaches at Waseda University here in Tokyo and lives near the campus with his wife and family. If you wish to arrange an appointment it would be my pleasure to place my limousine and driver at your disposal.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Susan replied. “I hate to bother him over the holiday weekend. Do you think it would be all right?”

  “Certainly. For most of our people New Year’s is a more important holiday than Christmas, but Professor Hiraoka is a Christian. I expect he will spend tomorrow working in his study like any other day.”

  “I’m surprised you celebrate Christmas at all in a Shintoist and Buddhist country.”

  He smiled slightly. “It is a secular holiday here. We have a place for Santa Claus if he helps to sell merchandise.”

  “Fuji Star has other stores around the country, do they not?”

  He nodded. “Twenty-seven in all, although this is the largest. It is a publicly held corporation. I manage only this store, which has enough problems for me these days.”

  Susan glanced at her watch and did some quick mental arithmetic. Noon in Tokyo meant that it was ten p.m. the previous night in New York. Saul Marx had told her to phone him at home after she’d seen the webs, but it might be a bit late. Better to wait till later and call him at the office. By that time she would have spoken to Professor Hiraoka. “If you would give me the professor’s phone number, I could call him for an appointment now.”

  “Certainly. I have it in my office.”

  Keio placed the call for her and said a few words in Japanese to the professor. Then he turned the telephone over to her. “Hello, Professor Hiraoka. My name is Susan Holt. I’m from America.”

  The voice on the other end was strong, with a good command of English. “Miss Holt, it’s my pleasure! Takeo has told me about you and your interest in my webs. I feel honored that a great New York store would send someone over here to see them.”

  “I’d like to speak to you about them, Professor. I know it’s the New Year’s weekend—”

  “Would you be free to come out here this afternoon?”

  “Well—yes, of course. Mr. Keio has loaned me his car and driver, so I should have no trouble finding the place.”

  “Very good. About three o’cl
ock?”

  “Perfect. I’ll be there.”

  Professor Hiraoka lived on the outskirts of the city, in a pleasant area where the crush of people and places, railways and highways finally began to abate. Keio’s driver pulled up in front of the house and said he would wait for her. The residence itself was modest, and the door was answered by a young man of around twenty who seemed vaguely familiar. He ushered her into a small study where Professor Hiraoka awaited her.

  He was tall for a Japanese, taller than Susan, and wore a black silk kimono that was tied loosely in front, revealing pants and a dress shirt beneath it. He bowed slightly and accepted the wrapped gift she’d brought along. “How kind of you,” he told her. “This is my son, Yoichi.”

  Yoichi bowed too, and in that instant Susan remembered where she had seen him before. He was the young Japanese in her hotel lobby that morning, the one who had followed her outside just before she was pushed into the street.

  Yoichi left them and Professor Hiraoka settled down behind his desk. He was nearly bald and wore tinted glasses that lent a scholarly yet mysterious look to his face. “I consider it a great honor that you have come here to my home.”

  “Your webs are creations of real beauty. How do you achieve it?”

  He smiled. “By trial and error. I read of some experiments in which LSD was given to spiders and caused them to spin fantastic webs. I experimented in my basement workroom with all sorts of drugs and over time worked out the correct combinations for maximum results. I am aware that some people have an intense dislike for spiders, but no one can fail to appreciate the beauty of a magnificent web. Come, I will show you my workroom.”

  She followed him out to the kitchen where his wife was beginning to prepare dinner. She was a small, pretty woman who hardly looked old enough to have a son of Yoichi’s age. “Beware of the spiders,” she cautioned Susan as they started down the cellar steps. Obviously her husband’s work was something of a family joke.

  The Hiraoka’s home was one of the rare Tokyo houses with a basement. Professor Hiraoka switched on the lights and Susan found herself surrounded by more of the glass wall cabinets she’d seen at the store. “You’ll notice we have air holes and little pegs along the sides to encourage the spiders to start their webs. The pegs can be placed closer together if necessary, though naturally I like the webs to be as large as possible. Once they are spun I spray them with this special solution which causes them to glisten in the light and also strengthens the web somewhat.”

  “Could they be flown to America in these display cases?”

  He hesitated for a moment. “I believe so, if they were well padded and insulated against the cold. A ship might be a bit smoother but it has the disadvantage of taking much longer. The webs should be inspected and sprayed every few days.”

  “Do the spiders accompany them?”

  “No, no,” he said with a chuckle. “Their work is finished. But I should go with them. Would this be a problem?”

  “Of course not. We were planning on it. Certainly we’d want you to supervise their installation and lighting, just as any artist would.”

  “The spiders are the artists. You might say I am merely their manager.”

  She turned from the webs and inspected the rest of the basement. On one wall was a locked cabinet and he opened it for her. “I obtain the hallucinogens through the university. When I am away I return them. I take no chances on a burglary.”

  They discussed financial considerations and Professor Hiraoka was quite reasonable. “How long would you want to show my webs at your New York store?”

  She took a small calendar from her briefcase. “In our country the Christmas shopping season really starts the day after Thanksgiving, Naturally we have decorations in place before that, but Friday, November twenty-fifth would be the opening day for the display. It would remain in place until Christmas, which is one month. Of course you would need time on both ends to prepare the display and then dismantle it. I would guess six weeks in all. In addition to your fee for the display we would pay living expenses for you and your wife in New York during that time. Would your son be coming too?”

  “No, he has other interests.”

  “This evening I’ll phone New York and have them fax me the agreement.

  I’m sure there’ll be no problem over the terms.”

  They returned to his study. “I will look forward to this. My wife and I have been to New York only once before, many years ago, when I spoke at Columbia University.”

  Susan was warming to the whole idea. “I’m certain we can get you on some of the television talk shows. You must have humorous stories about spiders getting loose in the house.”

  “A few,” he admitted with a smile.

  “You said you read something about spiders on LSD. Is it possible that you also read the English writer Walter Pater? He wrote an essay on the Mona Lisa in which he mentioned trafficking for strange webs, and that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

  “I never read Pater,” he admitted, going to a section of his bookcase containing English-language volumes. “But I did read another Englishman, Jonathan Swift. Are you familiar with Gulliver’s Travels?”

  “Of course,” answered Susan, who hadn’t read it since freshman year in college.

  “You may remember here in the third part when Gulliver visits the Academy of Lagado he encounters a professor who fills his room with cobwebs of various hues, achieved by feeding colored flies to the spiders that spin them. He also feeds them gums and oils to strengthen the webs. The professor’s object is to replace silkworms with spiders capable of producing colored silk strands strong enough to be made into clothing.” He handed her the open volume.

  The book was an 1865 edition of Gulliver’s Travels with illustrations by Thomas Morten. It had been published by Cassell, Petter, and Galpin in London. The illustration did indeed show a man with sparse long hair, a beard, and glasses, wearing a ragged kimono, greeting visitors to his cobweb-covered room. Spiders could be seen in many of the webs. The man seemed to be oriental and looked a bit like Professor Hiraoka.

  “I’m surprised Swift’s satire would be of interest to you.”

  Professor Hiraoka smiled at her. “And why shouldn’t it be? After all, the only nonmythical country visited by Gulliver was Japan.”

  Susan phoned the store from her hotel room just before midnight. “It’s almost the new year here,” she told Saul Marx. “I’m celebrating all alone with a glass of champagne.”

  “Good for you,” he grumbled. “We’ve got another fourteen hours to go.

  How are you doing with the webs?”

  “Perfect! They’re really beautiful things. We’ll have pictures in every New York newspaper and half a dozen national magazines.”

  “You met the man who produces them?”

  “Professor Hiraoka, yes. He’s very nice and most cooperative. He and his wife are looking forward to visiting New York.” Quickly she ran over the terms of the financial agreement. “Does that sound reasonable from your end?”

  “What about the shipping expenses for the webs? You’d better check into that from your end.”

  “I already have.” She gave him the figures. “And I assume our standard liability policy will cover insurance.”

  “We usually add a rider for special exhibitions like this.”

  “Fine. Could you type up the necessary agreement and fax it to me here at the hotel? I’ll get Professor Hiraoka’s signature on it tomorrow.” She gave him the number of the fax machine in her room.

  “It’ll be waiting for you when you wake up in the morning. You’ve done a fine job with this, Susan.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that. And Happy New Year.”

  “Happy New Year to you too.”

  She glanced at the bedside clock as she hung up the phone. It was still ten minutes before midnight. Suddenly the phone rang and her first thought was that Saul Marx was calling her back about something.

  “Hello?”
/>   “Miss Susan Holt?” asked a male voice with a British accent. “Yes?”

  “I wonder if you remember me. We met outside your hotel this morning.

  My name is Geoffrey Peters.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “I know it’s very late, but I assumed no young American woman would retire before seeing in the new year. I’m downstairs in the bar and I wonder if I might buy you a drink.”

  “I was just getting ready for bed,” Susan replied, “but I appreciate the invitation. Thank you. Perhaps another time.”

  His voice dropped slightly and the tone changed. “It’s very important I speak with you about what happened this morning. It was not an accident but a deliberate attempt to kill you.”

  “I’m sure you must be mistaken,” she said, but an image of Professor Hiraoka’s son following her out of the hotel loomed large.

  “Your life is in danger, Miss Holt. We must talk.”

  For a split second she considered inviting him up to her room, but immediately dismissed the thought. For all she knew the debonair Geoffrey Peters could be a robber or a rapist. “I’ll be down in fifteen minutes,” she decided, “but only for one drink.”

  He was waiting in the bar, seated alone in a corner booth. The television set had finished proclaiming the new year and the bar’s few customers were beginning to settle down. Most seemed to be Europeans, though there were a few Americans too. Peters wore a gray suit with a brightly striped vest. Earlier she’d only had the impression of a slim British gentleman. Now she saw that he was probably in his late thirties, with a bit of a twinkle in his eye. Seeing that, she wondered if this was all an elaborate ploy to get her into bed with him.

  “So glad you could come,” he said loudly enough for anyone who might be interested. “Would you join me in a champagne toast to the new year?”