But Rashomon had fallen on hard times as, indeed, had the capital itself. The gate was rarely guarded nowadays and had become a hangout for vagrants, crooks and undesirables from the surrounding provinces. After dark, ordinary people avoided the place, making it a safe haven for criminals. The police turned a blind eye, except that twice a week, in the pre-dawn hours, the city authorities sent crews to gather the corpses.
Tora dreaded a visit to the upper floor of Rashomon, where bodies were generally left, about as much as an interview with the king of hell himself, but the prostitute's story had to be checked out and his master expected results. It was not the first time since he had entered Akitada's service that Tora had faced what he feared most, the supernatural.
In this case his immediate decision was to postpone the inevitable. He went to the umbrella maker's house first. Omaki's father was in. Hishiya was in his late fifties, thin, balding and prematurely bent, with the gnarled and scarred hands of his profession. He smiled and bowed deeply, expressing his gratitude for Tora's interest in his poor daughter. To his further credit, in Tora's eyes, he made no mention of blood money. Unfortunately he seemed to know nothing of his daughter's friends.
When patient probing had produced no more than protestations of shock and puzzlement, Tora exclaimed in frustration, "But you're her father! How could you not care that she slept with men or who the father of her unborn child was?"
The elderly man bowed his head. "Omaki was a good girl, but we are very poor. She tried hard to make a living playing the lute. She was very talented; all who heard her said so. But the men where she entertained, well, they want more than a bit a music, and she had no one to look out for her. Who am I to ask questions or to blame her, when I am too poor to give her a dowry?"
"Sorry," mumbled Tora. "The trouble is, from all we hear, she was pleased about the kid. Like she expected to marry its father."
The man sighed. "Maybe. I wouldn't know. I'm gone so much, selling my umbrellas in the market and gathering bamboo for more. You'll have to ask my wife. Women have their secrets. Only she's not in right now."
Tora rose. "Never mind! It doesn't matter. I'll ask around."
He spent the next few hours in the amusement quarter. His day had been long and Lady Sugawara had worked him hard. He felt in need of a rest and liquid refreshment. Besides, the bright lights and sounds of laughter and music blotted out thoughts of the horrors awaiting him in Rashomon.
He drank liberally and asked his questions without getting any helpful answers. Omaki had not been well liked by the other women in the quarter. They thought her proud and secretive, and none of them knew anything of her private life. At some point the combined effects of his exertions and the wine caused him to nod off. When the waiter shook him awake, wanting his place for other customers, it was past the middle of the night, and Tora had no reason to put off the unpleasant business of Rashomon any longer. He reflected bitterly that murder investigations exposed a man to danger not only from killers, but also from the angry spirits of their victims. Rashomon, being a receptacle of the unwanted dead, must be teeming with disgruntled specters.
Casting an uneasy glance at the sky, he saw that it was clouding up, and the moon made only fitful appearances. The cool, clear days of spring were over. Soon it would be hot and the rainy season would start, but not quite yet. It was merely dark, an excellent night to search for abandoned bodies and encounter gruesome ghosts. It suddenly occurred to Tora that he was totally unprepared for this undertaking and he headed for the market.
Most vendors had closed down, but he found a cheap lantern and then searched with increasing desperation for a soothsayer. He found this most essential individual in the form of a shrivelled old man who had fallen asleep over his stock of divining sticks, patent medicines and amulets.
"Wake up, Master," said Tora, shaking him gently by the shoulder. It did not do to offend one familiar with demons and spells.
"What do you want?" quavered the old one.
Tora explained his errand, and the old man nodded. "Wise precaution," he muttered, searching through his basket. "Last man went there after dark met a hungry ghost and had to give up his whole right arm to get away."
Tora shuddered.
The old man produced a wooden tablet with the crudely drawn image of the god Fudo. He threaded a string through its hole and knotted it. Next to this he laid a handful of rice. Finally he fished a sheet of cheap paper with some poorly written lines from the breast of his patched cotton robe and added this to the other two items. "Fifty coppers," he announced.
Tora blanched. He felt in his sleeve. "Do I need all that?" he asked.
The old man sighed. "The amulet you hold up before you if you encounter a demon. Fudo will strike the demon for you. The rice is to toss into a room before you enter; it drives hungry ghosts away. The paper contains the magical incantation of the virtues of Sonsho, who's Buddha's incarnation and protector against malevolent spirits. When you recite it, you will be safe even in Rashomon."
"I can't read," confessed Tora.
The old man sighed again. Taking the paper back, he said, "I'll read it; you repeat it."
The incantation was long and referred to some peculiar Indian names and terms, but Tora tried. The old man corrected him, sighed, corrected again, sighed, and finally nodded. "You got it! Practice it on the way."
"How much without the paper?" asked Tora.
The old man glared at him. "Fifty coppers," he said. "I should charge extra for the instruction!"
Tora bowed, mumbling his thanks for the generous price, turned over all but five coppers of his month's salary, and proceeded, only slightly fortified in mind, to Rashomon.
When his lagging steps finally brought him to the great gate, he found it nearly deserted. Only the hardiest, the most foolish or the most desperate of souls remained here after dark. A couple of beggars sat on the steps, hoping against hope for some late travellers entering or leaving the city. Inside, under the roofs of the vast structure, a few vagrants had taken shelter for the night. Tora surveyed them carefully.
An elderly couple in rags huddled against the base of a pillar, asleep and snoring. Near them an itinerant monk leaned against the wall, his straw hat covering his face, and his staff and bowl lying by his side. Monks of this type were a familiar sight on highways. They were not attached to any particular monastery and spent their lives travelling. This monk looked to be strong and healthy; at least he had muscular legs and large feet. Vagrant monks could be very unpleasant adversaries. Too often, they were wanted criminals in disguise. Tora watched him carefully, but decided that he, too, was fast asleep.
The sound of voices and laughter drew Tora to the other side of the gate. There, on the steps leading down to the highway, sat a group of men, engaged in a game of dice by lantern light. They looked like common laborers, their short-sleeved cotton shirts tucked into loose cotton trousers and their heads covered with knotted pieces of cloth. All chattered happily until one of them looked up and saw Tora in his neat blue robe and black cap. "An inspector!" he cried, and they all scrambled up and dispersed.
Tora chuckled. He had been mistaken before for one of the city officials who checked up on travellers. Since none of the men had fit the street woman's description of Spike or Nail, he would have to find the body himself. Tora turned back to enter the interior of Rashomon.