“Sit!” Ihara pointed to a small grass mat near the writing table.
Suppressing a sigh, Tora obeyed. “If you could just fill me in about anything that didn’t come out during the hearing, I’ll be on my way. I’m thinking about that lacquer box, for example. Any success tracing it?”
Ihara had a sheaf of notes in his hand and frowned down at them. Turning abruptly to Tora, he asked, “Can you read?”
Tora only looked at him and extended his hand. The truth was that his reading skills remained poor, but he was not about to give this arrogant bastard of a police officer the satisfaction of admitting it. He looked through the paperwork, an assortment of notes taken down by different people. Some seemed to be interviews, transcribed by police department scribes and fairly legible, but many were notes dashed off by Ihara and other policemen. Tora pursed his lips. “These,” he said, holding up some of the latter, “are badly written.”
Ihara flushed. “We are very busy and must often note things down in a great hurry and without adequate equipment or light. The one on top concerns the box.”
“Ah,” murmured Tora and tried to read it. “What is that bit about Nara?”
Ihara snatched the paper from his hand and scanned it. “Oh, that. It’s nothing. Lord Sugawara wanted me to find out where the box came from, in case she had stolen it somewhere. We’ve asked all the lacquerers here, but nobody recognized it. What’s more, they didn’t think it was local work. This one man said he thought it had been made by someone called Tameyoshi in Nara. But they all agreed it was very fine and must’ve cost a lot of money. Clearly stolen.”
Tora glared. “Not by Tomoe. Maybe it was a present from that family she visited.”
Ihara gave a shout of laughter. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who would give a blind woman an expensive cosmetics box? For singing a few songs?”
Tora shook his head stubbornly. “There’s bound to be an explanation. Tomoe didn’t steal and she wasn’t a whore.”
“Maybe she was no whore. I’m inclined to believe her landlady was lying about that. Let’s face it, with those pockmarks, she’d have had a hard time giving it away.”
Tora flared up, “Watch your tongue! She had more class than you and I together. It’s not her fault she was poor and blind and had a few scars on her face. I thought you people were supposed to protect us, not drag our names into the mud when we can’t help ourselves any longer. The superintendent said so.”
Ihara bit his lip. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” He stared at Tora. “It hadn’t occurred to me that you and she… might’ve been close.”
Tora scowled, his fist clenching around the papers. He decided that he would not tell Ihara about the nun who was no nun. In fact, he had no intention of sharing any information with the man, now or ever.
“Here! Watch what you’re doing. I need those,” yelped Ihara, pointing at the papers.
Tora eased his grip and smoothed out the crumpled sheets. He glanced at the rest quickly, then handed them back to Ihara and got up.
“Well? See anything interesting?” Ihara asked.
“If there is, you should know.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Talk to people.” Tora made for the door.
“Be sure to report to me.”
Tora grunted and let the door slam behind him.
He hoped he would never have to lay eyes on Ihara again. No wonder women were attacked on the street in broad daylight and hoodlums dared to lift their hands against his master. With the exception of Kobe-Tora was willing to give the superintendent the benefit of the doubt-the police were incompetent, ignorant, and lacking in manners. He no longer wished to join their ranks and hoped Ihara would make a fool of himself.
Tora strode out briskly, so infuriated by his encounter with the snooty lieutenant that he was oblivious to his surroundings until he passed through the market gateway and was greeted by the sights, sounds, and smells of the place. People bustled about or bargained, shop boys cried out their wares, and on dozens of small stoves simmered soups, filled dumplings, and fried fish. Dodging shoppers, vendors, and merchandise, Tora made for the tower.
Tomoe’s place had been taken by the soothsayer who used to occupy one of the steps on the other side. Draped in a colorful new shawl, he seemed to be doing a good business in his new, elevated location. Tora did not like the speed with which he had taken Tomoe’s place, but he knew well enough that in this world of commerce each vacancy was instantly filled by some other creature trying to scrape up enough coppers for a day’s food, while hoping to make his fortune before it was too late.
Tora preferred an honest death in battle to this futile struggle in the marketplace. Even a farmer could die contented, knowing that he had grown rice for his own family and many others besides. Poor Tomoe had gained nothing from her struggle. Tora wondered how she had managed to get her choice location. He walked around the tower. The soothsayer’s place was now taken by an amulet seller in a pilgrim’s straw hat and white robe. He was doing an even better business than the fortune-teller. Tora looked around for other regulars. There was that filthy piece of dung, the beggar, pulling at the clothes of one of the amulet seller’s customers. And the storyteller had his usual group of wide-eyed maids with young children in tow. Tora walked past a straw sandal maker who was measuring the feet of a boy as his mother haggled over the price. Beside him a young girl was selling paper fans. He didn’t see the noodle soup man at his corner across from the tower, but it was still early in the day. The mochi seller was just coming into view, moving through the crowd of shoppers with his large basket of rice dumplings strapped to his back, calling out, “Sweet dumplings, savory dumplings, fresh dumplings, bean paste dumplings.”
The sun was high and many hours had passed since Tora’s morning rice. He decided to treat himself to a dumpling while asking a few questions. The mochi man in his short pants and jacket had a prematurely lined face, and his arms and legs were sinewy and brown from walking around the market all day and kneading dough and baking his dumplings at night. His lean face broke into a smile when he saw Tora. He stopped his chant and swung the heavy basket down to the ground.
“How are you, Brother?” Tora greeted him. “One of the bean paste dumplings, please. No, make that two, and wrap up the second. My master’s little son is fond of them.” Genba was too, but Genba was getting fat, and besides Tora was low on funds at the moment.
The vendor exchanged the dumplings for some coppers, and watched Tora take a big bite out of his while tucking Yori’s into his sleeve. “You hear about Tomoe?” he asked.
Tora wiped rice flour from his mustache and nodded. “I’m the one that found her.”
The vendor’s eyes grew large. “You don’t say? Was it as bad as they say? Blood everywhere? Like some wild animal got her?”
“It was an animal all right,” said Tora, looking at his half-eaten dumpling and then tossing it toward a sleeping dog. He had lost his appetite. “But a human animal.”
“Here,” said the vendor, “what was wrong with that dumpling?”
The dog, startled awake into a growl, devoured the unexpected gift and licked his chops. “Nothing,” muttered Tora. “You shouldn’t have reminded me.”
“Oh. Well, watch it. If people see you tossing my dumplings to the dogs, it’ll hurt my business.”
“Sorry. You happen to have any idea who killed her?
The vendor chewed his lip. “We’ve been talking, some of us in the market. Seemed weird. She had nothing. Was she raped?”
“They don’t know for sure.” The question reminded Tora that he should have asked Ihara for the coroner’s report. The bastard probably wouldn’t have given it to him, but he should have tried. Then he had the uneasy thought that the report might have been among the papers he had returned without reading. He sighed. Maybe he had better sit in on Yori’s lessons.