Erast Petrovich deliberately spoke about the Japanese with emphatic correctness, making it clear that he did not like the sergeant’s choice of words. The American seemed to take the hint.
‘I know him. He’s in charge of the station on Wagon Street, that’s in the Native Town. Of all the yellow… Of all the Japanese, Go is the smartest. We’ve worked together a couple of times already, on mixed cases when the mischief-makers were whites and yell… I mean natives. He’s a really young guy, only thirty, but experienced. He’s been in the police about fifteen years.’
‘How is that possible?’ Fandorin asked in surprise.
‘Well, he’s a hereditary yoriki.’
‘Who?’
‘A yoriki, it’s like a precinct cop. Under the old regime, the shoguns, the usual thing was for every trade, even every job, to pass from father to son. For instance, if your father was a water-carrier, then you’re going to spend your entire life carting around barrels of water. If your old man was the deputy head of the fire brigade, then you’ll be the deputy head too. That was why everything here fell apart on them – there was no point in straining yourself, you couldn’t jump any higher than your dear old dad anyway. And Go’s from a family of yoriki. When his father was killed by a robber, the lad was only thirteen. But order is order: he hung two swords on his belt, picked up a truncheon and went to work. He told me that the first year he carried the long sword under his arm so that it wouldn’t drag along the ground.’
‘But can a b-boy really maintain order in an entire neighbourhood?’
‘He can here, because the Jappos… the Japanese don’t look at the man so much, they look at the position and the rank. And then, they respect the police here – they’re all samurai to a man. And then, Rusty, bear in mind that guys who were born into yoriki families have been taught the whole body of police science since they were little kids: how to catch a thief, how to disarm robbers and tie them up, and they can handle a truncheon in a fight like our cops have never even dreamed of. I think Go could do plenty when he was thirteen.’
Erast Petrovich listened with great interest.
‘And how is their police organised now?’
‘On the English model. There are out-of-work samurai everywhere you look now, so there’s no shortage of volunteers. If you’re interested in the details, ask Go – here he comes.’
Fandorin looked out of the window at the well-lit square and saw a tall Japanese in a black uniform jacket and white trousers, with a sword hanging at his side. He was walking towards the station, swinging his right arm in military style.
‘You see he has a revolver on his belt,’ said Lockston, pointing. ‘That’s unusual for a native. They prefer to use a stick or, at a pinch, a sword.’
Inspector Asagawa was taciturn and calm, with a still face and quick eyes that were surely highly observant. The titular counsellor liked him. The Japanese began by ceremoniously but quite decisively putting the noisy sergeant in his place.
‘I am glad to see you too, Mr Lockston. Only please, if it is not too difficult for you, call me Goemon and not Go, although we Japanese feel more comfortable when we are addressed by our surnames. No thank you, I won’t have any coffee. Concerning my health and so forth, with your permission, we can talk later about that. My superiors have informed me that I come under the command of the vice-consul. What are your orders, Mr Fandorin?’
In this way the conversation was immediately set on business lines.
Erast Petrovich briefly described their goal.
‘Gentlemen, we have to find three samurai from Satsuma whom the Russian subject Captain Blagolepov carried on his launch last night. We have to ascertain if these men were involved in his sudden death.’
Fandorin didn’t say anything about the political background to the investigation. Asagawa understood and apparently approved – at least, he nodded.
‘Well, and how are we going to find them and ascertain that?’ asked Lockston.
‘These men hired the captain to take them to Tokyo again before dawn today, they even p-paid him an advance. So our first action will be as follows: we will go to the spot where the launch is moored and see if the Satsumans show up at the agreed time or not. If they do not, it means they know that the captain is dead. That will serve to strengthen the suspicion that they are involved in his death. That is one.’
‘What’s the point?’ the sergeant asked with a shrug. ‘So it will strengthen the suspicion. But where do we look for those three, that’s the catch.’
‘The daughter of the deceased told me that most of her father’s clients were supplied by the owner of the Rakuen. I assume that these three also made their arrangements with the owner of the launch and not with the captain. I can’t be completely certain of that, but let us not forget that the suspicious blow to his neck was inflicted inside the Rakuen. Which brings me to the second stage of this investigation: if the Satsumans do not show up, we shall turn our attention to Mr Semushi.’
Lockston chewed on his cigar, thinking over what Fandorin had said, but the Japanese was already on his feet.
‘In my humble judgement, your plan is very good,’ he said briefly. ‘I shall take ten experienced police officers. We shall surround the mooring and wait.’
‘And I’ll take six of the lads, the entire night shift,’ said the sergeant, also getting up.
Erast Petrovich summed up the situation.
‘So, if the Satsumans come, they are no longer under suspicion of the captain’s death. We hand them over to the Japanese police, who can deal with finding out who they are and what their intentions were. If the Satsumans do not come, the investigation remains within the competence of the consulate and the m-municipal police…’
‘And make no mistake, we’ll find those sons of bitches, wherever they are,’ the American put in. ‘We’ll go straight from the mooring to the hunchbacked Jappo’s place and shake the very soul out of him.’
Fandorin couldn’t help it, he shuddered at that ‘Jappo’ and was about to rebuke the sergeant for his intemperate speech, but it turned out that Inspector Asagawa had no intention of letting his nation be insulted.
‘The Japanese soul, Mr Lockston, is hidden deeper than it is in white people. It is not so easy to shake out, especially with a man like Semushi. He is an akunin, of course, but by no means a weakling.’
‘Who is he?’ Fandorin asked, knitting his brows together at the sound of an unfamiliar word.
‘An akunin is like an evil man or a villain,’ Asagawa tried to explain. ‘But not entirely… I don’t think the English language has a precise translation for it. An akunin is an evil man, but he is not petty, he is a strong man. He has his own rules, which he defines for himself. They do not conform to the prescriptions of the law, but an akunin will sacrifice his life for the sake of his rules, and so he inspires respect as well as hate.’
‘There is no word for that in Russian either,’ Fandorin admitted after a moment’s thought. ‘But g-go on.’
‘Semushi undoubtedly breaks the law. He is a cruel and cunning bandit. But he is not a coward, otherwise he could not hold on to his position. I have been working my way towards him for a long time. I have arrested him twice: for smuggling and on suspicion of murder. But Semushi is one of a new breed. He does not act like the bandits of former times. And most importantly of all, he has protectors in high places…’
Asagawa hesitated and stopped, as if realising that he had said too much.
He doesn’t want to hang out his dirty laundry in front of foreigners, Fandorin guessed, and decided to leave any questions for later, when he got to know the inspector better
‘Know what I have to say to you guys?’ said Lockston, narrowing his eyes sceptically. ‘We’re not going to get anywhere. We won’t prove the old dope-smoker was bumped off. With just a finger. It’s not possible.’