‘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.’