Hanging back about fifty paces behind the senior agent were another three – just in case something unforeseen happened. Then the senior agent would give them a quick flash from the lamp under his cloak, and they would run up to him.
That was how strictly they were following Semushi, there was no way he could get away from the police agents. But the master and Masa had thought and thought and come up with a plan. As soon as the Vice-Consul of the Russian Empire started howling in the distance, Masa had to…
But just at that moment Masa heard a wail that he recognised immediately. Erast Petrovich howled quite authentically, but even so, not like one of Yokohama’s stray mutts – there was something thoroughbred about that melancholy sound, as if it were being made by a bloodhound or, at the very least, a basset.
It was time to move from thought to action.
Masa strolled silently under the planks until he was behind the ‘beggar’s’ back. He took three small steps on tiptoe, and when the agent turned round at the rustling sound, he leapt forward and smacked him gently below the ear with the edge of his hand. The ‘beggar’ gave a quiet sob and tumbled over on to his side. A whole heap of coppers spilled out of his cup.
Masa took the coins for himself – so that everything would look right and, in general, they would come in handy. His Imperial Highness could manage without them somehow.
He squatted down beside the unconscious man in the shadow of the parapet and started watching.
There was a fine drizzle falling, but the corner from which Semushi ought to appear was lit up by two street lamps. The hunchback would walk across the little bridge over the canal, then cut across a plot of wasteland to the bridge over the Yosidagawa. So he would have the junction of the river and the canal on his right, one bridge ahead of him, another behind him, and nothing on his left but the dark wasteland – and that was the whole point of the plan.
There was the squat, lumpish figure. The hunchback moved with a heavy, plodding walk, waddling slightly from side to side.
It probably wasn’t easy lugging a hump around all the time, thought Masa. And how easy could it be to live with a deformity like that? When he was little, the other boys must have teased him. When he grew a bit, the girls all turned their noses up. That was why Semushi had turned out so villainous and spiteful. Or maybe it wasn’t because of that at all. On the street where Masa grew up, there had been a hunchback, a street sweeper. Even more hunched and crooked than this one, he could barely hobble along. But he was kind, everyone liked him. And they used to say: He’s so good because the Buddha gave him a hump. It wasn’t the hump that mattered, but what kind of kokoro a man had. If the kokoro was right, a hump would only make you better, but if it was rotten, you would hate the whole wide world.
Meanwhile, the owner of a vicious kokoro had crossed the little bridge.
Erast Petrovich’s servant told himself: ‘Now the master will pull the string’ – and at that very moment there was a loud crash. Suddenly, out of the blue, a cart that was standing on the little bridge had lurched over sideways – its axle must have snapped. The large barrel standing on the cart smashed down on to the ground and burst open, releasing a stream of black tar that flooded the planking surface – no one could walk or drive across now…
Semushi swung round when he heard the crash and put his hand inside his jacket, but he saw that nothing dangerous had happened. There wasn’t a single soul to be seen. The cart driver must have left his goods close to the market yesterday and settled down in some nearby eating-house where he could get a meal and a bed for the night. But his kuruma was old and decrepit, ready to break down at any moment.
The hunchback stood still for a minute or so, turning his head in all directions. Finally he was satisfied and walked on.
A grey shadow appeared on the far side of the bridge – Masa could see it. It stepped into the black puddle and stuck there.
Of course it did! Masa had bought the tar himself. He had chosen the very lousiest kind, as runny as possible and so sticky you could never get out of it.
There was a gleam of light – that had to be the agent signalling to the others. Three more shadows appeared. They started rushing about on the bank, not knowing what to do. One decided to risk it after all and got stuck fast too.
Then Semushi looked round, enjoyed the sight for a moment, shrugged and went on his way. What was it to him? He knew there were probably agents up ahead as well.
When the hunchback reached the river, Masa growled and dashed out to meet him. He was holding a wakizashi, a short sword, and brandishing it wildly – it was a treat to see the way the blade glinted in the light of the street lamp.
‘For the Chobei-gumi!!’ Masa shouted out, but not too loudly: so that Semushi could hear, but the stuck policemen couldn’t. ‘Do you recognise me, Hunchback? You’re done for now!’
He deliberately leapt out sooner than he should have done if he really wanted to kill the rotten snake.
Semushi had time to recoil and pull out his revolver, that vile weapon of cowards. But Masa wasn’t afraid of the revolver – he knew that the senior police agent, a man with very deft hands, had filed down the hammer the day before yesterday.
The hunchback clicked once, and twice, but didn’t bother to click a third time, he spun round and took to his heels. At first he ran back towards the little bridge. Then he realised he’d get stuck in the tar and the police agents wouldn’t save him. He turned sharply to the right, which was the way he was supposed to go.
Masa caught up with him and, to give him a real scare, slashed him on the arm, just above the elbow, with the very tip of the blade. The hunchback yelped and made up his mind – he set off across the wasteland, into the darkness. The wasteland was large, it stretched all the way to Tobemura, where they executed criminals and afterwards displayed their severed heads on poles. Previously, when he was still Badger, Masa had been certain that sooner or later he would end up in Tobemura too, goggling down at people with his dead eyes, frightening them. That wasn’t very likely now, though. The top of a pole was no place for the head of Sibata Masahiro, liege vassal of Mr Fandorin.
He sliced the sword through the air just behind the back of Semushi’s head a couple of times, then stumbled and sprawled full length on the ground. He deliberately cursed, as if he had hurt his leg badly. And now he ran more slowly, limping along.
He shouted:
‘Stop! Stop, you coward! You won’t get away anyway!’
But by now the hunchback should have realised that he would get away – not only from the unlucky avenger, but also from the agents of the Yokohama police. That was why this place had been chosen: on the wasteland you could see anyone running after you from a long way away.
Masa gave a final, helpless shout:
‘It doesn’t matter, I’ll finish you the next time.’
And then he stopped.
The wasteland was long, but Semushi couldn’t get off it, because the river was on his right and the canal was on his left. Right at the far end, by the bridge to Tobemura, Shirota-san was waiting in the bushes. He was an educated man, of course, but he had no experience in matters like this. He had to be helped.
Brushing away his sweat with one hand, Masa ran towards the bank of the Yosidagawa, where there was a boat waiting. A few thrusts of the pole, and he’d be on the other side. If he ran as fast his legs could carry him, he would be just in time – this way was shorter than going across the wasteland. And if he was a bit late – that was why Shirota-san was there. He could show Masa which way Semushi had turned.