Chapter Two
Okita Souji overslept, and by the time he woke up, his head was pounding like he had a hangover. The entire house was silent, and at first, he couldn't place what day it was, or even where he was. Surely, he hadn't gone for a drink last night. Had he?
He sat up, staring at the unfamiliar room. He didn't quite remember ever buying feather pillows ... Then it came flooding back in such a rush, that he fell back on the bed. He was in Hajime's house. And last night, Hajime yelling at someone ... Okita clambered out, and ran out of the room.
Nearly crashing into Tokio, who was carrying a breakfast tray in her hands.
"Good morning, Mr. Souji," she said uncertainly, falling back a step. "Did you sleep well?"
He nodded distractedly. "Where's Saito?"
She looked apologetic. "Mr. Hajime has gone off to work. A carriage picked him up outside, and he told me that if anyone should call at the house for him today, I should tell them to come tomorrow. I doubt he is in Edo."
Okita nodded. She went on, "Something may be wrong, though. He did not eat before he left. Would you like breakfast, Mr. Souji?"
"Sure, thank you, Miss Takagi. That's awfully generous. By the way, have you been to Hajime's room this morning?"
"Mr. Hajime prefers that I should not disturb it."
"So, it's in the same condition as last night?"
"I think it is. Is there something that you want?"
"No, I was just asking."
He waited until she had disappeared in the general direction of the kitchen, and then, he turned in his steps and paused outside Hajime's door. The part of the house, aside from Tokio's room, where he was not allowed.
Inhaling deeply, Okita opened the shoji, and slipped inside. The first thing that struck him was that the place was in a mess.
The bed was rumpled, Hajime's starched blue jacket tossed in a bundle on the floor. The door to his wardrobe was half-open, and the clothes were in a state of disarray. If nothing else, the hakama was missing. Laundry, he guessed. Unless Hajime was wearing it to work with his shirt.
He glanced around. The walls, the ceiling, the floor ... there was no hint of a clue. What had happened last night, and who had come to the house? It seemed like Okita would never know. It was then he saw that white thing lying on the jacket. It was a paper ball.
Picking it up, he smoothed it out. He could barely stifle the cry of disgust and horror.
Blood. The paper was soaked in it. Whose blood was it? And why did Hajime have it?
He scoured through his friend's possessions for the next fifteen minutes, and then he heard Tokio announcing breakfast. He slipped out as quietly as he came in, the paper-ball in his pocket. He'd confront Hajime with it outside the house.
The food was nice and hot, and Tokio was an excellent cook. The two of them ate in silence. When he was done, Okita offered to do his dishes: payment for her hospitality. He thanked her profusely for "everything you do for us," and courteously bowing, he left. Tokio Takagi was alone in the house once more.
It was nothing new. She was the housekeeper, the one who took care of it when Mr. Saito was not home. But today, that morning, a strange sense of solitude washed through her. She was the only one there. Alone.
Despair and desperation was not something she was used to feeling. She had nothing to do, nowhere to go, so she retreated to the drawing room, bringing a few blank sheets of paper and a charcoal pencil with her.
She knelt before the table, and placed the sheet on it. She thought for a while, the nib tapping against the tabletop. She could think of nothing to draw, and she went outside, sat on the porch for sometime, and went back in to draw the thin trees.
Then she drew the moon and some clouds, the fence and the gate, and the black house standing in shadow. She hesitated, and then she drew a dark figure outside the house, a policeman's hat angled over the head, hand resting at the raised hilt of the sword.
In the bottom-right corner, she signed her name in tiny writing, and with a flourish, added the date.
Very much into drawing Mr. Saito now, she began a fresh sketch, the centre of the page being occupied by Goro Fujita, and like the penumbra of a shadow, she lightly limned the "Mibu Wolf," who always preceded Saito Hajime's face.
She worked with her pictures all day, until it grew into the afternoon, and she gathered them up and put them on the dresser for the minute, and went into the kitchen to get the food on the fire. Hungry, she made tsukudani and rice, and as usual, ate alone.
Saito Hajime was having a very bad day. He had arranged to meet with Chou Sawagejo at twelve, in one of the pubs, and the guy had turned up half-hour later, claiming he'd been mugged on the way and had to take it upon himself to retrieve his hard-earned yen.
Considerably annoyed, Saito told Chou about the previous night's threat.
"Hmm," had been the other man's first reaction. He was Saito's top informant, and pretty reliable by his usual standards. "I'll look into it, see how many local gangs there are with that sort of MO."
"It wouldn't be a bunch of philandering crooks who rob old ladies, you idiot," snapped Saito, irritated by the man's inexplicable dimness. "It's too high up, too crafty. There were no traces at my place whatsoever, I checked myself."
"Try Shishio Makoto, then," said Chou with a grin that predicted muted incredulity.
Saito's eyes narrowed. The gold flecks hardened. "Shishio Makoto is missing, and at large. Figures he might be collecting an army of followers, and slowly eliminating all past threats he had once faced." His eyes settled on Chou.
"Hey. What are you looking so alarmed for? Don't tell me you're scared of a bastard like Shishio."
The look wiped itself off Chou's face. "'Course I'm not scared," he snorted. "Besides, they burned Shishio alive, he might be dead, for all we know."
"Hn," said Saito speculatively, "but the dead have a nasty habit of springing back to life."
Chou shot him an odd look, which he swiftly ignored. Saito glanced at the time. "Damn. It's already late." He got up from the table. "I have to go, I have an appointment with an important bureaucrat about some stupid bridge. I'll see you at four in the usual place, alright? You'd better have something waiting for me."
With that lingering threat, Saito strode out into the carriage waiting for him, ever composed and unhurried.
His meeting was a smooth operation, and at the end of it he was told in person that his katana, the heavy samurai sword, was officially licensed, and he could carry it to work proceeding from Friday. This produced little outward emotion.
With nothing to do for two hours, Saito stopped by a geisha restaurant for a very late lunch. It was lavish, unlike the diners and pubs and living room he was used to, and had it not been for the entertainer on his arm, he would have stormed out the second he learned there was no soba available.
He ate something more complimentary, secretly deciding to murder the chefs in their sleep. With four o' clock around the corner, and he arrived at the meeting point on the bridge.
It was an ancient stone structure that was built over a clear stream that bubbled and tripped over the rocks and stone. Small, bright-coloured flowers grew by its sides. Chou was anxiously waiting for him, a bag of live wires.
"Find anything?" asked Saito casually, lighting a cigarette out of his pocket.
"Hell I did," snapped Chou. "The bad news is that they've started to move into the open, and we've got to forget Shishio and letters for a while."
"What's the good news?"
"You get an excuse to use that sword of yours."
Saito knew what "they" referred to so covertly. It was a gang of powerful drug-lords the police had been trying to get for ages. They were a clever lot of combined brains, and they didn't move much after they received a shipment, sometimes waiting for months before they started selling their goods abroad.
Rumour had it, as Chou reported, at least one of them had been in league with Shishio Makoto, and now that the main guy was dead, this fellow intended to carry out his regime of terror. Needless to say, drug trafficking was just an excuse for arrest.
A thought struck Saito. "Hey," he said. "What if it was one of those guys at my place last night?"
"Nah," said Chou dismissively in a manner that might have got him killed had he not been, in one word, "useful." "I've seen the whole ensemble. They're all too fat. Which reminds me, they've found a new recruit for their security. A guy called Iwanbu, ever heard of him?"
Saito gave a denial.
"You're lucky. He's as much of a heavyweight as he is dumb. From what I've heard of him, even soap bubbles bounce off him without bursting, forget bullets."
"You said he's stupid, right?" said Saito, unconcerned. "There's not much of a threat in a big-sized rubber ball." Of course, he was incredibly lucky that he never really met the infamous "rubber ball." Not that he'd admit he was lucky.
"You were saying about the gang moving out—?"
"Oh? Yeah," Chou took up his story once more. "I've got it that they're planning to smuggle their cargo of opium abroad into Holland. The demand is big in Japan, but risky. They're moving the stuff to a warehouse near the docks. Tomorrow. They'll set sail next week.
"I've already got one of my men infiltrating the group. He's been among them for a couple of months now, and he's one of the men responsible for moving all those crates of opium. He's been keeping me informed, and I'll send you a note as soon as their work begins."
"Efficient. Wouldn't have thought it of you, Sawagejo." Saito smirked.
"There's just one thing, Hajime. This whole thing has a HANDLE WITH CARE label pasted on it. You know we can't have the local police botching it up. If you could get some of the ... "
"Shinsen Patrol?" Saito thought about it, and the scowl pressed into his face. "I'll do my best to get some of them rounded up.
"Only the best," reminded Chou, as he turned to leave. "And I really appreciate the help, Hajime."
Saito stayed on the bridge, and the afternoon sun dipped low in the sky behind him. He took one last drag from his cigarette and flicked it away. He walked to the waiting carriage in silence, and rode back, jolting with every bump on the road, his mind immersed in swirling, troubled thoughts.
"Good evening, Mr. Hajime," Tokio greeted him with a smile. He looked at her, instantly suspicious. " I've laundered your jacket like you asked me to. And I've made the supper quite hot, and your sake is waiting for you."
He nodded, taking off his black shoes. "Is there any reason why you're so particularly cheerful?"
She shook her head, still smiling. "I just missed having you home today."
"I missed you too," he returned gruffly, smiling back at the girl.
