Rashomon Gate Read online

  "Is this common gossip?" Akitada asked, surprised.

  "Well, yes and no." Kosehira looked uncomfortable. "Some of us who knew the old prince are very concerned. You see, the old man never liked Sakanoue. Sakanoue is not a nice person. I myself witnessed an incident the other day where he pushed ahead of old Lady Kose, the late emperor's nurse. She cried out in alarm, and he said something very rude about senile old hags. I was shocked."

  "He is definitely not nice," Akitada agreed. "I just had a taste of his lack of manners myself. The grandson is one of my students, by the way."

  Kosehira's eyes widened in surmise.

  Akitada added quickly, "No, no. He is not the reason I am at the university. Besides, a man's lack of manners does not necessarily prove that he has criminal intentions."

  Kosehira shook his head. "In this instance I don't agree with you," he said. "But in any case it is a very good thing you're there. If anyone can get to the bottom of the affair, it is you. Just be careful! Sakanoue may be dangerous. Incidentally, he is some kind of cousin to the family. There was some talk after the old prince's son died, that he planned to adopt Sakanoue, but he evidently decided against it and raised his grandson instead."

  Akitada would have pursued the matter, but Kosehira's other neighbor asked his host a question. On the street, a group of musicians was passing and at that moment they raised their flutes to their lips and played an ancient melody. Instantly Akitada was entranced. This was even better than Sato's lute playing, and it looked a great deal easier. For a moment he considered whether Sato might consent to teach him the rudiments, but that reminded him again of the murdered girl and her relationship with the music teacher. Sato must certainly have been interrogated by the police by now. Perhaps he had even been arrested.

  With the flutists, the procession drew to its close. A final group of white-robed priests passed, and then the spectators fell in behind, following on foot or in their carriages. The stands were emptying rapidly, and Kosehira turned to Akitada.

  "Will you join me in my carriage?" he asked.

  "No. I must see my family and a guest home. Besides I have made the journey many times."

  They parted with promises to meet again soon, and Akitada hurried back. But before he reached their viewing stand, he was hailed. It was the police captain he had met the day before.

  "Glad to run into you," the man greeted him. "If you can spare the time, I'd like you to come to the jail with me. We have arrested a suspect in the park murder. He had a woman's red sash on him; I'd like you to identify it."

  The picture of the old beggar flashed through Akitada's mind. If he was the suspect, he would have to try to get him released, but first he must see to his family and Tamako. He explained his dilemma to Kobe and promised to come as soon as he could.

  To his surprised relief, he found that Lady Sugawara had invited Tamako to share their noon rice.

  "And we will send her home safely in the rented carriage," she told her son, "since you cannot be trusted to extend the proper courtesies to a young lady."

  Akitada's eyes went to Tamako. She looked calm and nodded with a little smile. "I told your mother how pleasant our walk was," she said, "but she insists that I must ride home in style. I am sure you must be very busy, and we are having a lovely time talking about you."

  Akitada's sisters broke into giggles, and his mother smiled indulgently. Somewhat dazed, Akitada saw the ladies into their carriage and gave Tora instructions about taking Tamako home. Then he hurried to the prison.

  The municipal jail was only a few blocks away. He found Kobe pacing in the guard room, a bare hall primarily decorated with chains, whips, handcuffs and leg irons hanging from hooks on the walls.

  "Ah. There you are," Kobe said in lieu of a greeting. On a rickety and scarred wooden table lay a bulky paper package tied with cord. Kobe tore it open, and took out a wrinkled length of bright red brocade with a small pattern of flowers and birds in many colors. "Do you recognize it?"

  Akitada stepped closer. "It looks like the one the girl wore to her lesson," he said, touching the fabric. The creases were particularly deep in two places. It looked as if the sash had been looped around something, and then pulled and twisted sharply. He glanced at Kobe. "This must have been used to strangle her."

  Kobe nodded. He picked up the sash, refolded it, and put it in his sleeve. "Follow me!" he said, heading out the door.

  They passed down a long, dingy corridor with many cell doors. Haggard faces appeared at the grates, but none of the prisoners spoke. At the end of the corridor a door opened onto a veranda which looked down into the jail's courtyard, where a dismal group awaited them. Two brutish-looking guards jumped up and jerked a bedraggled figure between them erect. With a thin cry of pain the old beggar staggered to his feet. Because his ankles were chained and his hands tied behind his back, he lost his balance and fell against one of the guards, who immediately clouted him over the head. The old man sagged to his knees again. His chin sank to his chest and he whimpered.

  "Why are you holding this poor old man?" Akitada cried.

  Kobe shot him a glance. "He is the suspect in the murder."

  "Impossible! And what have you done to him? There is blood on his clothes."

  "He has been whipped. Such methods are used when suspects refuse to cooperate."

  "But he is only an old man. How could he have had the strength to kill that young woman, let alone—"

  Kobe interrupted sharply, "May I remind you that we are not alone?"

  Akitada flushed. "Why did you bring me here?" he said as sharply.

  "I wanted you to hear what he has to say. At first we thought he was simply stubborn and facetious, but I have since had second thoughts." Kobe turned to the group in the yard and shouted, "Umakai? Look at this!" Removing the brocade sash from his sleeve, he held it up.

  The beggar continued to sag between the burly guards. One of them kicked him. "Pay attention, you piece of dung!" he snarled. The old man slowly raised his face to look up at the veranda. Akitada's stomach contracted with pity. The old face was bruised and bloodied, and tears ran down the wrinkled cheeks.

  "Tell this gentleman who gave you the pretty red sash!" shouted Kobe.

  The beggar trembled and shook his head violently. The guard to his left raised a whip, but Kobe stopped him. "Don't worry, Umakai!" he called. "You will not be beaten if you tell us what we want to know. This gentleman was in the park and may have seen the same thing you saw."

  The old man looked at Akitada, thought about it, and shook his head again. Kobe frowned. "Listen to me, Umakai," he roared. "I don't have time to waste. Either you talk, or I'll send for the bamboo switches. Do you understand?"

  Akitada moved. "Captain Kobe," he said through clenched teeth, "I will not watch an innocent man being beaten. If you wish me to remain, I suggest we go inside, dispense with those two fellows, and give the old man something to drink to loosen his tongue."

  Kobe suddenly smiled, his white teeth flashing from his bearded face. "But of course," he said smoothly. "Why not?"

  The beggar was taken to the guard room, untied, and settled on an old cushion. Kobe produced a pitcher of wine and poured him a cup. Umakai moved clumsily because his wrists were swollen, but he managed to raise the cup to his mouth and empty it in a single gulp. He gave a deep sigh, and Kobe refilled the cup. The old man drank again. This time he burped and clutched his stomach.

  "Are you in pain?" Akitada asked anxiously.

  "Not bad, not bad," the old one muttered, giving him his attention for a moment. "Is it true you saw him?" he asked. His eyes were curiously unsteady, shifting about between Akitada, Kobe and the objects in the room.

  "I may have," Akitada said cautiously. "What did he look like?"

  "What did he look like? Why, he looks like all of them. They all look alike, don't they?"

  Akitada thought for a moment. It occurred to him that the beggar must have seen a guard or a policeman. "You mean he wore a uniform?"
<
br />   Umakai chuckled. "A uniform? I guess you could call it that."

  "It was a red coat, wasn't it?" Akitada shot a glance at Kobe, who raised his eyebrows.

  The beggar stared at Akitada. "No, a red hat," he said. "Don't you know anything?"

  "A red hat!" Akitada looked at Kobe again, who grinned back broadly and nodded.

  "But . . . nobody wears a red hat," Akitada protested.

  "Oh, I don't know," said Kobe, studying the ceiling. "Ask him the name of the fellow with the red hat!"

  Feeling foolish, Akitada turned back to the beggar and asked, "Did he have a name?"

  Umakai gave him a pitying look. "Of course! Everybody knows his name. Stupid question! There are hundreds of them all over the place."

  Akitada sighed. Kobe must be playing an embarrassing joke on him. The old beggar was clearly mad. But he decided to play along. "Please tell me. I seem to have forgotten it," he said.

  He received a sympathetic glance from the old man. "So you've got that trouble too. My head hurts fearfully some days, and I can't remember where I slept the night before. But I would never forget Jizo."

  "Jizo?" Akitada turned to Kobe, who was grinning and nodding his head. "Does he mean the god Jizo? The one who protects travellers?"

  "And small children," said Kobe. "In fact, that is why mothers sew red hats and bibs for his statues."

  Umakai cried, "Now do you remember? He had his red hat on and he gave me a present. Did he give you a present, too?"

  "No," said Akitada. "I wish he had. Where did you meet Jizo?"

  The old man frowned. "I don't know. Someplace. There's one on the corner of Third Avenue. Third and Suzaku. You go and ask him! Ask him for a present too! And tell him Umakai says hello."

  "Thank you. I will. Did you ask Jizo for the pretty red sash?"

  "No. I just stuck out my empty bowl as he was passing. And right away he put the pretty red silk in it."

  "I see I must get myself a bowl," said Akitada with a straight face. "But isn't the bowl for food? A man can't eat silk when he is hungry."

  "Wasn't a bit hungry. Had some bean soup at city hall. The clerks there are my friends. Would you tell them about me?" Umakai's eyes were filling with tears again. "Tell them to come get me! And tell Jizo they took my present away and beat me!"

  Akitada turned to Kobe. "Surely . . ." he said.

  Kobe walked over to the beggar and helped him up. "Come, Umakai," he said. "We'll find you a nice place to sleep and some hot food. By tomorrow you'll feel much better." He clapped his hands and when a constable appeared, he told him, "Take him away. Give him bedding and see that he gets some food, but lock him up!"

  The guard led the shuffling Umakai out.

  Kobe turned, smiling broadly. Akitada met his eyes in stony silence.

  "I must congratulate you," said the captain, rubbing his hands. "Your method worked. Yesterday the tale sounded like a rigmarole. Now we know that someone in a red hat or cap gave him the sash. He is too simple to make up such a tale."

  Akitada could not remember ever having felt so angry. "Since it is now apparent to you," he said icily, "that the man is innocent of the murder and told the truth all along, what other torments can you possibly be planning for him? Any normal man would have been distraught at having put another human being to the torture, but you are evidently saving him for another day. You will either release him immediately with profuse apologies, or I will personally bring charges against you."

  Kobe's eyes had narrowed. He remained silent for a minute. Then he said stiffly, "I have been aware of the fact that you disapprove of my methods. Perhaps I should remind you that these methods are mandated by law and depend on the circumstances. Umakai was found on the scene of a crime. In fact, he was the only person there, with the exception of yourself and your servant. Furthermore, he had the weapon, such as it is, on his person. Last night it was not obvious that he was simpleminded. I was afraid that he was shielding an accomplice. Criminals often work with beggars. In any case, I followed the prescribed procedure as I am sworn to. As to your demand that I release him now: It should have occurred to you that he is our only witness to the identity of the killer. Beggars do not, as a rule, have a permanent home. They sleep wherever they happen to find shelter, this time of year often in the street. If I released him, we would not find him again. And the killer might."

  Akitada saw the force of the argument. He was about to apologize, when a sudden thought struck him. What if Kobe had arranged this interview not to get Akitada's help, but because he wanted to see if the beggar would identify him? He said brusquely, "Very well. You must do as you think best. Excuse me, but I have delayed my own business too long," and left.

  The interview with Kobe and Umakai was a fitting culmination to a day which had been dismal in most respects. In a dark mood, Akitada walked to the university. Beating helpless people who happened to have the bad luck to be in the wrong place struck him as an example of how far a flawed legal system would go to protect the privileged classes. Yet even his own relatively privileged life was no protection against misery— witness his own childhood and his present disappointment. How could he have hoped to find personal contentment with Tamako? He was a great deal better off alone.

  He reached the gates of the university in a mood of self-pity and hopelessness. There were no gatekeepers today, but on the steps sat one of the senior students who occasionally ran errands for Hirata and himself. The young man was staring rather fixedly at the park across the street. He was a very plain and gangly fellow, with protruding teeth and round, frightened eyes, and a tendency to startle and drop things. Akitada searched his mind for a name and finally came up with "Nagai." Calling out a greeting, he climbed the steps and stopped before the student.

  The youngster stumbled to his feet, looked at him wildly, and bowed. There was a sickly greenish cast to his face and dark circles under his eyes as though he had not slept for weeks.

  "Are you feeling quite well, Nagai?" Akitada asked, concerned.

  "Yes. Yes, I'm well," stuttered the student, his eyes downcast, his hands clenching and unclenching convulsively at his sides. "Quite well. Thank you, sir."

  The young man looked absolutely wretched and was trembling even as he talked. "Had a bit too much to drink in celebration?" Akitada asked sympathetically, recalling some of his own youthful excesses.

  The other jumped a little and looked horrified. "Celebration?" he squawked. "No, no celebration. Oh, God, no!"

  "Well, don't be foolish! I hope I am not such an ogre that you have to be afraid to tell me. If you'll come with me, I'll brew you some of my tea. You will find it a little bitter, but it will settle your stomach and head. Are you going to the poetry contest in the park tonight?"

  Nagai practically shrank into the gate column. "In the park? No! I couldn't go in there! Please excuse me, I'm not feeling well!" He turned and ran off in the direction of the dormitories, leaving Akitada to stare after him.

  Seven

  The Willow Quarter

  After Tora had seen his master's lady friend home, he returned ox and carriage to the rental stable and walked into town. It was only mid-afternoon and, like most of the other inhabitants of the capital, he had the rest of the day and night off.

  Crowds of people were strolling, shopping or sampling food in restaurants or at open stalls. On Suzaku Avenue, smiling celebrants passed back and forth in their best clothes, hollyhock blooms everywhere: in their hats, their sashes, on the saddles and in the bridles of their horses, draped about the horns of their oxen and threaded through the curtains of their carriages. The "good people" rode to parties or picnics, and the commoners walked towards the markets or the willow quarter. And everywhere there was merriment: old men sat on temple steps, smiling and nodding to passersby; normally sober officials walked with jaunty steps; and young lovers giggled, holding hands and looking into each other's eyes.

  Tora approved but felt lonely. He looked wistfully after the pretty girls with their y
oung admirers. There had been a coy little maid at the Hirata house who had given him a long appraising look when he had helped her mistress down. He had winked back, but she had only tossed her head pertly and flounced away. He wished she were with him now.

  On an impulse, he decided to buy her a little gift. Such things could pave the way to future friendly relations.

  Strictly speaking there were two markets in the capital, one west and the other east of Suzaku Avenue, but they were open on alternate weeks as a rule. Today, because of the festival, both markets were open and bustling with crowds. Each covered a whole city block, enclosed by permanent one-story shops facing inward. Access was through four gates, and the large central space was filled with temporary stalls, tents, and anyone who wished to spread a sheet and display his wares.

  Tora browsed through the western market first, stopping before a fan seller. She had many cheap and colorful paper and bamboo paddles spread out on the ground before her, and there were others dangling from ropes stretched between two poles. He studied the fans, but decided the designs were too crude for a romantic offering. A shop, which sold combs, was also rejected because they were all made of boxwood and far too plain to impress a pretty girl.

  With a sigh Tora crossed Suzaku Avenue and entered the other market through its tiled and painted gateway. Tantalizing food smells greeted him. Stands and ambulatory vendors dispensed bean dumplings, fried rice cakes, steamed seafood and noodles in fragrant broth. Tora's mouth watered, but he decided to conserve his limited funds for the evening. He stopped only to buy some pickles, a local specialty of radish slices with red pepper and seaweed. These he carried with him wrapped in a piece of oiled paper, chewing while he wandered about and peered at wares or eyed the girls. When the pickles were gone, he decided this market also had nothing suitable to offer. Enough time had been wasted. Already the setting sun slanted across the rooftops and it would soon be dark. He tossed the paper on a refuse heap near a vegetable stall and left for the Willow Quarter.