Flask of the Drunken Master Page 2

  Hiro found it curious—and not entirely pleasant—that the magistrate considered their activities worth discussing. He preferred to remain unnoticed when he could.

  Hiro bowed and followed the Jesuit into the alley.

  The eaves of the two-story brewery overhung the roof of the neighboring restaurant, leaving the alley in constant shadow. Barrels stood in rows along the brewery wall, while stacks of boxes lined the side of the restaurant. Two people could walk abreast in the space between, but only if they knew each other well.

  Beyond the end of the brewery, the alley opened into a yard that served as a communal garden and storage space for the residents of the block. The buildings fronted on different roads, but their occupants considered themselves united by the open space they shared. At the moment, the way to that open space was blocked by a dōshin standing guard at the far end of the brewery. He stood in the gap, looking bored but alert, ready to stop the neighbors from wandering into the murder scene.

  A dead man’s body lay on the ground outside the narrow door that served as a private entrance to Ginjiro’s storeroom. Customers didn’t use that door, but Hiro didn’t think this man had come for a flask of sake.

  The victim lay on his stomach with his face turned toward the restaurant and his arms splayed out to his sides. The back of his head was covered with graying stubble and spattered blood, while an injury left the base of his skull misshapen and concave.

  The dōshin noticed the priest. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Hiro raised a placating hand. “The yoriki gave us permission to view the body.”

  The dōshin looked past Hiro as if expecting someone to follow them into the alley. When no one appeared, he said, “All right, you can look, but don’t touch anything.”

  Father Mateo stopped a respectful distance from the body.

  Hiro passed the Jesuit and leaned down for a closer look.

  The corpse’s close-cropped hair and lack of swords indicated a commoner, and the quality of his clothes suggested a merchant. He wore a faded striped kimono, once expensive but now fraying at the seams. A patch on the back revealed a repair, but the tailor had matched the pattern well, using cloth from inside the hem. Most people would not have noticed it was mended.

  “An artisan?” Father Mateo gestured to the corpse’s upturned palms. “Those calluses say he worked with his hands.”

  “Yes,” Hiro said, “but the strength of his upper body and the condition of his clothing suggest a merchant. I don’t see rice dust on him … perhaps a brewer?”

  “I’m impressed!” The dōshin took a step forward, but stopped as if remembering he shouldn’t discuss the murder, or the victim.

  Hiro nodded. “A brewer, then.”

  The dōshin flushed an embarrassed red. “I didn’t say—you didn’t hear me say that.”

  “What killed him?” Father Mateo asked.

  Hiro indicated the flattened base of the dead man’s skull. “Beaten to death, most likely with something blunt.”

  A tear in the corpse’s scalp revealed shattered bone beneath. Congealed blood spattered the back of the victim’s head and shoulders, and a spray of rusty droplets covered the ground around the body as well as the base of the brewery wall.

  “We agree.” The dōshin nodded. “Killed in a fight—an accidental death.”

  Hiro looked at the misty droplets around the body and on the wall. “I disagree. This man was murdered.”

  The dōshin looked suspicious. “How do you know his death was not accidental? Where were you last night when this brewery closed?”

  “At home, on Marutamachi Road.” Hiro nodded at Father Mateo. “The priest can attest to my presence there. Also, the yoriki told us the man was murdered.”

  The dōshin waited for Father Mateo’s affirming nod before asking, “How do you know so much about his death?”

  Hiro gestured to the wall. “Tiny droplets mean the blows were struck with vicious force. Above knee height, the droplets change from round to elongated, and the tails of the droplets all point upward.”

  “So?” The dōshin frowned.

  “So,” Hiro said, “that means the victim lay on the ground, unconscious, when those blows occurred. Any experienced warrior would have known that.”

  “I did know it,” the dōshin said. “The yoriki declared the death a murder, probably unintended. He instructed us to call it an accident.”

  Hiro recognized the bluff. No dōshin would ever admit ignorance to a ronin.

  Father Mateo studied the stains as if he might find the killer’s name in the pattern. “Do you think the attacker surprised him from behind? This man must not have seen his assailant coming.”

  “He saw something.” Hiro gestured to the dead man’s face. “The injury to his eye preceded death.”

  The right side of the corpse’s face lay against the ground. The lower side of the nose and cheek had blossomed into the reddish purple color common in the parts of a body closest to the ground at the time of death. The left side of the face was mostly pale—also normal, for the side of a body that didn’t face the ground.

  However, the flesh around the man’s left eye swelled out in a dark blue lump the size of a chicken egg. Tissues didn’t bruise that way unless the victim’s heart was beating. Someone punched the dead man’s face before he died.

  “That’s why we think the death, though murder, was unintended,” the dōshin said. “Two men fight, one ends up dead. It happens fairly often.”

  “Indeed,” Hiro said. “What makes you suspect Ginjiro?”

  The dōshin stepped forward and gestured to something near the brewery wall.

  Hiro leaned across the corpse to look.

  A piece of broken pottery lay on the ground beside the dead man’s shoulder. The circular shard resembled the base of a shattered stoneware vessel—a sake flask.

  It was inlaid with Ginjiro’s personal seal.

  Chapter 4

  Father Mateo leaned over the body. “Is that the broken base of a sake flask?”

  Hiro hoped the Jesuit wouldn’t ask about the mark.

  “Yes,” the dōshin said. “The murder weapon—part of it, anyway.”

  Hiro circled the corpse and examined the shard.

  Ginjiro bought his sake flasks from a potter who produced them for the brewer by special order. The flasks had a distinctive color, and each bore the brewer’s mark impressed in the base. The markings distinguished Ginjiro’s flasks, which never left the brewery, from the ones that customers brought for personal use.

  “That is the brewer’s mark,” the dōshin said.

  Hiro straightened. “A broken flask outside a brewery hardly marks the brewer as a killer.”

  “I agree,” Father Mateo said. “Anyone could have stolen a flask or dropped it in the alley.”

  “More importantly,” Hiro added, “delicate pottery would have shattered before causing so much damage to the victim. Unless, of course, the flask was full, but I see no sake on the body or the ground.”

  The dōshin crossed his arms. “If it’s a coincidence, where’s the rest of the flask? We haven’t found any other pieces here.”

  “You believe the killer took them with him,” Father Mateo said.

  Conveniently leaving the one with Ginjiro’s seal, Hiro thought.

  “Why would Ginjiro kill a man with a flask that bore his seal?” Father Mateo rubbed his chin.

  “Arguments happen,” the dōshin said. “Angry men don’t think before they act.”

  “That’s a lot of assumptions for one dead body and one small shard from a sake flask,” Hiro said.

  “Ginjiro didn’t kill Chikao.” Suke’s voice echoed through the alley as he entered. “I’m the killer.”

  Hiro noted the dead man’s name and wondered how Suke knew it.

  “Shut up, old man,” the dōshin said. “Go away before I arrest you.”

  Hiro raised a hand and said, “We’re finished. We’ll walk him out.”

  The sh
inobi took hold of Suke’s sleeve and led the monk back out to the street, where the yoriki stood talking with Tomiko. Ginjiro’s wife stood nearby, but her glazed expression suggested inattention.

  Hiro looked up the street and saw the dōshin lead Ginjiro out of sight around a corner. The brewer’s head hung low, like a man condemned.

  Father Mateo followed Hiro’s gaze. “Where are they going?”

  “To the magistrate,” the yoriki said. “The facts are clear and not disputed. Ginjiro argued with the victim yesterday evening. Late last night, Chikao returned, and Ginjiro killed him.”

  Hiro glanced at Father Mateo, expecting the priest to argue.

  Suke struck a fighting pose.

  “You want guilt?” the monk demanded, curling his fingers into fists. “I’ll show you guilt!”

  “Calm down,” Hiro said. “If you’re the killer, explain how it really happened.”

  The yoriki sighed and shook his head, but Suke lowered his hands and said, “I will. I’ll tell you everything.”

  The monk straightened his shoulders and raised his chin like a child about to confess to a youthful crime. “Last night I sneaked a flask out of Ginjiro’s at closing time. I didn’t intend to steal it, I just wanted to finish the sake. I would have returned the flask in the morning.”

  Suke paused as if concerned that Hiro might accuse him of stealing flasks. When the shinobi said nothing, the monk continued, “This morning, when I woke up, my flask was gone. I saw Chikao’s body and heard the dōshin say Ginjiro’s flask—the one I took—was the murder weapon. Clearly, I am the killer!”

  The yoriki made a disgusted gesture. “Clearly, you were too drunk to hear a man being beaten to death beside you. We have listened to your story. Go away.”

  Suke jumped forward and shoved the yoriki, catching him off guard. The samurai fell backward and sat down hard in the dusty street.

  The dōshin, who had followed them from the alley, ran to Suke. He seized the monk by the arms.

  Suke bowed his head. “I surrender,” he said quietly. “Deliver me to the magistrate for judgment.”

  The yoriki stood up and brushed the dirt from his clothes. “Arrest him—but the charge is public drunkenness, nothing more.”

  “Nothing more!” The angry dōshin glared at Suke. “He assaulted you and confessed to murder.”

  “He’s a drunk.” The yoriki removed a pebble from his sleeve. “He wobbles like an infant and he smells like a brewery floor. I believe he spent the night in the alley. The rest of his story? Merely a drunkard’s dream.”

  “But … the assault!” the dōshin protested as he tied a length of rope around Suke’s wrists. “This man attacked you.”

  “You are mistaken. I stumbled and fell.” The yoriki paused to let his words sink in. “Now take him away, and send some bearers to carry Chikao home.”

  “Don’t worry, Tomiko,” Suke said as the dōshin led him away. “I’ll tell the magistrate what happened. Ginjiro will be home in time to open the shop tonight.”

  Tomiko smiled weakly, as if unwilling to put much faith in Suke’s promise. She laid a hand on her mother’s arm and guided the older woman back to the brewery.

  Hiro wanted to speak with Ginjiro’s family, but first he had some questions for the yoriki. “Where is Chikao’s brewery? Did the victim belong to the brewer’s guild?”

  “Do not mistake my leniency for permission to investigate.” The yoriki finished brushing the dirt from his trousers. “The magistrate doesn’t need your help—or his.” The yoriki glanced at Father Mateo.

  “What if we disagree with your assessment of the crime?” the Jesuit asked.

  Hiro stifled a nearly overwhelming urge to drag the priest away from the scene by force. As usual, Father Mateo didn’t know when to hold his tongue.

  The yoriki smiled, but his eyes were devoid of warmth. “Then you will keep your disagreement to yourself.”

  “Have I misunderstood the samurai code?” Father Mateo asked. “I thought honor required noble men to seek justice and act with mercy.”

  “That argument might work with a samurai from the ruling clans,” the yoriki said. “But I see crimes, and criminals, every day. Justice does not mix with mercy where commoners are concerned.”

  The yoriki started toward the alley, paused, and turned back to Hiro. “I expect cooperation—and discretion—from you both. Murder is a matter for the magistrate alone, especially now, with the city on alert. If you speak of this to anyone, I will ensure you share the killer’s fate.”

  Hiro doubted the yoriki could carry out his threat, but knew better than to challenge him in public.

  Father Mateo called after the yoriki, “Why insist on privacy? Unless, of course, you don’t intend an honest investigation.”

  Chapter 5

  The yoriki stopped and slowly turned toward Father Mateo.

  Hiro shifted his weight to his toes and prepared to fight. No one accused a yoriki of corruption without consequence.

  To Hiro’s surprise, the assistant magistrate didn’t draw his sword.

  “The details of Chikao’s murder might cause violence within the brewers’ guild,” the yoriki said. “The shogun’s recent death has the samurai clans on the brink of war. I do not need a war among the artisans as well.

  “Chikao died in a fight. Anyone who says otherwise will be punished.”

  “The family will guess the truth,” Father Mateo said. “No one will believe those injuries came from a simple fight.”

  “That is not your problem,” the yoriki said. “I allowed you to see the body as a courtesy. Do not repay my kindness by causing trouble.”

  “We have no wish to cause trouble,” Hiro said. “We didn’t even know Chikao.”

  “But you know Ginjiro.” The yoriki looked down the street and frowned. “Fools! I told them to send Ren to the Lucky Monkey.”

  His gaze shifted back to Hiro and Father Mateo. “The dead man’s business partner is coming. One word out of place, and I’ll have you flogged.”

  Hiro understood the yoriki’s wish to avoid more violence but disagreed with forcing Ginjiro to bear the blame. Not without more evidence of guilt. Hiro didn’t normally involve himself in other men’s business, but couldn’t abide a yoriki who blamed the innocent just to close a case.

  Father Mateo’s chagrined expression suggested the Jesuit also had no intention of letting the matter drop. For once, Hiro agreed with the priest. They would conduct an investigation, with or without the yoriki’s permission.

  Hiro just hoped that Father Mateo was smart enough not to say so.

  He turned as footsteps approached behind him. Hiro stood several inches taller than Chikao’s business partner, but the sake brewer weighed substantially more. Muscled arms bulged the sleeves of the brewer’s striped kimono, and his waist was thick, but not with soggy fat. His slicked-back hair had a slight green tinge, suggesting its deep black color was not natural.

  The brewer bowed to the yoriki. “A dōshin came to my home. He mentioned an accident and sent me here. Why are we at Ginjiro’s?”

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, Ren.” The yoriki’s tight-lipped expression promised an unpleasant afternoon in store for the dōshin who delivered the incorrect message. “There has, indeed, been an accident, but I intended for you to meet me at your brewery, not this one. Unfortunately, the dōshin delivered my message incorrectly.”

  After an awkward pause the yoriki added, “I need you to break the news to Chikao’s widow.”

  “Widow?” Ren’s forehead wrinkled. “What happened to Chikao?”

  “A fight—” the yoriki began.

  Before he could finish Ren exclaimed, “Ginjiro killed Chikao?”

  “We do not know that,” Father Mateo said.

  The yoriki cut the Jesuit off with a glare.

  “Ginjiro must be involved,” Ren said. “There’s no other reason to send me here, and I know they argued yesterday. Ginjiro hit Chikao and threatened worse. Where is my p
artner’s body? I want to see him.”

  “The bearers have already carried him off,” the yoriki lied, his words surprisingly convincing. “Ginjiro is under arrest and will be punished, though the evidence shows the death was accidental.”

  “Chikao is really dead?” Ren’s eyes reddened. “This will devastate Mina.”

  The yoriki nodded. “All the more reason for her to hear the news from you and not a dōshin. Will you accept the responsibility?”

  Ren dipped his head in consent. “Of course.” He clenched his jaw and looked away, fighting to keep his emotions under control. “How did this happen? How did he die?”

  “The details remain under investigation,” the yoriki said. “I cannot tell you any more.”

  “Would you like me to accompany you?” Father Mateo asked the brewer. “Often, a priest can make these burdens lighter.”

  Ren looked at Father Mateo. “Thank you, but Mina would prefer a Buddhist priest.” He bowed to cover the need to wipe his tears. “Please excuse me, I have sad news to bear.”

  He straightened and walked away.

  Hiro doubted Chikao’s family and friends would accept the yoriki’s explanation quite so easily after the initial shock wore off. Still, grief came first. Questions would follow later.

  When Ren had left, Father Mateo turned to the yoriki. “I trust your familiarity with the victim and his family didn’t influence your decision not to investigate the crime.”

  Hiro stared at Father Mateo. Even a fool knew not to accuse a yoriki a second time.

  The yoriki narrowed his eyes at Hiro. “Translate my next words with exceptional care.

  “I need not defend myself to any man. However, I will explain—once more—because the magistrate respects this foreign priest.

  “I know Chikao because I arrest his son on a regular basis, usually for fighting and public drunkenness. I know Chikao’s partner, Ren, because the profits from their brewery often go to pay young Kaoru’s fines. I assure you, I do not consider either man a friend. In truth, I regret it was the father—not the son—who died today.”

  At the end of the Portuguese translation Hiro added, “Do not antagonize him further.”