“The murderer stole your flask without your waking,” Hiro said.
“Impossible.” Suke shook his head. “I’m a dangerous man. No one steals my flask without me knowing. I must have killed him after all. I have to make the dōshin understand.”
Hiro realized, with the dismay that accompanies nasty truths, that the only way to stop Suke from interfering with the case was to let the monk believe he was helping solve it.
“How about this?” the shinobi asked. “If the evidence proves you killed Chikao, I’ll make the dōshin listen to your story. However, until we know for certain, you keep quiet and help my investigation.”
Suke’s mouth split into a startled grin. “You’d let me help?”
“Yes, but secretly,” Hiro said. “We can’t let anyone know. The killer thinks he’s safe because you confessed.”
“Of course! Of course!” Suke nodded vigorously, sending waves of noxious odors rolling off his robe. “I will help you, Hiro-san! Together, we’ll find the killer.” His smile faded. “Even if the killer turns out to be me.”
“Listen carefully,” Hiro said. “I need you to watch Ginjiro’s brewery. Listen to the patrons. Someone might say something about the murder.”
“I understand. The killer might get drunk and confess the crime.” Suke paused. “I don’t suppose you’d give me money to buy a flask of sake—purely to preserve the illusion, of course.”
Hiro removed a couple of silver coins from his purse. “Remember,” he said as he dropped them into Suke’s waiting palm, “your job is to listen without revealing you’ve joined the investigation. Do not call attention to yourself.”
Suke nodded and scurried out of the alley.
Hiro followed, reflecting on his decision. He doubted Suke would prove any help but hoped the assignment would keep the monk out of trouble and out of the way.
Father Mateo met Hiro in the street. As they started south the Jesuit gestured over his shoulder and asked, “What did you tell him? He seems much happier.”
Hiro glanced over his shoulder at Suke. The monk had settled in the street to wait for the brewery to open. “I gave him a job, to keep him out of trouble.”
Father Mateo smiled. “Let me know how that works out.”
“If it doesn’t, we’ll both know.” Hiro saw the Jesuit wince and slowed his pace. “Does your injury bother you?”
Father Mateo looked down at his hands, which were covered in angry scars from an attack two months before. “A little. Is it obvious?”
“Only to me,” Hiro lied. “Why did you want to see Basho?”
“To learn how far Yoshiko’s violent tendencies might go,” the Jesuit said. “It doesn’t take much skill to suspect a connection between Ginjiro and Yoshiko. After all, she knew about the crime. Do you think she might be the guard Ginjiro hired?”
“We don’t know, for certain, that he hired one,” Hiro said. “Until we do, we must explore all options.”
“It’s hard for me to believe Yoshiko would kill Chikao,” Father Mateo said. “Not with her own father murdered a year ago.”
“Yoshiko’s father was samurai. Chikao is a merchant. Their deaths are not the same.” Hiro doubted the priest would understand.
“They are to me, and they are to God.” Father Mateo paused. “Could a woman beat a man to death?”
“You’ve seen Yoshiko,” Hiro said. “If a man could do it, she could.”
Father Mateo sighed. “This investigation seems more difficult than the others. Chikao didn’t have any enemies. We don’t even have good suspects.”
Hiro noticed a noodle vendor and headed toward the cart. As he did, he switched to Portuguese. “On the contrary, we have three: Kaoru, Ren, and Ginjiro.”
He switched back to Japanese and ordered two bowls of udon.
“The second two I understand,” Father Mateo said in Portuguese, “but why the son? He doesn’t want to work. Also, won’t he share his inheritance with his mother?”
Hiro smiled at the Jesuit’s use of general terms instead of names. “A wife inherits only when the husband leaves a will that names her heir.”
Father Mateo watched Hiro pay the vendor. “I can’t believe you’re hungry.”
Hiro accepted some copper change. “I can’t believe you’re not.”
The vendor handed each man a bowl of steaming noodles in pungent sauce.
Hiro inhaled deeply. His stomach grumbled. As he hoped, the chewy noodles had just the right combination of onions, fish, and savory broth.
Father Mateo ate, but slowly, and fumbled with his chopsticks. His injured hands had not regained their full dexterity.
All too soon, Hiro’s chopsticks clattered against the empty bowl. He returned them to the vendor. Father Mateo returned his, too, though he hadn’t finished his noodles.
The vendor gave the Jesuit’s half-filled bowl a worried look. “I’m sorry you didn’t like the flavor.”
“I enjoyed it.” Father Mateo gave the vendor an apologetic smile. “I am not very hungry this afternoon.”
Hiro glanced at the Jesuit’s hands. He saw no sign of infection but reminded himself to keep an eye on the priest.
Father Mateo switched to Portuguese. “It’s not my hands. I suppose I should tell you—I really don’t like udon.”
* * *
A samurai in lacquered armor guarded Sanjō Road at Karasuma Street.
Hiro wasn’t surprised. Prosperous rice merchants often served as moneylenders, too. Their storehouses held not only coins but samurai heirlooms left as collateral for loans. With the city on alert, Matsunaga Hisahide would protect them. No man who wanted the shogunate would risk the loss of so much valuable treasure—or the tax revenue that accompanied it.
Despite his understanding, Hiro bristled at the thought of yet another interruption.
The guard stepped into the road and blocked their path. “State your names and business in this ward.”
Hiro felt his patience wane. “Surely the shogun has more important business than keeping honest men from theirs?”
“From their what?” The samurai tipped his head to the side, confused.
“Their business,” Hiro said.
“My business is to protect this ward.” The samurai stepped forward until his chin was only inches from Hiro’s chest. “Do not challenge my authority. I speak with the voice of Shogun Matsunaga.”
Hiro raised an eyebrow. “Matsunaga-san is taller than you and also better looking.”
“How dare you!” The samurai’s hand moved to the hilt of his katana.
A second armored samurai emerged from a nearby shop, cheeks bulging with an enormous bite from a bun. When he saw the situation, he swallowed quickly, stashed the bun in his armor, and joined his partner in the street. “What’s going on?”
“Your friend believes himself the shogun’s equal,” Hiro said, consciously overlooking the fact that Matsunaga-san was not yet shogun. “I chose to disabuse him of that notion.”
The second samurai sighed. “Yujiro, let them pass. We’re only supposed to stop saboteurs and spies.”
The comment revealed these guards hadn’t worked together very long, or very often. Regular partners would not contradict one another in public.
Yujiro nodded at Father Mateo. “The foreigner looks suspicious to me, and everyone knows you cannot trust a ronin.”
Hiro ignored the insult. Men promoted above their abilities often resorted to bullying.
Father Mateo stepped into the samurai’s path. “Indeed, I’m quite suspicious. Best arrest me before I carry out my devious plot … to purchase a sack of rice.”
Yujiro’s cheeks turned purple. “Did you insult me?”
Father Mateo squared his shoulders. “I treat a man as he deserves, and you deserve no better.”