After Yoshiko disappeared, Father Mateo said, “Well, that went poorly.”
“It could have been worse,” Hiro said, “and might have actually helped us.”
He examined the building Yoshiko had emerged from just before their confrontation. The two-story structure stood almost directly across from the Golden Buddha. No sign hung from its narrow entrance. Without the indigo noren that displayed the shopkeeper’s name during business hours, the barren storefront offered no clue to the business’s name or purpose.
Hiro stepped to the door and knocked.
No one answered.
Hiro hammered his fist against the door. The knocking loosened a shower of detritus from the rafters, dusting Father Mateo’s hair with thatch and one extremely indignant spider.
The Jesuit brushed the debris away and flicked the arachnid to the ground.
“We’re closed,” said a female voice from behind the door. “Go away until evening.”
“No,” Hiro said. “You opened this door for Akechi Yoshiko. You will open it now for me.”
Father Mateo gave the shinobi a startled look, no doubt caused by Hiro’s breach of etiquette.
“Are you a friend of Yoshiko’s?” the woman asked, though the door stayed closed.
Hiro weighed the cost of a second lie and decided it couldn’t hurt—as long as the woman hadn’t been watching the argument in the street.
“I am,” he said.
The door swung open, revealing a woman about Yoshiko’s age, but far more lovely than any Hiro had seen in Pontocho. She wore no makeup, and when she smiled, her teeth showed no sign of the blackening favored by women who mimicked the courtesans’ style. Many men liked blackened teeth, but Hiro thought they looked as if their owners lost a fight.
“What do you want?” The woman’s tone counteracted any advantage her beauty offered.
“What manner of business do you run?” the shinobi asked.
“If you do not know, you don’t belong here.” She started to close the door.
Hiro stuck a foot in the opening. The woman pressed on the door to force it closed.
Hiro’s temper snapped. He laid both hands on the door and pushed with far more force than necessary. The woman stumbled backward with a startled cry and the door flew open.
Hiro stepped on the threshold but didn’t cross it. “When a samurai asks a question, commoners answer.”
The woman recovered her composure. “Perhaps I do not know the answer.”
Hiro raised an eyebrow and studied the woman. She seemed too bold for a servant, but no entertainer answered the door without makeup. Her obi tied in the back, which meant she wasn’t a prostitute, yet her smooth hands lacked a merchant’s calluses.
He glanced at the front of the building. The narrow frontage and lack of identifying features indicated a business whose clientele did not rely on signage. People came to this door with knowledge and a purpose.
Hiro examined the woman again. The elaborate embroidery on her obi and kimono cost a fortune. Jeweled kanzashi pinned her hair in place.
“You do not know what business your house conducts?” Father Mateo asked.
“My business is not of consequence to samurai or priests.” The woman looked from one man to the other. “Samurai visit the Shijō Market. Priests … I do not know.”
The market gave Hiro the final clue he needed. “You’re a moneylender.”
“Yes, for the women of Pontocho.” The moneylender clasped her hands. “I do not lend to samurai or to men. If you need loans, you go to the rice-sellers’ street.”
“You misunderstand,” the shinobi said. “We haven’t come about a loan.”
“Then what do you want—and how, exactly, do you know Yoshiko?” The woman glanced at the door as if wondering whether she could slam it shut before the shinobi stopped her.
“We saw her leaving and wondered what she was doing here at this hour.” Hiro raised his hands, palms up. “As you mentioned, you’re not in the business of loaning money to samurai.”
“If you know her, then you also know I won’t discuss her business, any more than I would tell you of my own.” The woman reached for the edge of the door, but didn’t try to shut it.
“One last question,” Hiro said. “If we did need a loan, who do you suggest we get it from?”
“There is a merchant named Basho who lends to men of every social class.” Her gaze shifted to Father Mateo. “I do not know if he would lend to foreigners as well.”
“Thank you,” Hiro said as she closed the door.
As they turned away from the house, Father Mateo asked, “Now what?”
“Home.” Hiro started north.
“What did you say to Mayuri last night?” Father Mateo asked. “I’ve never seen a woman as angry as Yoshiko was this morning.”
Hiro gave the priest a sidelong look. “It isn’t my talk with Mayuri that made her angry—and I doubt you have much firsthand knowledge about angry women.”
* * *
As Hiro and Father Mateo crossed the bridge that spanned the river at Sanjō Road, a voice beneath the end of the bridge said, “SSSST!”
Hiro whirled, hand on his katana. “Get behind me,” he said to Father Mateo.
“Sssst,” the voice repeated. “Hiro-san, down here.”
Hiro peered into the shadows beneath the bridge. A figure moved forward, revealing the spattered hem of a familiar brown kimono.
Hiro shook his head in disgust. “Suke, what are you doing under the bridge?”
“Don’t say my name,” the monk hissed. “Someone might hear you and recognize me.”
“Is that the monk from the brewery?” Father Mateo leaned down for a better view.
“You’re attracting more attention by your stealth than you would by talking, Suke,” Hiro said.
Suke poked his head into the light and looked around, as if expecting an attack at any moment.
“Is someone chasing you?” Hiro asked.
The monk emerged from under the bridge, smelling of stale sake, unwashed skin, and human waste. He clearly hadn’t bathed since leaving prison.
Suke looked over his shoulder. “People shouldn’t see us here. Someone might suspect we’re working together.”
Father Mateo looked from the monk to Hiro. “Working together?”
Suke nodded solemnly. “I’m helping Hiro solve Chikao’s murder.”