“You’re working as Hiro’s partner?” Father Mateo asked Suke.
Hiro gave the Jesuit a look that said don’t encourage him.
Suke nodded, lips splitting into a nearly toothless grin. “I am, and I overheard an important clue the night before Chikao’s murder. I’d forgotten all about it until I saw you talking with that kitsune in the street the other night.”
“Yoshiko isn’t pretty enough for a fox spirit,” Hiro said.
Father Mateo asked, “What did you hear?”
“The night before Chikao died, I went for a walk in Pontocho.” Suke’s eyes glazed over with memory. “I like to watch the women … shimmering kimono, pretty faces … I remember pleasant evenings there, before I became a monk…”
Suke faded into silence.
“What did the women say?” Hiro asked.
Suke blinked. “Why did you ask me about the women?”
“You brought it up,” Hiro said. “You claimed to have heard a clue.”
Suke nodded. “I did. An important clue!” He frowned. “Stop interrupting. You’ll make me forget again.”
Hiro raised his hands apologetically.
“I was standing outside the Golden Buddha—or was it the Dancing Crane?” Suke scratched his liver-spotted head with a wrinkled hand. “It had to be one or the other.”
Father Mateo opened his mouth, but Hiro silenced the priest with a look. Suke didn’t need any more distractions.
“From where I was standing, I heard a man say he was going to marry Tomiko. I think he meant Ginjiro’s daughter.”
“Did you recognize him?” Hiro asked. “Did you see his face?”
Suke shook his head. “Tomiko doesn’t have a suitor, so I wondered who he was, but by the time I went around the corner he had gone.”
“Another trail leading nowhere,” Father Mateo said.
“I wouldn’t send you nowhere.” Suke looked offended. “I didn’t know the man who spoke, but I recognized the voice of his companion.”
The monk fell silent, reveling in his secret.
“Well,” Hiro said, “who was it?”
“A rice merchant named Basho. I know, because he bought me sake once.” Suke glanced over his shoulder. “I should go before anyone sees us. The killer must not realize I’m a spy!”
Suke hunched his shoulders and scurried away across the bridge.
Father Mateo watched him go. “I don’t believe that man is entirely sane.”
“Probably not,” Hiro said, “but he does remember the men who buy him sake. If he says he heard Basho in Pontocho two nights ago, Basho was there.”
“We already knew he drank at the Golden Buddha,” Father Mateo said.
“And now we know he may possess important information.” Hiro resumed his walk toward home. “The other man was almost certainly Kaoru.”
“We need to go back to Shijō Market,” Father Mateo said, “to speak with Basho’s family and find out where he went.”
“They will not tell us,” Hiro said. “It seems Basho’s companion is connected to Chikao’s murder. There’s no other reason for the merchant to disappear.”
“Unless he’s dead,” Father Mateo said. “The murderer might have killed him too.”
“I hope not,” Hiro said. “But, dead or alive, I doubt Basho has left the city.” He glanced at a samurai walking south on the opposite side of the river. The stranger strolled at a leisurely pace, watching the sky above and the water below.
The shinobi decided the samurai posed no threat.
“A merchant like Basho has no excuse to leave Kyoto in the summer,” Hiro said. “Without a reason, the Matsunaga guards would never let him leave the city. Basho would know that, or he should. I think he’s hiding in Kyoto, and the story about Edo was a lie.”
“He could tell the guards he needed to see sick relatives in the country,” the priest suggested. “That would get him past the barricades.”
“Unlikely,” Hiro said. “Not without his wife along.”
“Hiding in the city?” Father Mateo asked. “That’s risky, if a killer wants him dead.”
“Better than a scene at the city gates,” Hiro said. “A samurai in the shogun’s service can behead a commoner on a whim. A man who cares about his life won’t take unnecessary risks.”
Father Mateo frowned. “All right, but where could a merchant hide?”
“The question is, ‘Where did he hide?’ In this case, I believe he hid at home.”
Father Mateo shook his head. “We already checked his home; he wasn’t there.”
“We asked for him,” Hiro said. “We didn’t search. We asked, and we left—exactly as Basho and his wife intended.”
“The apprentice came after us…” Father Mateo trailed off. “You think he lied.”
“Of course he did.” Hiro paused. “Hama lied to us too. I simply didn’t know what she lied about. Now that I consider it, a frugal man would always hide at home. It costs less money.”
“How do you suddenly know he’s frugal?” Father Mateo asked.
“Sudden has nothing to do with it. Hama wore a sturdy kimono, cut in last year’s style. Her clothes, and the apprentice’s, showed signs of careful washing. The household of a moneylender doesn’t look austere unless the man is frugal.”
“Or in debt,” the priest suggested, “which he is.”
“True.” Hiro smiled. “But while we spoke with Basho’s wife, the apprentice went back into the warehouse behind the shop.”
“Filling a customer’s order,” the Jesuit said.
“I thought so, too, but he returned with empty hands, and gave a guilty glance in our direction,” Hiro said.
“You think he went to tell Basho?” Father Mateo flexed his hand in a manner that suggested it was hurting.
“I do,” Hiro said. “It’s time to return to Basho’s and find the truth—but this time, I must visit the shop alone.”