The Hell Screen (10 page)

Akitada almost laughed. “I have standing? Heavens, Kobe, I am a nobody. I cannot even promote my own interests. And even if I had influence, you should know me better. I would never play political games.”

Kobe sighed. “All right! Never mind! Explain how you are involved in something that happened three days ago in the Eastern Mountain Temple!”

“I spent the night there and heard someone scream.”

Kobe’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“The rain forced me to seek shelter in the temple. I arrived right after a young couple. During a restless night I woke up suddenly—why, I do not know. But once awake, I knew there was a woman screaming somewhere outside my room. I ran out, but being unfamiliar with the temple layout, I got lost. The next morning I left early. At the gate I mentioned the incident to the monk on duty, and he let me have a look at a plan of the monastery. He explained that there is only a service courtyard in the area where the woman must have been, and only monks use it during the day. Also, because of the rain, they had an unusual number of overnight guests, among them a troupe of actors who had given a performance the day before, and the actors were, as I had witnessed myself, an unruly bunch. They could well have wandered all over the place with their women. At any rate, I put the matter from my mind.”

Kobe had listened carefully. “But you think it was something to do with the murder.” Akitada nodded. “Well, I don’t agree. You either dreamed the whole thing or, as you point out, it was probably some of those actors making a nuisance of themselves. But if it will make you feel better, I’ll have my men go back and check it out. Were you staying in the visitors’ quarters?”

“No. They keep apartments for special guests in one of the monastery wings. I stayed there. The visitors’ quarters were quite a long way off.”

Kobe said, “Well, there you are, then. Not anywhere near the murder site. In any case, there is no need for you to trouble with it further. You have reported it, and there the matter rests.”

Akitada protested, “But what if it was the murdered woman I heard screaming? It is certainly a strange coincidence that an actress should have screeched outside my room the same night. Isn’t it at least possible that she was not killed in her room or by her brother-in-law?”

Kobe glared. “That does not follow, and you know it.” Narrowing his eyes, he asked suspiciously, “And how do you know where she was found?”

“Nagaoka told me.”

Kobe flushed with anger. “So you went to speak to Nagaoka after all! No doubt he asked you to clear his brother.”

“He did.”

Kobe muttered under his breath and started pacing, casting angry glances at Akitada from time to time. After a few passes, he stopped in front of Akitada and asked through clenched teeth, “Did you inform him also about the scream and your theory that the murder must have happened elsewhere?”

“Of course not! I have no intention of undermining your work.”

“Hah! You have done plenty of damage already. Now Nagaoka will persist in dragging out the case. I went to tell him that the evidence forces us to put his brother through interrogations until he signs a confession. If the man refuses, he will be dead in a week.”

Akitada’s stomach lurched. “You cannot do that! Your evidence is not complete. He was asleep or unconscious when they found him. He does not remember anything.”

“That’s what he says. He was drunk. It’ll come back to him when he feels the bamboo whip.”

Akitada searched for a convincing argument and failed. Biting his lip, he tried another tack. “What does your coroner say about the cause of death?” he asked.

To his surprise, Kobe became evasive. “Nothing special. Time of death sometime during the night. They never like to be precise. In his fit of anger, the killer cut her up pretty badly with his sword. Not a pretty sight. By the way,” he added pointedly, “Nagaoka’s brother still had the sword in his hand and was covered with her blood when we found them together.”

Akitada felt his heart beating faster. “You still have the body?”

Kobe jerked his head. “In the morgue. It’s messy. You don’t want to look.”

“I do want to look. Would you show me?”

Kobe turned away.

“Three days have passed,” Akitada pleaded. “There is not much time before you will have to release her for cremation. How could my seeing her ruin your case?”

After a moment Kobe turned and nodded grudgingly. “Come on, then,” he muttered, walking to the door. “I must be mad, but there is something that’s been bothering me about that corpse. The coroner and I have an argument about the cause of death. I’d like to get your opinion. The doctor is still around somewhere, I think.”

As they passed through the hall, smiling police constables and sergeants bowed snappily to Kobe. His new status had clearly won him their respect. He passed them with a joke here or a nod there, only pausing once to request that the coroner be sent to the morgue.

They left the administration hall by the back, crossed an open exercise yard, and headed toward a series of low buildings. The morgue was the farthest of these, a small building reminiscent of the earthen storehouses of most mansions and temples. A guard stood at the narrow door. When he saw Kobe approaching, he flung it open. Kobe led the way as they stepped over the wooden threshold onto a floor of stamped earth. The bare room held several human cocoons, bodies wrapped in woven grass mats, but only one corpse occupied its center. A faint smell of death hung in the cool air but was not yet offensive. Light fell through two high windows covered with wooden grates.

Kobe went to the body in the middle of the room and flung back the grass mat covering the naked corpse of a young woman. She was on her back. Next to her lay a carefully folded bundle of clothing. Akitada recognized the material, heavy cream-colored silk with an embroidery of chrysanthemums and grasses. He had last seen it on the veiled woman in the rain outside the temple gate. The lovely fabric was stained with blood and dirt, and Akitada, having priced expensive silks for his sister, guiltily wished it had not been wasted on a woman who had first dragged it through the mud and then allowed herself to be murdered in it.

“Well?” said Kobe, when Akitada’s eyes had rested long enough on the clothing. “Look at
her!
What do you think?”

Akitada did as he was told. It was his second glance, and again he flinched inwardly. The first look had taken in the mutilated head and quickly escaped to the embroidered silk. The willful destruction of a part of the human anatomy which was the person’s identity, the self which he or she saw every morning in the mirror, the means by which humans are recognized for who they are and by which they express their thoughts and emotions to others, shocked even him who had seen too much of violent death. He recalled wishing to see the face of the veiled lady who had moved with such lithe grace. Now he would never know if she had been beautiful. Gone was the mouth which once had smiled at husband or lover and had spoken words of love—or hatred! The eyes would never again see the beauty of the world and mirror thoughts of happiness or sadness. Instead of a human face he saw a bloodied mask of raw flesh, the nose and one eye gone, the other covered with gore, and the mouth gaping like some grotesque wound. The memory of the horrors of the hell screen flashed into his mind. He wondered if the painter had studied his craft in the police morgue.

It had been a vicious attack. The killer must have been either demented or so furiously angry with his victim that he was no longer rational. Akitada thought of Nagaoka, the husband.

Kobe, untroubled by either philosophy or psychology, urged impatiently, “Well, come on! Or are you waiting for the coroner to tell you what happened to her?”

“Talking about me behind my back again, Superintendent?” asked a high, brisk voice from the doorway. A small, dapper man in his fifties walked in with a bouncing step. He gave Akitada a glance, bowed slightly to both of them, but spoke to Kobe in a casual, almost jovial manner. “So? What gives us the honor of a second visit, Super?”

“ ‘Us’?” Kobe grinned, raising his brows. “Have you appropriated police headquarters, Masayoshi, or just the morgue? Or perhaps you have formed a closer relationship with the late Madame Nagaoka here?”

The dapper man cackled. “The latter, of course. It is a professional bond which always develops between the coroner and the latest victim of a crime. The intimacy of my investigation has much of love and passion in it.” He winked at Akitada, who frowned back.

“I brought a friend,” explained Kobe. “His name is Sugawara. He’s the nosy fellow who likes to solve my cases. As he wanted a look, I thought you could use some help, being that you don’t seem to be able to make up your feeble mind about the cause of death.” Kobe turned to Akitada. “This is Dr. Masayoshi, our coroner.”

Akitada gave the man a cool nod. He was scandalized by the coroner’s flippant attitude toward the body of a respectable young married woman.

If Masayoshi noted his expression, he ignored it. “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “There was a great deal of talk the time you pinned a strangulation of a girl from the pleasure quarter on one of the silk merchants.”

Akitada stiffened. “Nobody pinned anything on the silk merchant. The man was guilty. It was a long time ago, and you cannot be expected to have all the facts. Also, it required no medical skills. I have since had opportunity to learn a few things from one of your colleagues, but could not, of course, match your expertise. Please give me the benefit of your opinion in this case.”

“Ah!” said Masayoshi, his eyes twinkling. “I see how it is. The superintendent has brought an ally. It would hardly be fair if I spoke first. Tell us what you think happened to her.”

Irritated by the man’s manner, Akitada said, “Very well,” and began an examination of the dead woman. Nagaoka’s wife was of average height, as he knew from having seen her at the gate, and had a well-shaped and pale-skinned body. There were no visible wounds anywhere except, of course, for the mutilated face and shoulders. Nudity of men and women was too common a sight in bathhouses, or in ponds and rivers during the summer, to trouble him as he bent closer to scrutinize the well-shaped legs and arms, the small, firm breasts, flat belly, and rounded hips. “She was young and attractive, perhaps in her early twenties, and has led an active life,” he said, and moved to study the soles of her feet and the palms and fingers of her hands. “Her skin is too smooth and white for a peasant,” he noted, “and her hands and feet are well cared for, but...” He felt the upper arms and thighs, pursed his lips, and straightened up.

Kobe met his eyes impatiently. “Come on! What about the way she died?”

Akitada glanced at the terrible wounds made by the killer. Several of them could have been fatal. They had obliterated the face, nearly severed the neck, and left deep gashes in her shoulders. “The cuts were made with a sword, I believe. No knife could have left such deep, hacking gashes, but sword wounds look like that. I have seen many of them.” Unwelcome memories rose; Akitada pushed them firmly aside and knelt again to look more closely at the wounds. “Strange,” he muttered. “She must have been prone. Whoever wielded the sword stood over her, for the cuts are deeper at the top and quite shallow lower down. Also the swordsman, or perhaps it was a woman, must have cut the throat deliberately, for that required a change of direction.”

Kobe said, “Hah!” and exchanged a triumphant glance with Masayoshi, who chuckled and asked, “Anything else?”

Akitada was still looking and probing with his long index finger. The wounds of the face gaped, puddles of dried blood mingling with cartilage here and there, and pieces of bone protruded whitely from the raw flesh. One eye was closed; the other had disappeared completely in a mass of bloody pulp. Where the lips had been, broken teeth glimmered against the coagulated blood which filled the mouth cavity. It was no longer a human face. Akitada controlled a shudder.

“There is not enough blood,” he said after a moment, and looked up at Masayoshi, his face suddenly tense. “That means she was already dead when she was hacked to pieces, doesn’t it?”

“Excellent!” cried Masayoshi, clapping his hands. His tone was that of a teacher praising a bright child. “But come, how then did she die?”

Irritated by the coroner’s manner, Akitada looked at the corpse again. Except for the carnage about her head and shoulders, there were no wounds on the front of her body. He gently rolled her onto her stomach. The silken hair was tied in back with a bow, once white but now mostly dark with dried blood. The young woman’s back was also without wounds. “Perhaps a head wound,” he muttered, feeling the skull through the soft hair. Whatever blood the facial wounds had produced had run down her neck to gather between the shoulders. Her hair and bow had soaked up what little there had been. The skull itself proved to have neither cuts nor the soft depressions caused by bludgeoning. “No,” he said, sitting back on his heels and looking at her thoughtfully. “If we eliminate poisoning, the cause of death must be hidden by her wounds. Her face and throat are slashed so badly that it is hard to tell how she died, but it could have been many things. An arrow or knife thrust through the eye or mouth, or through the throat, for example, in which case she would have bled to death elsewhere.”