But here was a connection between Koheiji and Daiemon, and perhaps a link between the two murders. Hirata said, “Daiemon was in Senior Elder Makino’s estate the night Makino died. You didn’t see him then?”
Although Koheiji shook his head, his face acquired a queasy expression. “I had no idea he was there.”
But even if Koheiji hadn’t seen Daiemon, Daiemon might have seen him, Hirata conjectured.
“Besides,” Koheiji said, “why would I kill him, when we barely knew each other?”
And what, Hirata wondered, might Daiemon have seen Koheiji doing? Beating Makino to death? Maybe the actor had later, somehow, found out that Daiemon had seen him, and killed Daiemon to keep him quiet. Yet if Daiemon had witnessed the murder, why hadn’t he said so when Sano interrogated him? Hirata began to lose hope that solving one murder would solve both.
“Look,” Koheiji said, “you’ve got the wrong man. I’m sure your boss would be happy to have you pin both murders on me, but I didn’t kill Daiemon any more than I killed Makino. Okitsu will swear to it. So will the people at the theater.”
Despite his adamant denial, he’d lost his cockiness. His samurai garb and makeup contrasted pathetically with his fear of ruin. Just then, the curtain over the door lifted. A scowl-faced man stuck his head inside the room.
“It’s time for you to go onstage. Get out there right now!” the man told Koheiji, then vanished.
Koheiji breathed a glad sigh, as though reprieved at the brink of disaster. He scuttled past Hirata, who let him go, for the time being. Before darting out the door, he said, “If Daiemon really was in Makino’s estate that night, maybe he killed Makino. Just because he’s dead, it doesn’t mean he’s innocent. Why don’t you look into his business?”
That was exactly what Hirata must do, after he’d talked to Tamura, the other suspect Sano had sent him to investigate.
24
The play was the longest Koheiji had ever performed. He sang and ranted; he strutted across the stage; he romanced beautiful women; he fought a thrilling sword battle. The audience wildly cheered and applauded him, but for once he didn’t care. All he could think about was his visit from the sōsakan-sama’s chief retainer and how his situation had gone from bad to dire. He’d reached the height of success, and all he cared about was averting the demons of destruction, whose hot breath he could already feel on his neck.
As soon as the play ended, Koheiji rushed to his dressing room, hastily scrubbed off his makeup, and changed his costume for everyday clothes. He ran out to the street and spied a palanquin for hire.
“Take me to Edo Castle,” he told the bearers as he leaped into the vehicle.
While it bounced and veered along the streets, he brooded upon how his life seemed an endless series of good and bad luck, as though he’d been born under a star that shone brightly then went dark in unpredictable phases. He’d had the good fortune to be born the son of a rich merchant, but then his father had died, leaving nothing but debts. Koheiji found himself out on the street at age nine, forced to beg, rob, and sell his body. He was always running from the police, fighting off bigger boys who tried to steal his money; he slept under bridges.
His luck had turned when the Owari Theater took him in. At first Koheiji had been overjoyed at having shelter, food, and a chance at a glamorous, lucrative career. But he’d soon become embroiled in the vicious gossip, dirty tricks, and bullying that the struggling actors used against one another. Koheiji had had no choice but to do worse to his competitors than they did to him. He’d pushed one especially talented rival down the stairs and broken his back, crippling him. He’d made a lot of enemies, but his reward was lead roles in the plays. His star brightened.
But new troubles developed. Even the lead roles at the Owari paid a pittance. Koheiji still had to sell himself for money to buy costumes and have fun. He’d spent too much in the teahouses and pleasure quarter. He’d begun borrowing from moneylenders, run up more debts, and borrowed more money to pay the creditors who hounded him. Then he made the fortuitous discovery that rich men would pay to see him having sex. His shows had paid his debts and increased his popularity. If only he’d never met Judicial Councilor Banzan!
The old coot had demanded that Koheiji beat him with a leather strap while the girl watched. When Koheiji began striking Banzan, a sudden, furious rage possessed him. Banzan seemed to personify everyone who’d ever done Koheiji wrong, everyone he’d been forced to please. Koheiji didn’t stop until Banzan was bloody and unconscious. He’d had to pay his foe, Ebisuya, for help cleaning up the mess he’d made. A new cycle of debt and borrowing plunged him into despair, until Senior Elder Makino rescued him.
Makino had become his patron and raised him to fame and fortune. But the brightest phase of his star gave way to the darkest after Makino’s death. Somehow Koheiji had always managed to blunder along until good fortune shone on him again, but now his adversaries weren’t just jealous actors; they were the sōsakan-sama and his henchmen, backed by the might of the Tokugawa regime. Two murders doubled the likelihood that he would be the one punished. If he didn’t act fast, his star would burn out for good.
Impatient, Koheiji looked out the window of his palanquin to gauge his progress toward Edo Castle. He saw, crossing an intersection ahead of him, a familiar palanquin and entourage. Koheiji called, “Let me off here!” He jumped from his vehicle, tossed coins to the bearers, ran after the palanquin, and banged on the window shutters.
They opened, and Okitsu and Agemaki peered at him from within the palanquin as he trotted alongside it. Okitsu smiled and cried, “Koheiji-san! I’m so glad to see you!”
“Get out,” Koheiji said, barely looking at her.
“What?” Confusion wiped the smile off Okitsu’s face.
Koheiji flung open the palanquin’s door and yanked Okitsu out. As she squealed protests, he climbed in, took her seat opposite Agemaki, then shut the doors and window.
“I need to talk to you,” he said. “There’s bad news.”
Agemaki sat, prim and quiet as usual, her tranquil face averted from him. She waited for him to speak.
“First, I must thank you for not telling the sōsakan-sama about me and the night Senior Elder Makino died,” Koheiji said, his voice lowered to a loud whisper.
“I promised I would say nothing,” Agemaki murmured. “And I kept my promise.” She paused, then said, “Please allow me to thank you for not telling the sōsakan-sama about me.”
The morning after Makino’s murder, they’d agreed to protect each other. So far their bargain had held; their guilty secrets were safe from the sōsakan-sama, who hadn’t arrested either of them. But Koheiji wanted to ensure that Agemaki didn’t fail him now.
“It’s more important than ever that we honor our bargain,” Koheiji said. “Something has happened that puts us both in more danger than before.”
Agemaki turned her head slightly toward Koheiji, signifying interest, although her tranquil expression didn’t change.
“Daiemon was stabbed to death last night,” Koheiji said.
“How do you know this?”
“The sōsakan-sama’s chief retainer told me,” Koheiji said. “He came to see me at the theater this morning. I must warn you that he and his master aren’t finished asking questions yet. Now that they have two crimes to solve, I’m guessing they’re under twice as much pressure from their superiors. They seem to believe that whoever killed Makino also killed Daiemon. That makes you and me suspects in both murders.”
He watched to see what effect the news had on Agemaki, but she hid her emotions so well that he never knew what she was thinking. Koheiji despised her cold, remote demeanor. He preferred women like Okitsu, who were as transparent as water. But circumstances had thrown him and Agemaki together in mutual dependency.