punishing their enemies, he would take it. But to do that he had to avoid capture. And the longer he remained in hospital the harder that would be.
He parted the mosquito net and swung his legs to the floor, which met them rather sooner than expected because of the lowness of the bed. Then he slowly stood up. He felt a little unsteady, which he attributed to hunger as much as concussion. A big fried breakfast appealed mightily to him. He rated his chances of obtaining it at zero.
He was wearing a thin white kimono-style gown. Someone had tied a label to his wrist, on which there was a jumble of Japanese characters. A narrow cabinet stood beside the bed. Easing the door open, he found his suit and shirt hung inside, with his socks and underclothes neatly folded on a shelf. His shoes were propped on a piece of bamboo at the bottom. He glanced around, but the other patients all seemed to be asleep. Moving as quickly and quietly as he could, he took the gown off and dressed himself. Then he tore the label off the piece of string round his wrist and slipped it under his pillow.
He reckoned a hat to cover his bandage would be useful, but he had lost his own at some point during his escape from Sakashita’s shop. Then he noticed a straw hat resting on top of the cabinet serving the next bed. With apologies to the oblivious owner, who looked more dead than asleep, he tried it on. It fitted loosely, which did the job.
Sam headed off, treading carefully, along the ward. Outside, a nurse was sitting at a desk, dozing gently. The building was bathed in silence and the lingering warmth of a hot night. The clock on the wall above the nurse’s head showed the time as just short of 4.30. It would be another four or five hours before Sam could hope to find Fumiko Yamanaka, the man Morahan had recommended he turn to for help in an emergency, at his desk in the Home Ministry. Where Sam could spend those hours he did not know. For the moment, he could only think about making a swift and inconspicuous exit from the hospital.
He padded past the dozing nurse, to reach a landing and an unshuttered window through which he saw what looked like warehouses beyond the hospital grounds and the silvery curve of a river. He had no knowledge whatever of the geography of Tokyo and therefore no idea where in the city he might be. He would just have to trust his own judgement.
He started down the stairs.
Around the same time, Malory woke from the few hours of sleep she had managed on the futon Chiyoko had laid in the kitchen for her. A cockerel in some nearby tenement was celebrating the dawn, as yet a grey and grudging affair. Through the open doorway, in the shop, Malory could see the shadow of the bamboo branch hung with strips of paper Chiyoko had pointed out to her the night before.
‘Today was the star festival. Shopkeepers hang out a branch for people to tie their wishes to. If I had written one, it would have been a wish to never have heard the name of Count Tomura Iwazu.’
The two women had sat for hours in the kitchen, sipping tea as they each revealed a little, and then a little more, of their dealings with Count Tomura. They had spoken in a whisper, anxious not to be overheard.
‘Fukagawa is a bad place to bring a secret, Miss Hollander. We are as close almost to our neighbours as I am to you.’
‘There’s nowhere else I can bring it. And no one else I can bring it to.’
‘You should not stay here long. You will be seen. Someone will report you to the police. Then Kempeitai will come for you. And for me.’
‘I’ll leave in the morning. There is a man at the Home Ministry who may agree to help me.’
‘Does Tomura know who he is?’
‘Possibly,’ Malory had admitted. And it was true. Yamanaka’s brother would probably be suspect in Tomura’s eyes.
‘Then his men will watch for you there. You must stay here. I will go to the Home Ministry. Haha will serve in the shop. She will say nothing. She will make an evil face
He parted the mosquito net and swung his legs to the floor, which met them rather sooner than expected because of the lowness of the bed. Then he slowly stood up. He felt a little unsteady, which he attributed to hunger as much as concussion. A big fried breakfast appealed mightily to him. He rated his chances of obtaining it at zero.
He was wearing a thin white kimono-style gown. Someone had tied a label to his wrist, on which there was a jumble of Japanese characters. A narrow cabinet stood beside the bed. Easing the door open, he found his suit and shirt hung inside, with his socks and underclothes neatly folded on a shelf. His shoes were propped on a piece of bamboo at the bottom. He glanced around, but the other patients all seemed to be asleep. Moving as quickly and quietly as he could, he took the gown off and dressed himself. Then he tore the label off the piece of string round his wrist and slipped it under his pillow.
He reckoned a hat to cover his bandage would be useful, but he had lost his own at some point during his escape from Sakashita’s shop. Then he noticed a straw hat resting on top of the cabinet serving the next bed. With apologies to the oblivious owner, who looked more dead than asleep, he tried it on. It fitted loosely, which did the job.
Sam headed off, treading carefully, along the ward. Outside, a nurse was sitting at a desk, dozing gently. The building was bathed in silence and the lingering warmth of a hot night. The clock on the wall above the nurse’s head showed the time as just short of 4.30. It would be another four or five hours before Sam could hope to find Fumiko Yamanaka, the man Morahan had recommended he turn to for help in an emergency, at his desk in the Home Ministry. Where Sam could spend those hours he did not know. For the moment, he could only think about making a swift and inconspicuous exit from the hospital.
He padded past the dozing nurse, to reach a landing and an unshuttered window through which he saw what looked like warehouses beyond the hospital grounds and the silvery curve of a river. He had no knowledge whatever of the geography of Tokyo and therefore no idea where in the city he might be. He would just have to trust his own judgement.
He started down the stairs.
Around the same time, Malory woke from the few hours of sleep she had managed on the futon Chiyoko had laid in the kitchen for her. A cockerel in some nearby tenement was celebrating the dawn, as yet a grey and grudging affair. Through the open doorway, in the shop, Malory could see the shadow of the bamboo branch hung with strips of paper Chiyoko had pointed out to her the night before.
‘Today was the star festival. Shopkeepers hang out a branch for people to tie their wishes to. If I had written one, it would have been a wish to never have heard the name of Count Tomura Iwazu.’
The two women had sat for hours in the kitchen, sipping tea as they each revealed a little, and then a little more, of their dealings with Count Tomura. They had spoken in a whisper, anxious not to be overheard.
‘Fukagawa is a bad place to bring a secret, Miss Hollander. We are as close almost to our neighbours as I am to you.’
‘There’s nowhere else I can bring it. And no one else I can bring it to.’
‘You should not stay here long. You will be seen. Someone will report you to the police. Then Kempeitai will come for you. And for me.’
‘I’ll leave in the morning. There is a man at the Home Ministry who may agree to help me.’
‘Does Tomura know who he is?’
‘Possibly,’ Malory had admitted. And it was true. Yamanaka’s brother would probably be suspect in Tomura’s eyes.
‘Then his men will watch for you there. You must stay here. I will go to the Home Ministry. Haha will serve in the shop. She will say nothing. She will make an evil face
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