Shadows of Tokyo Read online

  Shadows of Tokyo

  A Reiko Watanabe/Inspector Aizawa Thriller

  by

  Matthew Legare

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Mailing List

  Author’s Note & Acknowledgements

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Thank You

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2018 by Matthew Legare. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are works of fiction or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Reproduction of this publication in whole or in part without the author’s permission is strictly prohibited.

  www.matthewlegare.com

  Mailing List

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  Thanks!

  Author’s Note

  In addition to using the Western calendar, the Japanese also divide their history among eras named after the reigning emperors. For example, modern Japanese history is comprised of the Meiji Era (1868 – 1912), the Taisho Era (1912 – 1926), the Showa Era (1926 – 1989), and the Heisei Era (1989 – present). The events of this novel take place in 1931 or Showa 6. Additionally, there are references to the Tokugawa Era, which covered the years of 1603 – 1868 when the Tokugawa Shogunate ruled Japan through a military dictatorship, reducing the emperors to mere figureheads.

  Many Japanese terms that have not entered the English lexicon have been italicized, followed by a brief translation. Those words that have gained familiarity in the West (e.g. geisha, yakuza, shogun) are not italicized.

  There are also common suffixes used throughout the novel such as san (formal for both males and females) chan (informal for females) and kun (informal for males).

  In Japan, surnames come before given names (e.g. Watanabe Reiko), but in order to make the story more palatable to Western readers, characters’ given names will come before their family names (e.g. Reiko Watanabe).

  Acknowledgments

  The seeds of this novel were planted long ago and I am grateful to all those who have supported and guided me while it grew. Jay, for his years of mentorship, Caroline T. Johnson for her fantastic cover design, my family and friends for their encouragement, my Japanese friends who helped with cultural nuances and translations, and to my beta readers, especially my other half, Jenny, who read the novel many times over and always offered better and better feedback.

  December 1931

  Sixth Year of the Showa Era

  CHAPTER ONE

  Reiko Watanabe quickened her pace through the crowded streets of Tokyo, praying that she wasn’t too late. The assassination was imminent but one phone call to the Police would stop this madness. She cursed the kimono that wrapped her legs like rope, forcing her to take small, plodding steps. Crossing the street, her geta clogs crunched over a thin carpet of snow, slowing her down even further. But there, at the end of the block, was the telephone booth. Nothing could stop her now.

  However, as she ran, the stares from passersby slowed her pace. Did they suspect something or were they just gawking? The sight of a geisha running in full dress must have been an odd sight, even in Asakusa, the neighborhood of ero guro nansensu; erotic grotesque nonsense.

  A kimono-clad sumo wrestler waddled past like an earthquake. Tattooed hoodlums stood guard outside gambling dens, the lairs of the yakuza. A pair of unshaven men in tattered coats traipsed by, the unfortunate victims of this terrible depression that had swallowed Japan’s economy.

  A group of ragged-looking children huddled around a cart grilling yakitori chicken skewers, savoring the sweet smell. Rickshaws carried passengers through the streets, sharing the road with an occasional honking automobile. On the corner, a Buddhist minstrel, masked by a straw basket, played a morose tune with his flute. Across the street, a band wearing samurai costumes performed jazz music.

  Nothing unusual for Asakusa, but every eye seemed to follow Reiko as she approached the telephone booth. In their stares, she felt the watchful eye of her lover, Masaru Ryusaki. Entering the telephone booth provided a temporary refuge, allowing Reiko to examine the reflection in the glass. Her shimada wig was still in place but a face full of white paint couldn’t hide cheeks turned pink by the cold. Hardly a dignified look for a geisha.

  With trembling hands, Reiko pulled out a five-sen coin, enough to make any local call in Tokyo. She was about to slide the coin in, but a loud knock on the glass startled her. A man in a dark brown tunic and peaked service cap stood outside the telephone booth. The uniform of the Imperial Army. No, it couldn’t be Lieutenant Nakajima. Not here.

  Too frightened to look the soldier in the face, she glanced at the shoulder insignia and noticed they were solid red with only one yellow star each. She expelled a relieved sigh. The soldier was a nito-hei, a simple private, and not the officer she dreaded.

  “My humblest apologies,” the soldier said, clicking his heels. “But I am shipping out to Manchuria soon! Please allow me the honor of your company!”

  Although he stood at full attention, the red in his face told her that this soldier had been drinking, probably more than ever before in his young life. No wonder he had the impudence to actually flirt with a geisha. More and more units were being sent to Manchuria to settle that incident in northeastern China. Reiko pitied anyone going to that subzero hell but seeing the soldier’s brown uniform filled her with venom.

  “Try the brothels in Yoshiwara,” she said. “You can’t afford me.”

  The soldier gave a hurt look and an apologetic bow before stumbling away. Reiko sighed in relief and reminded herself that there was no reason Lieutenant Nakajima would be in Asakusa.
Not now at least. That bastard Nakajima. All of this was his fault. Like some evil spirit, he had turned Masaru Ryusaki from her pampering lover into a madman who plotted the assassination of politicians. Her thoughts drifted to Masaru, who had no idea his geisha mistress was about to betray him. Reiko Watanabe never considered herself an especially moral person, but even she couldn’t turn a blind eye to murder.

  Only one police officer could be trusted with this information. After all, Masaru claimed to have many sympathizers inside the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department but only one sworn enemy. Countless curses against an “Inspector Aizawa” had etched the name into her mind. Reiko picked up the receiver and dropped the five-sen coin into the slot.

  “Moshi moshi,” a woman’s chipper voice answered.

  “Yes, operator? Connect me to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Inspector Aizawa’s office.”

  “Hold, please.”

  The line went quiet and Reiko gripped the telephone cord.

  Moments later, a man’s sharp voice came through.

  “Inspector Aizawa speaking.”

  “There’s going to be an assassination,” she said, lowering her already husky voice.

  There was a brief pause. “Who is going to be killed?”

  “Baron Fumio Onishi….there’s an emergency session of the Imperial Diet today. He’ll be shot as soon as he exits the House of Peers.”

  “Who’s going to shoot him?”

  “A man. He’s short with a mustache like Charlie Chaplin.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Reiko searched her mind but couldn’t remember. Masaru Ryusaki had several followers who believed in his brand of right-wing patriotism. Hours before, she had served the tea as Masaru ordered the assassination of Baron Onishi for his many crimes: corruption, weakness, and greed. The little mustached man barely spoke, but his eyes blazed with such murderous delight that it sent a shiver down her spine.

  Soon after, Reiko excused herself to fetch some alcohol, saying they’d need something to celebrate Onishi’s death with. Instead, she rushed to the nearest telephone booth where she now found herself betraying the man she loved.

  “I don’t know his name,” she finally said.

  “Is anyone else involved?”

  Above all, that was something the Police could never discover. Masaru Ryusaki was not just her lover but also the only source of income she had. If he were arrested, then she wouldn’t last very long in this depression. But once this insane assassination plot failed, she could persuade him to give up on politics and return to their normal lives…or so she hoped.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  Instead of answering, Reiko hung up the receiver. Exiting the telephone booth, she sucked in the cold air. Its bite helped steady her as she rejoined the stream of humanity through Asakusa’s streets.

  She expected a sense of shame, but her betrayal left only a detached, numb feeling. Masaru had sent her out to fetch some alcohol to celebrate Baron Onishi’s impending death but he would have to wait a little longer. A nearby Shinto shrine had a hypnotic draw and beckoned her closer. Passing underneath the torii gate, she entered the realm of gods and spirits.

  After washing her hands at the purification fountain, Reiko approached the worship hall and tossed a few coins into the offering box. The shrine was crowded today, filled with people praying for help. What were they asking for? Probably employment, judging from the wrinkled kimonos and patched coats they wore. It seemed that the gods had abandoned Japan in the past two years, leaving behind economic misery and political turmoil.

  Absent or not, a heavy rope with bells hanging from the shrine served as a direct connection to the Shinto pantheons. Reiko shook it and felt certain that she had captured their attention. It was up to the gods to help Aizawa now.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Inspector Kenji Aizawa stared out the car window, examining the Imperial Diet Building in the distance. Like something out of the ancient past, the sprawling structure’s two pillared wings were thronged by reporters. Holding them at bay were squads of junsas, the rank and file of the Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department.

  Sergeant Toru Murayama put the vehicle in park. “Think we’re too late, Inspector?”

  “Nobody has radioed anything in yet,” Aizawa said. “But we’d better hurry.”

  A rush of cold air bit into Aizawa’s face as he stepped from the automobile. His shoes crunched against the snowy courtyard and he sank into his overcoat. December in Tokyo was usually mild but winter had come early this year along with a fresh dusting of snow the night before. Sergeant Murayama lumbered alongside him, exhaling puffs of frosted breath, like a sumo wrestler in a dark blue uniform.

  They approached the Diet with rapid steps, taking in the building’s enormity. Reporters clustered around the sides where both houses of the legislature were meeting. Located on the left wing, the House of Representatives was comprised of party politicians elected by the masses. Representing the aristocracy, the House of Peers was situated in the Diet’s right wing. That was where Baron Onishi would step straight into the path of an assassin’s bullet.

  Although that woman sounded desperate enough, Aizawa wondered if her call was just an elaborate scheme to make a fool out of him. Japan had a long history of political assassinations but given the enemies he’d made in the past few months, Aizawa felt safer keeping it to himself and Sergeant Murayama for now. Many policemen allowed personal emotions to cloud their duty, but Murayama was uncomplicated. No politics, just strict obedience to the chain of command.

  As they neared the throng outside the House of Peers, several regulars from the big newspapers, the Asahi, Nichi Nichi, and Yomiuri Shimbun, were there. A few reporters had set up a radio transmitter under a banner labeled NHK. If the Japanese Broadcasting Corporation had sent men to get a live feed, the Diet probably wasn’t passing a budget bill.

  “What’s going on?” Aizawa asked a nearby reporter.

  “Wakatsuki just resigned,” the reporter said, keeping his attention focused on the building. “The Diet is adjourned for the rest of the year but they’re holding an emergency session now. But it’s doubtful the Emperor will appoint a new prime minister today.”

  So that was it. Prime ministers had short careers these days and Reijiro Wakatsuki was no exception. There were more politicians ready to take his place, all hoping to be more effective than their forgettable predecessors.

  Aizawa thanked the reporter and surveyed the crowd for short men with Charlie Chaplin mustaches. Damn that woman. Couldn’t she spare more details? Still, a wall of grim-faced junsas in their dark uniforms, gleaming short swords, and peaked caps was enough to intimidate most citizens. Perhaps this would-be assassin had already been scared off.

  Aizawa made his way through the crowd and up the steps while Murayama followed close behind. A senior junsa stood at the center of the wall of policemen. As they approached, he stepped forward and saluted.

  “Inspector Aizawa,” the junsa said. “What brings you here?”

  “Special investigation,” he said, shutting down further inquiry. It would have been easier to order the junsas to scour the area for men with toothbrush mustaches, but he dismissed the thought. Better to let Sergeant Murayama sift through the crowd while he grabbed the Baron and escaped out the back. Cowardly? Yes, but also the safest course. At least until he knew for certain that this mysterious informant wasn’t some rival officer’s wife.

  Aizawa leaned close to Sergeant Murayama. “I’ll get the Baron and exit through the back. Keep an eye out for our man.”

  “It won’t be easy in this crowd,” Murayama said. “I could use some help.”

  Aizawa shook his head. “Just keep watch out here. Remember, short, Charlie Chaplin mustache.”

  Sergeant Murayama scratched his own thick mustache and started back down the stairs before disappearing into the throng.

  Aizawa turned his attention to the Diet entrance. The doors were now wide open. A stream of d
istinguished-looking men in frock coats and three-piece suits began to exit. They walked past the mob of reporters, held at bay by the wall of junsas. He glanced at his watch. 5:05. Any minute now, the Baron would exit with this flood of Dietmen.

  Aizawa braced himself, half-expecting bullets to cut through the crowd.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Aizawa recognized only a few notable politicians. There was the illustrious Prince Fumimaro Konoe, who wore a toothbrush mustache but was far too tall to be the man in question. Iesato Tokugawa also stood out with his paunchy gut. How strange that this doughy man was not only the House of Peers’ president, but also the patriarch of the Tokugawa Clan, the same family who had ruled Japan through their military dictators, the shoguns, for some two hundred years.

  After a few more nondescript politicians filtered out, a man in a black frock coat and top hat emerged from the Diet Building. Tall and statuesque, Baron Fumio Onishi leaned on a cane and surveyed the crowd like it was his personal fiefdom. His chiseled face, highlighted by silver hair and matching mustache, was the Japanese aristocracy personified.

  How fitting, since according to the newspapers, Onishi was descended from over thirty generations of daimyo lords. His own father had played a leading role in the Meiji Restoration, toppling the Tokugawa Shogunate and returning full power to the Emperor. Aizawa suppressed an urge to kowtow then and there.

  Instead, he darted up the steps and bowed deeply before the Baron. Straightening up, Aizawa presented his meishi, his formal business card.

  “Inspector Kenji Aizawa,” Baron Onishi read aloud in a dry voice, before tucking the meishi into his coat pocket. “And what may I do for you, Inspector?”

  “Baron, forgive me for being so direct, but your life is in danger.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I received a call a few minutes ago—”