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got back late. She was dead.” He gazed up at Tora. “Please make them understand!”
    Tora touched his shoulder. “If you’re innocent, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Sergeant Maeda and I will get it straightened out.”
    The constables laughed. “Right,” sneered the one who had kicked him. “We’ll see who gets at the truth quicker. You or us.”
    Maeda snapped, “It’s my case until the captain says otherwise. And you’ll leave him alone until we’ve checked out his story. Or else!”
    The other constable pointed. “Look at him. He’s covered with her blood. And he didn’t report the crime until this morning.”
    Tora asked, “Why not?”
    “He won’t say.”
    The doll maker muttered, “It was dark and I was tired. How was I to know?”
    “What?” cried the constable. “You have the nerve to say that you got in bed with a dead woman and went to sleep?”
    The doll maker started sobbing.
    “You can take him away, but don’t touch him.” The sergeant turned to Tora. “Come, we’ll go up and have a look at the dead woman.”
    They climbed a steep and rickety stairway to an upper floor with two small rooms. One was evidently storage for the doll making business, the other was the Mitsuis’ bedroom. A shutter stood open, and the spring sun shone on a bloodbath. Tangled in blood-soaked quilts lay a woman, her face and limbs white from blood loss, and her dark hair partially covering her face.
    She had struggled against her assailant, but probably not for long. The killer had hacked away at her until he had hit her neck and caused her to bleed out. There was blood everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, soaked into her clothes, and into the bedding. Bloody footprints headed out of the room, and there was a bloody handprint near the doorway.
    Tora walked around the body, looking at the tangled bedding. He bent to touch the stains. “They’re nearly dry,” he said. “This happened many hours ago.”
    “The killer butchered her,” said the sergeant, sounding awe-struck. “Looks like he stabbed her at least twenty times. He kept stabbing away in a frenzy.” He gave a small snort. “Bet the captain didn’t take a very close look. Probably just peeked in or took the constables’ word for it, as the case may be. But it looks bad for the husband. Usually only husbands get that angry at their wives.”
    “I don’t know. He had blood on him but it was mostly on his back,” remarked Tora, walking around the body to study it from all sides. “How would it get there if he was leaning over her as he stabbed her?”
    “Hmm. Maybe he slipped in the blood and fell.”
    “Maybe. And maybe he really came in after dark and went to sleep next to her.” Tora pursed his lips and poked a finger at the bedding beside the dead woman. “As you say, the killer stabbed her many times, but it could have been a woman. It doesn’t take much strength to shove a knife into a body.” He looked at the floor. “Perhaps we’d better measure the footprints and that handprint, though I’d guess they belong to the husband. Here’s a footprint that’s bigger though. It’s been smudged.”
    Maeda studied the smaller prints, then measured them by laying his hand next to them. “You’re right,” he said. He looked at Tora’s boots. “The big one’s about your size.”
    Tora placed his right foot on the print and nodded. “It’s mine. You got me, Sarge.”
    They laughed and went downstairs again. The murder weapon had not turned up.
    “Strange,” muttered Maeda.
    Tora said, “If the doll maker told the truth, the murderer came from outside, killed her, and took the knife away with him.”
    Maeda grunted. “Well, we’d better talk to the next-door neighbors. I don’t think those constables asked the right questions.
    The house to the right belonged to a man who worked in the harbor office and was at work. Mrs. Kubota was middle-aged, hard-featured, and not fond of policemen.
    “I told those yokels I