Death of a Doll Maker
know nothing,” she snapped. “Go away and bother other people. I’m busy. Talk to the slut across the street. She has nothing better to do than ogle men.”
    Tora eyed the slut’s house with interest, but Sergeant Maeda said firmly, “There has been a murder. It’s your duty to answer questions.”
    She glared at him. “The constables took old Mitsui away. You’ve got your killer. So why bother me? Mind you, I could have told you as much a long time ago.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Because they were always fighting, that’s why.”
    Tora did not like the woman. He said, “Mitsui claims he was away making deliveries and found her dead.”
    She snorted.
    Maeda said, “Did you see Mitsui yesterday?”
    She shrank away from him. “Well, he left in the morning with his cart packed high. But he could have come back. When was she killed?”
    “Late yesterday. Did you hear any noise from next door?”
    “No. I went to bed early and I sleep like the dead.” She gave an awkward laugh. “I mean, you know, real deep.”
    Tora asked, “What about your husband?”
    “Him?” She snorted again. “He came home drunk. Passed out before me. I had to shake him awake this morning. If Mitsui didn’t do it, who was it? It’s getting so a person isn’t safe in their own house. The police are useless.”
    The sergeant glowered at her, but something had occurred to her. “Maybe it was one of her own people,” she said. “They are violent by nature, as we all know. They don’t believe in the teachings of the Buddha.”
    Tora asked, “Her own people?”
    Before she could answer, Sergeant Maeda growled, “If that’s the best you can do, Mrs. Kubota, we’ll be on our way.”
    Outside he said, “Mrs. Mitsui was his second wife. She was Chinese. There’s a large Chinese ward, Daito-gai, in Hakata. It’s pretty old and they speak our language, but some people still don’t accept the Chinese. Mostly, they keep to themselves, but some like old Mitsui have married Chinese women. Personally, I’ve never seen much difference between the Chinese and us. We’re all doing the best we can for our own.”
    Tora decided he liked Maeda.
    The sergeant headed for the door of the neighbor on the other side. “A friend of mine lives here,” he said and called out, “Lady Kimura, my pretty! Are you home? It’s me.”
    From inside came a soft cry and a giggle. Then the door curtain parted and a tiny, ancient woman peered out. “Is it you, Love?” she asked, bright black button eyes moving from Maeda to Tora. “And you’ve brought me a gorgeous youngster. Bless you, you generous man.”
    Maeda laughed and drew Tora forward. “This is Sashima Kamatari, known as Tora. He’s fresh from the capital. Feast your eyes, my dove!” Tora grinned and made her a bow. “Mrs. Kimura practically raised me when I first came here as a raw youngster and took a room in her house. How are you, my dear?” he asked the tiny woman.
    “Good as ever. I’ve been working outside. Come on back, both of you.”
    They followed her through the little house and out onto a narrow veranda overlooking a tiny garden filled with miniature trees in all sorts of containers. Tora had seen such things before, but in the capital these little marvels, trained painstakingly for years to remain as small as a child’s toy, belonged to the wealthy.
    She perched herself on the edge of the veranda and they joined her.
    “You admire my little trees, Tora? It gives me something to do,” she said. “Before my husband and the children died, I never had the time for gardening. Now I have too much time, but most of my strength is gone. Sergeant Maeda looks after me like a son.”
    The sergeant blushed. “You’re no trouble, Love. But I’m here on business today. Mrs. Mitsui is dead. Stabbed. We think it must have happened last night.”
    “Oh no!” The bright eyes widened with shock. “Oh, poor Mei! Someone stabbed her? How terrible!” She twisted her hands

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