Nakamura looked at him. "Heaven help her," he said.
CHAPTER 7
When Virgil Tibbs pulled up at six-thirty almost to the minute in front of the house of the late Wang Fu-sen, he was driving his own car. He had changed into a pair of two-tone slacks and a sport coat; to complete his ensemble he had chosen a light-blue shirt and one of the new wide ties considerably bolder in design than those he wore during business hours. He walked up the driveway quite unconcerned about what the neighbors might think, and rang the bell.
It was a few seconds before Yumeko opened the door. When she did, Tibbs experienced a pleasant surprise; she had on a simple black dress which displayed her figure to considerable advantage. On it she wore an exquisite jade clip in the form of a long-tailed bird of almost living realism. The otherwise unadorned dress set off her very rich dark eyes, her black hair, and the deep hue of her skin. As Virgil surveyed her, he appreciated for the first time that she was, in her way, exotically beautiful.
"Good evening," he said.
Yumeko welcomed him inside. "I thank you for asking me," she said formally. It was very proper, perfectly polite, and remotely cynical. The hint was so slight that Tibbs was not sure whether he had read it correctly or not; her familiarity with English was remarkably good for a Japanese, but it was as yet far from perfect. He told himself not to try to read subtle nuances in her speech, remembering that she was expressing herself in what was to her a complex and very difficult foreign language.
"I'm glad you could come," he responded. He wanted to banish the stiffness, but it was too early. She had been raised under a different culture in a different environment; more than that, she was not yet over the shock of violent death and cold murder. At that moment he did not believe that she had, with her own hands, struck down her benefactor, but his experience told him not to allow his i›er-sonal inclinations to prejudice the objectivity of his work. He was more than stretching a point by taking a definite suspect out to dinner; he had justified it to himself by assuming that under social circumstances it might be easier to obtain some added information from her, but he knew that he had been rationalizing.
"Is it that you wish to go now?" she asked.
He gave her a half smile and said, "Why not." As he walked beside her to his car he was aware that she was not very tall. After he opened the door he noted the way in which she seated herself; she had a natural ease of movement despite the fact that she was far from being relaxed.
He got in behind the wheel and then turned to her. "Would you enjoy a Japanese dinner?" he asked.
When she looked back at him he noticed how large her eyes were despite their Oriental configuration. "You can eat?" she asked.
He noted the change in grammar and correctly guessed that she had translated literally from the Japanese. "Yes, of course," he said. "I like it."
He started the engine and began to drive toward the center of the city. He sensed that his companion was not interested in small talk, so he remained silent. In the back of his mind was the nagging thought that by inviting Yumeko Nagashima for dinner and the evening he was overstepping the bounds of police discretion. But he could not withdraw now; the girl was in the car beside him and his duty was clear.
The restaurant he had selected was located in the semibasement of a substantial bmlding not far from police headquarters. After the few concrete steps which led down to the entrance the atmosphere changed abruptly; with the Japanese genius for creating tranquil decorations in even the smallest space, the Uttle foyer had been made attractive and inviting. Inside, the restaurant itself calmly ignored the prosaic streets outside and contented itself with being a small comer of the Orient where food was served.
The hostess, appropriately clad in a pink flowered kimono, received them, checked her reservation sheet, and then guided them to a table in the dining room. "I'm sorry," she said, "I should have asked you. Would you prefer to have your dinner in the tatami room?"
Virgil looked at his companion and waited for her to
answer. "I believe," Yumeko said, in carefully phrased English, "that Mr. Tibbs might be more happy here."
The hostess looked at her once again and then, motioning for them to sit down, added a welcome in Japanese. The effect on Yumeko was visible: she replied at once, obviously grateful for the opportunity to speak her own language even if only briefly. To Tibbs the conversation was incomprehensible, but he noted the difference in Yumeko-in her sudden ease of speech and relaxation of manner. It was as though she had become a different person.
When the hostess had left, some of the warmth remained. "She is very nice person,'* Yumeko said. "She gave us a fine welcome. She forgives me my birth, I think because her husband is hakojin. I am sorry-that means that he is a Caucasian."
Virgil wanted to say something to her then about her ancestry, but he remained silent. There would be time enough for that later. Instead he picked up the menu and consumed a quarter of a minute in making his decision. "What would you like to have?" he asked.
Before she could reply a cocktail waitress appeared at their table and inquired about drinks. Yumeko shook her head "Please, no,'* she said. After Tibbs had declined for himself, she explained. "Once I became sorry for myself and had much to drink. I became very sick and my stomach reversed itself. Now I do not wish it anymore.'*
"That's as good a reason as any," Virgil said. "Why do it if you don't like it.'*
Yumeko shot him a quick glance at that and continued to study his features for several more seconds. She said nothing, however, and picked up the menu. It hid her face while she scanned it and decided what she would like to have.
"You do not mind if I eat real Japanese food?'* she inquired.
'That's why I brought you here.'*
When the waitress came she ordered in Japanese. There was some small discussion and then it was Tibbs' tvuiL "Sukiyaki," he said simply.
"Gohan?"
He looked blankly at her.
"I beg your pardon-^would you like rice?"
"Please."
The waitress produced an electric stove and plugged it in, ready for the ritual of cooking the sukiyaki at the table.
Then she brought clear thin soup in dark lacquer bowls and set down tiny dishes of Japanese pickles. She placed a pair of wrapped chopsticks beside Yumeko and provided Tibbs with both a set of sticks and conventional silverware.
Yumeko picked up her soup bowl, ready to drink from the rim. "I thank you for giving me this meal," she said. "I have not had Japanese food very recently."
"I'm glad you could come," Virgil responded. He studied his companion and tried to understand her. To him she was Japanese: she spoke the language and had grown up under that culture. Yet he was aware that she was half Negro and the tone of her skin was much like his own. He was unable to decide in his mind whether her difficulty lay in her mixed heritage per se, or in the fairly obvious fact that her parents had not been man and wife. As he sipped his soup he reflected on the point, then deliberately put it aside.
The waitress arrived with a platter of artfully arranged ingredients for the sukiyaki and a plain iron cooking utensil in which to prepare it. "What are you having?" Tibbs asked.
In reply Yumeko gestured toward the ample platter of meat and vegetables.
"I don't understand Japanese, you know that," he continued, "but I didn't hear you order it."
"I at first order something else," she explained. "Then when you order sukiyaki, I changed so as to be the same as you."
"Why?"
"It is more polite. Also it is easier for the waitress."
He looked at her carefully once more and wondered if she were capable of committing murder. There were strange combinations in hirnian beings, he knew that well, but Yumeko was an enigma.