He chose, first, the library. Whether it was because he knew every librarian and clerk there or because a dagger had been described by the media recently, David decided to fend for himself between index files and bookstacks. He learned about daggers used by British commandos during World War II, about M6 bayonets, and about the bowie knives of the Civil War. He perused a book about military weapons of Far Eastern nations, and read an article-more slowly-that stated daggers are used chiefly for self-defense or sudden attack, but some have served purely ceremonial or decorative purposes. Finally, he came across a passage entitled, Japan's Men-At-Arms, and read it twice:
"The material symbol of the martial spirit of the times was the warrior's principal weapons, his sword and his daggers. In later years the privilege of carrying these deadly instruments came to be reserved for the knightly samurai, but during the Kamakura period, some men of lower birth also had them and used them to carve their way to glory. They were not, however, weapons only; to the samurai especially, a sword and a pair of pearl-handled daggers were the central objects of an elaborate cult of honor."
David toyed with the idea of abbreviating his legwork for the day because he had already succeeded in discovering more than he expected, namely that his research had validated what Sparky had said about the dagger pair. And that probably, not possibly, the twin to a murder weapon was concealed somewhere in the vicinity.
Yet, he wanted to make a second and final stop. He drove to the city's north end, past tenement blocks and a Mobil station, and he parked across the street from a one-story storefront with three golden balls fastened to a bracket. A tarnished matching sign read, HARRY RAZBIT, PAWNBROKER. David had grown up with the owner's son and had seen the father occasionally but never professionally.
He climbed out of his car and looked right and left on the desolate side street, the wind feeling and sounding as if worse were to come. A red and white "OPEN" sign hung from twine on the inside of the centrally placed door. Before entering, David perused the displays through the windows on either side.
He saw silver and gold timepieces; brightly spangled rings and bracelets; vases, urns, place settings and silverware; cameras, stereos and tape recorders. There were desk sets and trophies; and a baseball glove and football helmet and fishing rod. Perched on the uppermost shelf were a trombone, a cornet, several guitars and even a tuba that appeared too big to lift, much less blow through.
David wondered about the plight of the legitimate people who would surrender such items: the budding tailback without a helmet, the hero without trophies, the musician without a guitar or tuba. He also thought about the penny-ante rewards of lawbreakers who lied their way around Mr. Razbit. In the face of widespread availability of credit cards, Razbit's continued to survive because of the honesty of its proprietor.
David walked through the sound of a jingle into a blown-up replica of the window displays. Essence of vanilla could not hide the must of half a century. Behind a glass counter crammed with jewelry, an Albert Einstein look-alike emerged from the back door. Open-mouthed, he pointed at David and said, "Well, I'll be! David Brooks. I mean Doctor David Brooks. And, I understand, a detective for good measure. I haven't seen you since you and Harry were in high school."
The reedy, little man raised on his toes, pretending to see over David's head. "What have they been feeding you, my son?"
"Hello, Mr. Razbit. Good to see you again. How's Harry, Junior?"
"He's fine. He's a doctor, too, you know. Up in Albany."
The old man wore a faded tan sweater whose shoulders dangled down his front. His hands bore plexuses of veins the size of his fingers, and David guessed he could slip his thumb under the man's leather watch strap.
"I must write him some day. But I've come here to show you …"
"This is about that terrible killing over at the hospital, isn't it? Couldn't it have been an accident?"
"There was also a knifing in the surgeon's locker room."
"Oh, right, yes, right. I guess you can't fall on a knife."
"No sir, not very well. And that's why I'm here."
David placed Friday on the counter and removed the photograph of the pearl-handled dagger from it. "Have you, by any chance, seen something like this recently?"
David observed Razbit's face and concluded he'd like to meet him in a poker game some day.
"A dagger," the pawnbroker announced. "That's a dagger, right?"
"Right."
Razbit's eyes took on a hunted look. "Yes, David, I'd have to say yes."
David, confident, pressed on. "Can you tell me about it?"
"I read about the pearl handle of the dagger in the newspapers, but I'm bound by the ethics of my business. I'm like the poor man's banker, you know, and respectable bankers follow the ethics of the banking industry."
David believed the pawnbroker was stalling and chose a word to preempt an anticipated oration. "So?" he said.
"So I can't give you names"
"But, can you say a dagger like the one in the photo crossed your hands recently?"
"Yes."
"A dagger or a pair of daggers?"
Razbit looked helpless. "A pair."
"A pair was bought?"
"Yes."
"You can't give names?"
"No." David knew a fake name had been used, anyway. He gave the old-timer his most piercing stare. "Can you at least describe the person who bought the pair?"
Razbit rearranged a collection of lockets on the counter.
"She had dark hair-wore dark glasses-had a bandana on-was all bundled up. That's all I can remember."
"That's all?"
Razbit now looked captured. "Maybe one other thing."
"Which is?"
"She had a husky voice."
"Was she tall? Short?"
"Everyone looks tall to me."
David decided he'd pumped as much information out of his school chum's father as he could. He assured him the interview never took place, asked him to be remembered to his wife and walked out the door.
At five, David cursed as he climbed three flights to Bruno's Martial Arts Studio. How about an elevator, for Christ's sake? But I suppose we black belts aren't supposed to have trick knees.
He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and waited to hear its laminated glass panel shake, as it always had for nine years. Imprinted in black at each corner of the glass were, in turn, CHINESE-JAPANESE-KOREAN-AMERICAN. In the center was:
MARTIAL ARTS
Bruno Bateman, Grand Master
Inside, it was as if David had crossed a bridge to a land far removed from turmoil, stress or even tedium on given days. One would think it was merely because of the concentration of fending off serious injury in percussive tae kwan do combat: kicking, elbows flying, slashing with hands and feet. But it was more than that. His senses were piqued again: the smell of sweat, the talcum taste, the clash of expiratory grunts, the give of the shiaijo mat under his bare feet.
David had become somewhat of a master himself in bujutsu, a form of Japanese martial arts that stresses combat and willingness to face death as a matter of honor. He had never been required to take it that far since he began the study as a teenager, but he respected the spiritual concepts on which it is based: Zen Buddhism and Shinto. And it was through the pursuit of those teachings that he grew to understand Japanese culture in general.
He peeked in at Bruno who was in a side room and had already begun his class for beginners. He alternated it nightly with a class for intermediates. The middle-aged Grand Master was as tall as David but thinner. Ruddy complexioned, he had cheekbones that appeared inverted and greying hair gathered in a ponytail. When not in combat, his movements were economical, and he kept his hands pressed to his sides like lethal paddles. Even his smile took a full sentence to form-but a period to dissolve.