The rain continued to emulate a lukewarm power shower as Fitzduane assessed the situation. The adjoining roof was not just one floor higher, there was a parapet involved as well. They would have to climb about fourteen or fifteen feet, and the only way he could see to do it was to scale a drainpipe on the front of the building, with the street directly below.
"Sergeant Oga," he said. "Send your colleague for some rope. God knows what we'll find when we get to the top. Meanwhile, you and I are going to do some climbing."
Oga snapped out instructions and the detective rushed away. Then the sergeant ran toward the parapet and moved to reach out to the drainpipe. Fitzduane caught up with him and interposed an arm.
"Gaijins first," he said, "and besides, this was my thoroughly stupid idea." He started to climb. Six feet up, he noticed that whatever was true about Japanese craftsmanship, the drainage fixings had not been installed on one of their better days.
He paused to get his breath.
A crack sounded beneath him, and the pipe below him slowly broke away from the wall at the brace where his feet rested.
Fitzduane looked down. Sergeant Oga was shouting something, and far below he could see faces looking up. All his weight was now being suspended by his arms, and the pipe he was hanging on felt greasy. That was the least of his worries. If the brace above him was of the same standard as the one below, he was going to die in Japan, and in the rain at that.
Oga was pointing.
Fitzduane turned his head and looked where the sergeant was indicating. There was a metal protrusion a foot to one side and a couple of feet farther up from where his feet had been resting; it seemed to be doing something for a neon sign that flashed below.
He stretched out his left foot and found the piece of angle iron and slowly rested his weight on it and levered himself up. The iron held. He was now able to move his feet up to the next pipe brace, and soon after that got his hands over the parapet. He tensed himself for one more effort. As he pushed at the brace to gain the momentum to swing his legs over the top, the rest of the pipe gave way.
Fitzduane lay on the parapet for a few seconds to regain his strength. His head was on the edge and, looking down, he could see an excited crowd scurrying back after the impact of yet another section of pipe on the pavement.
This was one hell of a way to effect a covert entrance. He just had to hope that whoever was inside Adachi's apartment — if anybody — was not looking out through the window or, failing that, would not make an association with the chaos below. He was shaking with stress reaction, and he felt nauseous and he hoped the fallen pipe had not hit anybody. Given the population density in Tokyo, he was not sure the odds were in his favor. Still, he had more immediate concerns. He pulled himself together and carefully transferred his weight from the parapet to the roof.
Soon afterward, he was sprawled at the edge of Adachi's skylight, peering in cautiously at the scene underneath. On a bright day, he would have been silhouetted immediately against the sky. On this gloomy day, with the rain pounding down and smearing the glass, he would be less obtrusive.
It was some consolation for having to lie in a pool of dirty water. The drainage off Adachi's roof left a great deal to be desired. He was getting a whole new perspective on the Japanese economic miracle.
* * * * *
Adachi had arrived, scarcely a minute ahead of Fitzduane, wet, exhausted, shivering, and burdened with an overwhelming fatigue.
The prospect of climbing five floors was more than he could contemplate. He climbed the first flight and sat down and rested his head wearily against the wall and for a few minutes fell asleep. Rainwater from his sodden shoes dripped from him and formed a pool at his feet.
The crash of a closing door on the floor above woke him, and then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs and a peremptory shout, as his neighbor saw him and mistook his dripping, beaten-down figure for a beggar. Stumbling apologies followed as the man realized who Adachi was. Then he offered help, but Adachi brushed his concern aside.
"A touch of flu," he said, rising to his feet and bowing politely, "but nothing serious. Thank you, Samu-san, for your concern."
Samu-san bowed in acknowledgment, but still looked at Adachi as if wanting to help. The policeman was pale and shaking, and was clearly ill.
Adachi resolved the situation by commencing to climb the stairs again. As he passed Samu-san he smiled, and this reassured the neighbor. He clattered off down the stairs once more and Adachi was left in peace. He rested again for some further minutes, then climbed another flight.
In all, it took him nearly twenty minutes to get to the top, and he stumbled through his door, exhausted, and closed it behind him. He removed his shoes and socks and sodden jacket, and, barefoot, trembling with fatigue and cold, walked slowly into his living room. He wanted nothing more than warmth and the escape of sleep.
It was then that he saw Fujiwara.
The sergeant walked out of the bedroom with the weapon in his hands, its thick, silenced barrel pointing straight at Adachi. The silencer made his intentions obvious. To Adachi's surprise, he felt neither surprise nor fear. Instead, there was a bittersweet blend of betrayal, sadness, and surrender. He stood there in his wet clothes, still trembling but otherwise immobile, his hands at his sides.
Fujiwara had always liked Adachi and regretted having to kill him. But his considerable regard for his superintendent was outweighed by his regard for what he was being paid. His years on the streets had taught him that life was about compromise and tough decisions. Still, faced with this pathetic figure, he was reluctant to pull the trigger.
"So, Sergeant Fujiwara-san," said Adachi, giving a slight bow. "A friend is going to kill me. Under the circumstances, it is, I suppose, curiously appropriate."
Fujiwara bowed in return, but though his upper body moved, the Sterling remained pointed at Adachi. "You do not seem surprised, Superintendent-san."
"Nothing surprises me anymore," said Adachi. "I have suspected you for a little time — and then the prosecutor left a letter. So much betrayal, so much corruption."
"Please kneel down, Superintendent-san," said Fujiwara, "and place your hands behind your head. You will not suffer, I promise you."
Adachi sunk slowly to his knees and rested his clasped hands on his head. As he had lowered his body, he had felt he firm outline of his holstered pistol press into his back. From where Fujiwara stood, it could not be seen. But thoughts of using the weapon were futile. He was shaking with cold and fever, and the submachine gun would cut him in two before he could get the weapon out of his holster. Nonetheless, the thought was implanted in his mind and, irrationally, he found the weight of the weapon comforting.
"Who sent you, Sergeant-san?" he said. "Who has ordered my execution? I would like to know before I die. Was it the Spider?"
Fujiwara laughed. "The Deputy Superintendent is a model of probity as far as I know," he said.
"Katsuda?" said Adachi.
Fujiwara nodded appreciatively. "You always were a fine detective, Superintendent-san, unfortunately for you. A less talented investigator would not be in your present position. Yes, it is the Katsuda-gumi who have ordered your death. You should have kept the Namakas as suspects. That was the way it was supposed to work. It was never planned that you be killed."