“It may be a temporary address,” Ito said in Japanese. “Or he may have lied about his profession.”
Sherlock interrupted. He may not have understood Japanese, but he could guess well enough what they were saying. “I asked you to search for foreign traders residing in Kanto, but I was not suggesting that the culprit could only be a merchant. Though highly probable, it was merely a starting point from which to begin our investigation.”
Sonoda hesitated. “I will contact the Kanagawa police force, and ask for their cooperation…”
“Private detectives,” muttered Minezaki, disgruntled. “In the end they are all amateurs.” He stalked off in a huff.
“Would you like me to translate what he said?” asked Ito.
“Consulting detectives are all amateurs, or something to that effect I assume.”
Ito seemed surprised. “You understood his Japanese?”
“Of course not,” Sherlock said, chewing his pipe nonchalantly. “I have heard the same often enough before.”
29
Ito also insisted on joining the investigation party. Police Chief Sonoda was none too thrilled by this. It was not so much the danger as the fact that Ito’s attendance meant that he, too, would be forced to go.
But because Sherlock would be coming with them, Ito wished to ascertain the truth with his own two eyes. They would perform their raid early in the morning, so as not to interfere with the remainder of the day’s work—of course, assuming that everything went smoothly.
An early mist hung in the air. Several police carriages travelled along a rutted wagon road that connected the pear orchards beside the Tama River.
Ito was in the rearmost carriage, with Sherlock sitting next to him. The detective’s eyes remained closed throughout the entire ride. He showed no signs of tension. Ito glanced at Sherlock’s profile and sighed. It almost looked as if he was sleeping. Considering that Sherlock had never been to the area before, Ito would have thought he’d be taking a closer look at the surroundings. What happened to the importance of observation?
The carriage slowly ground to a halt. Sherlock opened his eyes. Ito, likewise, glanced out the window. Several policemen were now disembarking from the lead carriage. Some feet away from where the carriages had stopped, a crude, single-story wooden structure jutted from the earth. Captain Minezaki gave orders to secure the area.
Four days had passed since the meeting at the police headquarters. After several inquiries, the Kanagawa Police Department had learned of a foreigner in the area who was renting the storehouse of a certain farm. Interviewees had spoken of strange smells in the area. The man’s name was Yevno Tzybin. Supposedly he was using the storehouse to pursue oil painting. According to the rental agreement, Tzybin lived somewhere else, but the residential address listed proved to be nonsensical. It did not exist.
Though Minezaki had at first been disgruntled, he rose to the occasion without reservation. It did seem unlikely that these circumstances could be mere chance. That said, he had yet to fully warm up to Sherlock.
Not that one could blame him, thought Ito. When Minezaki had asked Sherlock to explain how he had identified the location, so they could get a warrant, Sherlock had offered nothing. He absolutely would not explain what had led him to his conclusions.
In the end they were forced to come without a warrant. This meant they would have to ask Tzybin to speak with them as a witness. They had no other choice.
The raiding party, however, was as large as it would have been were they planning to make an arrest.
Ito exited the carriage. Although it was September, the morning was comparatively warm.
Sonoda approached and whispered in his ear. “We’ve secured the perimeter. Not a single ant could pass through.”
Sherlock had also disembarked from the carriage. He walked swiftly toward the storehouse. “Let us proceed.”
Minezaki and several policemen waited in front of the closed sliding door that led into the building. Sherlock joined their party. Though Ito wanted to go to them as well, Sonoda pleaded with his eyes for the chairman to stand further back.
Finally, one of the policemen banged on the door. “Good morning! May we have a word?”
The bar could be heard lifting from the other side.
The door slid open. A man’s face peeked out. He had blue eyes, was balding, and past 50. He had a somewhat dazed expression, as though he’d been woken up by the knock. He was dressed in serge fabric, similar to a European factory worker.
For some reason the man stared at Sherlock first. He seemed almost insensible to the presence of the police officers.
“Good morning, Mr. Tzybin,” Sherlock said, in English. “Perhaps you will join us at the station?”
Tzybin did a double take. In a panic, he attempted to slide the door shut. The policemen who rushed forward to stop him did not make it in time. The man shut the door; then, he must have lowered the bar again, for as much as the policemen pushed, the door would not budge.
Minezaki pounded on the door in irritation. “If we had a warrant we could just kick the door down. Hoy, Tzybin! Come out, we want to speak with you!”
After a few moments of yelling, a noise could be heard inside. Had the bar been removed again? Minezaki took a step back.
The door flew open, and then Tzybin appeared, waving a towel in the air. The police men flinched, immediately turning their faces.
And then something entered Ito’s eyes! Pain! The pain was excruciating! He couldn’t see a thing!
This was the opening Tzybin had been hoping for. “He’s making a run for it!” Ito heard one of the policemen shouting.
He stumbled aimlessly around in pain. Sherlock, meanwhile, was wiping furiously at his own face. The policemen seemed to be in a similar predicament.
“After him!” Sonoda shouted, blinking furiously. “Don’t let him escape!”
Tzybin had broken through the dragnet and was sprinting toward the pear orchards. Several policemen, however, charged after him at full speed. One of them tackled Tzybin from behind, sending the man flying. Soon more policemen caught up with them and joined the pile. The dramatic chase had come to a rapid end.
Finally, Ito managed to open his burning eyes. “What was that?” he muttered. “My eyes won’t stop watering.”
Sherlock’s eyes were also bloodshot. “Cayenne pepper in an oil solution, I believe. I have tried my hand at preparing something similar. Tzybin has clearly hit upon a clever formula. It is quite effective.”
“Tried your hand? You’ve made this stuff yourself?”
“Purely in the interests of research, I assure you.” Sherlock pointed at the door, which had been left wide open. “Ito, look there.”
The storeroom was filled with random objects. It was packed so densely with these items that it was hard to believe that a grown man could actually fit inside. Not a bit of open space remained. There were pots and vases like you might find in any common household, as well as ichimatsu dolls and hina dolls, woodblock prints encased in frames, round fans and folding fans, kimonos, straw and wooden sandals… The room was simply overflowing. Glass instruments housing cloudy liquids were also scattered about. A gas lamp sat on its side, its fire extinguished.
“It is just as you said,” Ito said, delighted.
But Sherlock looked troubled. “This makes no sense. The man is just a common thief.”
“What do you mean?”
“He is hoarding the items, he has no plan for how he will sell them. And he has been completely careless in their storage.”
“Why has he stolen them, then?”
The policemen had restrained Tzybin and now returned with him in tow. He had interfered with official business; they needed no warrant to arrest him for that. He stood sulking, perhaps realizing that he had dug his own grave.