Fierce resolve inspired Hirata. Sano had told him to amuse himself in town, but hadn’t specified how. “I don’t need anything,” Hirata told the waiting servant. “I’m going out for the rest of the day.”

When he walked out the door, the two guards followed. “Governor’s orders,” the paunchy one said.

Hirata realized they meant to spy on him, the last thing he wanted. If Trade Director Spaen had thus far managed to evade capture, someone might be harboring him—perhaps a professional criminal. From his police experience, Hirata knew that the best way to find such a man was by unobtrusive means, which he couldn’t use with two soldiers in tow.

Reversing his steps, Hirata said to the guards, “I’ve decided to stay home.”

They eyed him skeptically, then stationed themselves beside the gate. Inside the house, Hirata reconsidered his clothes—silk surcoat and kimono printed with the Tokugawa crest, flowing silk trousers, and high clogs—the uniform of an Edo official, and not exactly one to inspire trust in the townspeople. Hurrying to the bedchamber, Hirata found two maids unpacking his baggage.

“Give me those,” he said, grabbing a short cotton kimono, sash, leggings, old wicker hat, and straw sandals. Hastily he changed into the ensemble and rehung his swords at his waist. Feeling younger and freer, as if he’d stepped back in time to his police days, he ran out the back door to the stables for a horse. Then the back gate opened, and the paunchy guard appeared. Hirata dashed back into the house. Hearing voices in the corridor, he skidded to a stop.

“Where is your master?” the tall guard demanded.

“He changed clothes, then left,” a maid replied.

Running footsteps came from the direction of the back door. Hirata swerved down another corridor as the paunchy guard called, “I saw him, he went that way.”

Hirata bolted through the bustling kitchen and into a courtyard, where he came upon two men. Their furtive manner alerted his police instincts. A familiar warning buzz went off in his head, arresting his flight.

“One hundred zeni for a barrel of prawns, ten quail eggs, a jar of candied plums, and steamed rice buns?” The speaker was a shabbily dressed peasant. “That’s robbery!”

The other man, who wore a neat blue kimono, stood beside the basket of provisions. “But these are the finest quality foods, bought especially for the shōgun’s envoys.” About fifty years of age, he had a long face with protuberant eyes and pursed lips. Wispy gray hair straggled around his bald pate. “Why should I sell them for less, when they’ll fetch twice that from the customers at your food stall?”

Forgetting his pursuers, Hirata seized the bald man’s arm, demanding, “How dare you steal from my master? You’re under arrest!”