Sano predicted that the guards would corroborate his story even if it wasn’t true, for two possible reasons. To do otherwise would be tantamount to admitting negligence. And Sano couldn’t imagine deGraeff disposing of Director Spaen’s corpse alone. One or more Japanese must have played a role in the murder—at the very least, facilitating a coverup. With difficulty, Sano relegated this unwelcome thought to the back of his mind. DeGraeff had sufficient motive for murder. Sano just needed evidence to prove his guilt.

“I apologize for invading your privacy, but I must search your quarters now,” Sano said.

“He says go ahead; he has nothing to hide,” Iishino said after the barbarian spoke.

Sano went through deGraeff’s office without finding anything except more ledgers, writing supplies, pipe, and tobacco pouch. There were no travel souvenirs; no hunting trophies such as Director Spaen had owned. What, besides a mutual desire for money, had bound these dissimilar men together? Sano moved on to deGraeff’s adjoining bedchamber, where the same austerity prevailed. Cabinets and chests held a minimum of worn clothing.

“Those are everything he has, and it’s all there, all there,” Iishino said. “There’s nothing that doesn’t belong, either.”

From the doorway, Assistant Director deGraeff and Chief Ohira watched, expressions stony.

“What are these?” Sano asked Iishino, holding up some papers he’d found in the bedside cupboard. All bore red censors’ seals; the law required that foreign documents be inspected before entering Japan.

Iishino bustled over and scanned the papers. “Letters from Assistant Director deGraeff’s father. He is dying, and begs his son to come home, become a priest, and take over his position in the village church.”

The paucity of clues discouraged Sano, as did the absence of blood. He looked under the futon, bed, and other furniture; he examined floor and walls for secret hiding places. But he found no knife, which could have been dumped into the sea along with Spaen’s corpse. Sano peered out the window into the yard. The ground looked hard and smooth, the grass kept short by the barbarians’ grazing cow. The soil in the vegetable garden seemed undisturbed. Sano guessed that a search for buried evidence would prove futile.

DeGraeff spoke. Iishino said, “He asks if you’re satisfied that he didn’t kill Director Spaen.”

Far from it, Sano thought, yet he was forced to admit temporary defeat. Identifying the killer—and incriminating the Dutch—wouldn’t be easy. Keenly he regretted the inner drives that always endangered his life. What cruel god had endowed him with this fatal curiosity and desire for truth?

The servant returned with a tray of food, which the barbarian eyed hungrily.

“Well, sōsakan-sama,” Chief Ohira said, “do you still think you can solve the mystery?”