Collector of Secrets Read Online Free PDF Page A

applause. Ever since, it had been their song.
    Neither man spoke until they heard Tomoko’s footsteps begin the descent down the stairwell.
    “You never told me,” Mr. Murayama stated while he poured tea into the two cups.
    Max dropped onto the center of the sofa. “Never told you what?”
    “How beautiful she is.”
    “Really? I’m sure I mentioned it. I didn’t mean to upset you by bringing her.”
    “No need to worry. Let’s move on. I have something very personal to show you today.” Mr. Murayama reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a series of interlaced rings laden with dozens of keys. His shaking fingers leafed through them. “And since I have seen you carry one, I am sure you’ll find the items interesting.” At last he selected a key. Handing over the ring, he gave Max instructions to go to the wall at the far end of the room, to the second of the five tall cabinets. “In the bottom drawer, you’ll find a wooden box. Bring it here.”
    “No more rifles please.” Max recalled their previous class with an uneasy chuckle. An accidental discharge of gunpowder had made his ears ring and sent him ducking for cover.
    “No, no. They were returned to the bank’s vault.”
    Max quickly located the cabinet, thinking how incredibly satisfying it must feel to have gathered so many artifacts over the years. Murayama had a life well lived. Already Max had seen dozens of samurai swords, stacks of ancient scrolls, and crates of marvelous wood-block prints. And yet they had barely scratched the museum-like storage room in the building’s back room.
    The requested drawer slid open easily, revealing the dark polished box. “I can see it.”
    “Me, too.” Mr. Murayama sighed. “Finally, I can see why you were brought to me.”
    “Huh?” Max was down on one knee, trying to figure the best way to retrieve the tight-fitting box without damaging it. “What is that supposed to mean?”
    Mr. Murayama replied. “Just keep the box flat.”
    Max thought the comment odd but let it pass, choosing instead to listen to the old man’s raspy cough, which seemed to be growing more persistent lately. “Why? What’s in here?”
    “Something I’ve wanted to show you for a while . . . and . . . I have a favor to ask.”
    Max played along, amused by the old man’s desire to begin each session with a sense of mystery, noting that it was a small price to pay for something that clearly provided a great deal of joy. He returned to the front of the room. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
    Mr. Murayama nodded silently as the box came to rest on the coffee table. The wooden case was a perfect cube, one foot square. An inch-wide light wood inlay decorated the perimeter of the top, while the center was the same dark wood as the rest of the box. He slid his handkerchief into a pocket as he shifted forward, studying the box before moving it one-quarter turn. Then he pressed the inlay four times in a clockwise motion, starting with the right side. On the fourth push, the dark center of the top made a light popping noise and rose slightly. Grunting with satisfaction, he removed the lid.
    “How did you know which side to press first?” Max examined the box closely, but each side of the inlay appeared identical.
    “If I told you, then I wouldn’t have any more secrets, would I?”
    Max sat back with arms folded. He had learned that the silent treatment was the best and only way to pressure an aging diplomat.
    Mr. Murayama relented as expected. “All right. All right. In the game of Mahjong, there are tiles representing the four winds. The East wind always goes first. To open this box, the single thing that matters is for East to go first, then South, then West, and last, North.”
    “Then why’d you turn the box once before pressing down the first time?”
    “To appear more complicated.”
    Max laughed.
    Mr. Murayama’s self-satisfied grin washed away as he lifted a crimson velvet cover, revealing