The Japanese Corpse ac-5 Read online

  "Do you remember where the theater was?"

  "Sure," de Gier said. "I can point it out on the map."

  "We can also have the staff of this inn questioned. They must have informed the yakusa in some way or other. How else would they know that you two gentlemen are Dutch? They found out, for I have this note here. There's something else about this note which I haven't told you. The characters are drawn by a foreigner. They aren't badly done, but the style is different. A foreigner who can read and write Japanese, somewhat of a rarity. I don't think he is a scholar, but I may be mistaken. I would say the writer is an adventurer, some strange individual who has lived here for many years. His calligraphy is bold. He probably knew the quotation, for the average Japanese doesn't know much about Deshima. It is mentioned in our history books at high school, but that's about all. Perhaps this man is Dutch too, and he is connected with the yakusa. I think the note wants us to know that we are up against strong forces."

  "No," the commissaris said.

  Dorin looked up. "You don't think so?"

  "Oh, yes," the commissaris said. "I am sure the enemy is powerful. But I was referring to your idea about alerting the Service. I don't think we should do that at this point. Let the yakusa show their faces first. Perhaps you can alert the Service to the fact that something is happening and that we are being threatened, so that they wUl be prepared when we need them, but if they start snooping around now, we may complicate the situation too much. I really want them to do something now."

  "A fight," de Gier said.

  The commissaris hesitated, but nodded in the end. "Yes," he said quietly. "A fight. Perhaps we should stay close to each other for the next few days. If there are three of us, they will have to throw in six, or more perhaps. Not because they are afraid of losing the fight, but because they have to make an impression. And if we run into a good number it will be easier to trace them. We are after the big boss, I understand. Maybe we can catch a lieutenant."

  "All right," Dorin said. "A fight. But first we eat. There is a restaurant in the mountains nearby where the guests catch their own fish. There is a pond and you will be given a rod. Then we can eat our catch. They will prepare it any way we want them to. The restaurant is old and rather lovely and the location is good, on a hill with a view of Lake Biwa, the great inland lake. I have a car outside. The only drawback is that there are a lot of young ladies in the restaurant who will try to make us drink, and once we are drunk they will try to make us spend the night."

  "I think I will be able to stay sober," the commissaris said, and looked at de Gier.

  The sergeant smiled and scratched about in his thick and curly hair.

  "Maybe I'll have a lemonade," he said.

  \\ 17 /////

  Grijpstra's police vehicle, a gray VW, was wedged in between the bumpers of two station wagons, both overloaded with people and luggage and both on their way back from Germany. The holiday season was coming to an end, and the speedways were blocked by endless rows of cars, driven by tired, irritable men who were trying not to remember that the few weeks they had just managed to live through had cost them at least twice the amount calculated originally. Short-tempered wives sat next to them and two or three whining children filled the back seats. Tents and small boats were strapped to the roofs of the cars and would, every now and then, begin to slide, so that cursing drivers were forced to pull over to the emergency lane to try and adjust worn ropes and bent-out hooks.

  Grijpstra was sweating, in spite of his open windows and the air vent wheezing near his right knee. His cigar stump was soggy and the short stiff gray hairs on his skull itched. But he didn't feel too bad. He ignored the three little blond heads in the car ahead of him. They had been making faces at him for the last few minutes, but he hadn't reacted so they were bound to stop soon. He blessed the fact that his own holiday was over and done with, spent camping in the south of Holland, in a hired cramped trailer. He had only spent the first night in the trailer when he was forced out by the enormous bulk of his wife and the noisy everlasting fight of his two youngest sons. He had talked to the owner of the camp, and had drunk his way through a crate of beer which he had paid for in advance, and when the owner was mellow and ready to love others as he loved himself, had wangled a small, old and decrepit trailer at the end of the field, for himself only and at no extra charge. Even with that unexpected privacy the holiday had been an ordeal and the weeks had ground away slowly and painfully. But they had, eventually, joined the past and he was working again, able, up to a certain point, to set his own times and places.

  He was on his way back from the east now and trying to digest what he had heard and seen while visiting the commissaris' niece and Joanne Andrews, her guest. He had arrived early in the afternoon and stayed for tea. The commissaris' niece, a neat lady in her sixties with a young face and snow-white hair, had thought of some excuse to leave Grijpstra alone with the complainant in the case of the Japanese corpse, and he had been able to state his questions and drop his hints without any disturbance, while they sipped hot tea and nibbled on biscuits, in the shadow of large trees behind the house, their eyes soothed by the reddish brown floor of the small forest, which was kept so spotlessly clean of dead branches, weeds and even pine cones that it seemed to be part of the house itself. The girl had looked very attractive in a mini-skirt and a tight blouse, and he had had some trouble keeping his eyes from straying over her body. Remembering the long legs and bouncy breasts, he suddenly smiled widely and the children in the car ahead of him thought that he had finally reacted to their waving and jumping about and began to cheer. He became aware of them and shrugged. He waved. They went on jumping and screaming and the mother turned around and slapped them, one by one. The three small heads disappeared and he sighed.

  Yes, Miss Andrews was a very lascivious female. And a very stubborn female too. She had refused to believe that the two fat jolly gangsters in Amstelveen jail had not killed her fiance And she had been unwilling to admit that she had ever slept with other men. Kikuji Nagai had been her one and only, ever. She had slept with other men in Japan, but that was some time ago now, when she was a barmaid in the yakusa nightclub in Kobe. She wanted to forget that part of her life. He hadn't insisted. He was only interested in what she had done in Amsterdam. Surely other men had tried to make love to her; she had been in the public eye, hadn't she? Showing guests to their tables in the restaurant near the State Library? Talking and listening to them? Joking with them at the bar? What about the male staff of the restaurant, the owner, for instance, nice unobtrusive Mr. Fujitani. Grijpstra had had to look the name up in his notebook. Mr. Fujitani, the man he had met briefly during the meal which Mrs. Fujitani had given him in the special room upstairs. Hadn't Mr. Fujitani tried to make love to her?

  Yes, he had, Joanne said. But she had refused. And so had the cook. She had refused him too, although she liked him. She had flirted with him but had stopped at the decisive point. She had spent her time either waiting for Kikuji or with Kikuji. She was going to marry Kikuji Nagai, wasn't she?

  Yes, certainly. But what about the time when she hadn't met Mr. Nagai yet, the dark days when she had just arrived in Amsterdam and didn't know anyone except the staff of the restaurant. When she felt lonely, spending her nights alone in the boardinghouse? These are modern times, when women take the pill and live without fear. So?

  But she had smiled and changed the position of her legs, crossing the slender ankles and wriggling the dainty toes. She had breathed in deeply, so that her breasts were raised somewhat, and had shaken her head, so that the jet-black hair flowed briefly. No. She had been chaste.

  He had changed the subject. The restaurant belonged to the yakusa, didn't it. Yakusa are gangsters. There had been continuous sales of drugs and stolen art, in which the staff members would have participated in some way or other. Dutch and Japanese merchant navy officers had frequented the place. Who was in charge of the business? Mr. Fujitani?

  No, not really, she had sai
d. The poor little man had always been so busy running the restaurant. He had slaved in the kitchen, helping out with the many dishes of the long menu. He had made sure all the ingredients were in stock, he had supervised the staff. His wife helped, of course, but they had three children too, small children. Mr. Fujitani was a yakusa, but a very innocent one. The cook was the real boss; the cook worked short hours. But it would be hard to prove anything. The restaurant only served to make contacts. The drugs were shipped from Hong Kong and taken to Germany, via Amsterdam, but usually not via the restaurant. The drugs traveled in cars, hired cars. And the stolen art had always been delivered by Mr. Nagai and stored in his hotel room, or, if it was very valuable, in the hotel vault.

  Grijpstra smiled kindly. He told her that both the cook and Mr. Fujitani had already been arrested by the drug brigade, on evidence supplied by Dutch merchant navy officers who had been caught near the German frontier with appreciable quantities of heroin hidden in their cars. Cleverly hidden, but found all the same. In gas tanks and stuck between the upholstery of the back seats. A Japanese officer had also been arrested. The Amsterdam police had been very busy and appreciated the information supplied by Joanne Andrews, but drugs weren't Grijpstra's concern. He was interested in solving Mr. Nagai's murder. He felt sure that the two men Sergeant de Gier had arrested had nothing to do with Kikuji Nagai's death, and he would like another cup of tea.

  But the two men had to be the murderers, Joanne said, pouring the tea.

  Grijpstra shook his head firmly. No, miss. Another man was the guilty party, just one man. A man who had gone for a drive in Nagai's car and had been at the wheel. The car had stopped somewhere off the speedway between Amsterdam and Utrecht. Mr. Nagai had sat in the front passenger seat. The murderer had gone into the rear part of the car, maybe to look for something. Perhaps they were going fishing and he had picked up the fishing rods from the back seat. Did Mr. Nagai like to fish? Good. Did he ever go fishing in Holland? Right, he did. They hadn't found a fishing rod in his hotel room, so the killer had probably thrown it out, both Mr. Nagai's and his own. And then he pulled a gun, held it against the back of Mr. Nagai's head and fired. And then he had bought a spade, dug a grave in a field and had buried him. He had been seen when he bought the spade and he had been seen when he washed the car, but the witnesses hadn't been able to give accurate descriptions. So that's why Grijpstra was now having tea with Joanne Andrews. Who was this one man? Who hated Mr. Nagai so much that he was prepared to shatter the unfortunate man's skull with a heavy lead bullet?

  Miss Andrews began to cry and a trickle of sticky mascara ran down her cheek. Grijpstra brought out a crumpled dirty handkerchief and wiped it off. He had to rub her cheek, for the mascara stuck to the wet skin. She smiled through her tears. And then he finally got through to her. She stopped smiling and began to cry again. She leaned forward and touched his hand. And she told him that she had slept with Mr. Fujitani and with the cook. Many times. Both in her room and upstairs in the restaurant, when Mrs. Fujitani had been out shopping or collecting her children from school. Mr. Fujitani had said that he was very much in love with her. He had wanted to divorce his wife. The cook had wanted to make her his mistress and had offered to hire a good apartment. He had a lot of money, yakusa money, much more than Mr. Fujitani, who was only a restaurant manager. The cook was an important man, though he was young, not yet thirty. A lieutenant from Kobe, highly trained and close to the big boss in the Rokko Mountains north of Kobe, Japan's best-equipped port. She had nearly accepted his offer, but then Kikuji Nagai had come and she thought he had made her a better proposition. Marriage and love. And after a while she had really loved Mr. Nagai.

  And had the cook ever threatened her or Mr. Nagai?

  No. The cook had another girlfriend now, a Dutch girl.

  And had Mr. Fujitani ever shown that he was upset about her choice of Mr. Nagai?

  Yes, he had been very upset. He had cried and cursed and stamped his feet. He had made several scenes. He had even come to her room.

  Grijpstra cleared his throat. He tried to light his cigar, but he needed three matches before the cigar glowed. He replaced his teacup, but set it on the edge of the saucer and it fell over. He had to tell her something. You see, he had lied to her. The police often lie; it is part of their method. He hoped she would forgive him.

  She blew her nose in his dirty handkerchief and nodded.

  You see, neither Mr. Fujitani nor the cook had been arrested yet. They would be within the next few days, he thought, but the drug brigade didn't think the time had come yet. He had only said that to see how she would react. The cook she meant was the tall man with the crew cut, right? Mr. Takahashi, right? He was looking at his notebook again; pencil poised.

  So he knew more now. He checked his watch. Past five o'clock. There wouldn't be too many detectives in the drug brigade's rooms. He looked at the microphone stuck in its clip below the dashboard. No, maybe he should wait until the next day. He might telephone the chief inspector of the drug brigade at his home that night and they could have a conference early tomorrow morning.

  The kids in the car ahead had recovered from their punishment and were dancing about again. One of them held up a puppy, a diminutive spaniel. The child made the puppy wave at Grijpstra. He waved back. The puppy looked as if it had been crucified and its large eyes drooped sadly.

  \\ 18 /////

  The Commissaris was lying flat on his stomach and was trying to feel his body. But it didn't seem to be there. The hot bath had soaked the stress out of his muscles, and the small tremors that had been left here and there had been massaged away by the amazingly powerful hands of the tiny female who had rubbed and slapped and kneaded him, flipping him over, every now and then, with a twist of her wrists. She had been rather a nice girl, he thought vaguely, and it was thoughtful of her to leave him a stone jug of sake and a cup. He sipped the warm liquor and began to feel for his body again, but it still wasn't there. The long drive in Dorin's hired car, which had bounced around on the bad roads, had hurt his legs, and he had been almost lame when he arrived at the restaurant, so that de Gier had supported him when he climbed the stairs, but the pain had evaporated and he could think with amazing clarity. He giggled slyly and took another sip. A detached mind, wouldn't that be pleasant? Just the capacity to think and imagine and combine and nothing else? That was all he consisted of now. Thoughts.

  But the giggle changed into a grunt and a frown. He rolled over on his side and looked out of the open window. He had the small room to himself; de Gier and Dorin were next door and he would join them presently. He had time to finish the line of thinking which had started during the drive out of Kyoto, on the winding road partly encircling a large lake, on which white sails stood out like dots in the light of the late afternoon, a thick light throwing long shadows. He had thought that they were really wasting their time, that proper detection would give them results and lead them to the yakusa, that they were being silly adventurers, blundering about.

  Surely they had enough clues by now. Dorin had been right. Detectives could have found traces of the student and the monk in the temple garden where he had been trapped. The theater and its actors would doubtless provide other clues. The yakusa bar where the priest had run up his debt could be raided, and if not raided at least investigated. Patient piecing together of bits of information should render sufficient material to arrest and charge the yakusa leaders. Proper questioning would make the various suspects incriminate each other. He was sure that sufficient clues could be collected to present a well-prepared charge to the Supreme Court. He had telephoned the drug brigade in Amsterdam and had been told of the apprehension of the Dutch and Japanese mercantile officers. Once the staff of the Japanese restaurant in Amsterdam was arrested, the case could be started in Holland as well. Eventually everything would fit. Detective-Constable First Class Cardozo had managed to locate several scrolls, pots, sculptures and antique fans which had been bought from Mr. Nagai and could be proved st
olen in Japan. Cardozo, a bright young detective recently attached to the murder brigade, had done very good work. And Adjutant Grijpstra, who had been on the line too, would undoubtedly plod his way to the solution of Nagai's death, which might, in a round-about way, supply them with further information about yakusa activities in Holland. So why was he still here, setting himself up to run risks which could only lead to further and quite unnecessary trouble?

  The commissaris sat up and looked at the pond outside, filled with carp showing their silver and gold dorsal fins as they swam about leisurely, waiting to be caught by the guests' hooks. He had caught his own fish in a matter of minutes, before having his bath, and the maids were preparing it now, in the other room, where de Gier and Dorin were watching it being broiled. He could hear the fish sizzle through the thin paper of the dividing doors, and got up. A kimono had been put out for him and he slipped into it, tying a strip of dark gray cotton round his waist.

  "Sir," de Gier said. "You are just in time. We can have a cup of sake before eating. Dorin and I were waiting for you. One cup won't hurt."

  The commissaris drank, and felt guilty about the other two cups he had drunk on his own.

  Dorin was showing him the two scrolls and the tea bowls brought in by the priest, just before they had left the inn in Kyoto. The one scroll showed a landscape, steep mountains rising from a rough sea. The other scroll was a portrait of a priest, a Chinese Zen master, according to Dorin. The face was aristocratic, with a finely curved nose and a thin mustache, and the eyes looked both calm and intelligent under the high forehead and the bald skull. The man was sitting in the meditation posture, and his long hands held a stick made out of some kind of hardwood. Dorin explained that the stick was used to guide monks as they faltered along, trying to gain insight. Zen monks meet with their master in private at least once a day during their training periods. They present their views, and are hit if they show signs of going astray.