The Japanese Corpse ac-5

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "The CIA?" the girl asked. "A new passport with a new name for me, and a one-way ticket to New York via Paris or Rome?"

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "The CIA owes us some favors. It'll only be a small thing to them."

  "I am yakusa myself," the girl said. "I was from the moment I started work in the Kobe nightclub. The club had many foreign clients. U.S. officers and businessmen from Western Europe and Chinese from Hong Kong and Taiwan. The yakusa wanted to know what was going on. They made contact through us, the barmaids and hostesses. If we found something worthwhile we would tell the barman and he would tell the manager. Then somebody would come down from the hills where the daimyo has his court."

  "Daimyo?"

  "The word means nobleman. Japan was run by daimyos once but then they had titles like count or duke. The titles have gone but the daimyos go on ruling. They rule the big companies, and they rule the yakusa. And they are stronger than the rulers of old for the title doesn't pass from father to son. Now the new daimyos have to prove themselves."

  "Right," the commissaris said. "Go on, miss."

  "My boyfriend, Kikuji Nagai, was also yakusa. He got into it because he wanted to go to college. He passed the entrance examination without help, a very unusual thing to do, for entrance examinations in Japan are like fire-tests; you have to walk barefoot on glowing stones. You have to study day and night. You have to know answers to thousands and thousands of unrelated questions. It's a true hell. We have a name for it. Shiken Jigoku. Examination hell. Kikuji passed but he still couldn't get into the university. Only a few students are admitted, important students, sons of important men. Kikuji's father wasn't important."

  "I thought Japan was a democracy," the commissaris said.

  "It's called a democracy," the girl said, "but no Japanese knows the meaning of the word. They have rules, and the rules are thousands of years old. The names of the rules are changed but not the rules. Now the rules are called democratic."

  "So?" the commissaris asked.

  "So Kikuji went to the yakusa. It was an unusual thing to do, for the yakusa are never approached directly. But Kikuji was born after the war. He didn't really believe the old rules and he often worked out his own answers. He went to the hills behind Kobe and found the daimyo's castle and said to the guards he wanted to see the daimyo himself, and he wouldn't tell them why. They told him to go away and he sat on the ground. They threatened to beat him up and he bowed. He upset them. They spoke to their boss and the boss spoke to his boss and finally somebody mentioned the matter to the daimyo. Kikuji had been sitting on the ground for ten hours. He had wet his pants and he was so stiff that they carried him in and told him to take a bath and gave him some clothes."

  The commissaris had been listening attentively. So had de Gier and Grijpstra, who watched the girl intently. She spoke softly without changing the tone of her voice. De Gier was reminded of a recorded message.

  "The daimyo took him on. The yakusa promised to pay his university fees. Kikuji was admitted the next day, when he applied again. The university director received him in his own office and saw him to the door, bowing and hissing through his teeth. When a Japanese doesn't know what to do he often hisses, or says 'Saaaaah.'"

  "What did Mr. Nagai study, miss?" the commissaris asked.

  "Art. History of art. He had a very good degree. He specialized in temple art. Buddhist, but also art influenced by Taoism and Hinduism. He even studied the Ainu creations. The Ainu are people who lived all over Japan once, now they only live in the North. They are white and have beards and look like old Russians. Their art has to do with the symbol of the bear. Kikuji liked bears. He always visited zoos and talked to the bears and they talked back to him. But only big brown bears, like the bears in Hokkaido, the northern island of Japan. The daimyo also likes bears. He has some on the grounds of his castle; he plays with them."

  "And when Mr. Nagai was graduated? What did he do?"

  "He traveled. To Taiwan and Korea and Thailand. He was buying sculptures and paintings. He bought them from priests who were in charge of temples, Buddhist temples mostly. The priests had no right to sell, they were supposed to look after their temples and maintain them, but priests no longer have state incomes and they need money so they would sell to Kikuji."

  "And he paid with yakusa money?"

  The girl nodded.

  "And where did the sculptures and paintings go?"

  "To here," the girl said. "He brought them to Amsterdam and would sell them to stores, or have them auctioned. If he had something very special he would go to London, but he always came back to Amsterdam. The yakusa like Amsterdam. It's a quiet city and beautiful and they feel at home here. They have started a restaurant here and they have offices for their legal business. They also own hotels now. My restaurant is yakusa."

  "The profit on this stolen art must be high," de Gier said.

  "Very high. Often the buying price is multiplied by a hundred."

  "What else do the yakusa do here, miss?"

  "They sell transistor radios and buy commercial secrets and our restaurant is known for its tempura and sushi."

  "Yes," de Gier said, "I have eaten in your place. Tempura are slices of meat or vegetable fried in batter and sushi are cold rice balls with raw shrimps or bits of fish on top. Lovely food but I only went once. The prices are too high. And I didn't see you."

  "You must have come on a Friday, it's my night off," the girl said, and smiled. "I am glad you liked the food. The prices are high but we cater to Japanese with expense accounts and then the price never matters."

  "Vegetables fried in batter," Grijpstra said, looking interested.

  The girl smiled again, and took out a ballpoint and a scrap of paper. She drew some characters and gave Grijpstra the slip. "Give that to the girl at the door," she said. "You will be served well and there will be no bill. You should taste Japanese food; it's a delicate pleasure. But your mind must be at rest. If the food is eaten quickly and without concentration it's just stuffing for the stomach; there's no taste then."

  "Thank you," Grijpstra said, and stuck the slip into his wallet. "Do the yakusa sell drugs here, miss?"

  "Yes," the girl said, "but only once in a while. Heroin from mainland China, bought through Hong Kong, I believe, in large quantities. The heroin doesn't stay here but goes to the American army in Germany. The deals are carefully planned and I don't know how they are done. Transport must be by sea for I have seen merchant navy officers in the restaurant, Japanese and Dutch. I studied them well and I can describe them."

  'That's good," the commissaris said. "Later on I'll get an officer from the drugs department who will ask you some questions. It won't take long. Will that be all right?"

  "Yea," the girl said.

  "What else, miss?" Grijpstra asked. "Traffic in women?"

  The girl smiled sadly. "No, there are enough women in Japan. Even with birth control the farmers have too many daughters. They are contracted to the bars and brothels. There is some demand for white and black women, but the yakusa find them in Hawaii and America and pay them well. The daimyo doesn't like slave traffic; it's too conspicuous because the merchandise talks."

  "Art," the commissaris said, "Did your boyfriend sell a lot of Japanese temple art?"

  "Not too much. Most of the art sold here came from Thailand and Burma, but some scrolls and sculptures came from Japanese temples, and they were perhaps the most valuable. Buddhism has declined in Japan, although it still has millions of followers, but they follow the Buddist way in name only. The temples are still there of course, but they are not always run by priests, and some priests have had little or no training and are bored and uninterested. They will sell the objects of value entrusted to them, especially now that there is so much demand. Kikuji showed me some pots made by masters, tea ceremony bowls formed by hand hundreds of years ago. They came from a temple and he had paid very little for them. They sold at an auction here for thousands of dollars apiece."

  "So
why was he killed?" the commissaris asked. "If he was killed. We aren't sure, we have to find the body first. The body may belong to somebody else. Perhaps it is the body of one of the fat little men in your photograph. Perhaps Mr. Nagai is safe in a hotel room in Utrecht and will contact you soon."

  She shook her head with such force that her hair bobbed. It had been cut with a simple straightforward line, bringing out her high cheekbones and wide forehead. "No, he is dead. I know. He wanted to leave the yakusa and set up an art store here in Amsterdam. He planned to import his own stock, and buy it legally. He was going to specialize in block prints, antique and reproductions, but the reproductions are made in the old way. They are beautiful, I saw them in Japan. They are made by craftsmen who still know the old ways. They can be sold here at three or four times the buying price. We would have been able to live comfortably. I wanted to manage the store, so that he would have time to buy and to study. His English was good and he wanted to write articles for the art magazines. But the yakusa didn't want to let him go. He asked and they refused. He thought he would be safe in Amsterdam, and he said he wouldn't go back. We were looking for an apartment. They threatened him. They threatened me too, through my boss at the restaurant. They only hinted, but a hint is powerful in Japanese."

  "Yes, yes," the commissaris said. He picked up his phone and spoke to the drugs department. A plainclothes constable came to take the girl to another part of the building.

  "Phone me at this number when you are through," de Gier said, writing it down for her on a page in his notebook and tearing it out. "I'll check the time of the train and take you to the station."

  The commissaris got up and looked at his watch. "Yes," he said to de Gier. "Cardozo can go in the train with her and sit in the next compartment. My niece will collect her at the other end and drive her to the house. What about your luggage, miss?"

  "I am leaving it all," the girl said. "I have my money in cash on me. It's a big sum. I was paid good wages and I saved. I can buy new clothes. Will you let me know when my new passport is ready? I have some passport photographs with me."

  "Yes," the commissaris said, putting the photographs in his drawer. "It shouldn't take long, you'd better leave your passport with me. I'll give it to the American embassy."

  "You are going to a lot of trouble, sir," Grijpstra said, when the girl had left the room and the commissaris had telephoned his niece again after having checked the train times with de Gier. "And the girl may be lying through her teeth."

  The commissaris grinned. "You think so, adjutant?"

  "No," Grijpstra said, "I think I believe her, and there was blood in the car, and a bit of skull. Somebody is dead."

  "Maybe she killed him herself," de Gier said, "and this is just a long story to put us on the wrong track. Murderers have come to see us before."

  "You think so, de Gier?" the commissaris asked.

  "No, sir, I don't think so, I think she was speaking the truth as she saw it. But I've been known to think wrong before."

  "Yes," the commissaris said, "but for the time being she will be with my niece who is an intelligent woman. She lived in Hong Kong for many years with her husband who was the head of a trading firm. And during the war the Japanese interned her in a small camp for women and children. My niece was the head woman and the guards dealt through her only. She even learned to speak a little Japanese. Miss Andrews will be observed closely while she is in hiding and the local police can keep an eye on the house. I'll phone them later today."

  "Ah," said Grijpstra, "that's different. And she hasn't got her passport, so she can't rush off somewhere. Do you think the Americans will help?"

  "Certainly. And if this tip about drugs going to Germany opens a lead they'll be grateful. They know drugs travel through Amsterdam to the army camps near Cologne and Bonn, and the CIA is supposed to break the traffic. They are working with us."

  "If Cardozo is traveling with the girl I'd better take charge of the detectives tonight," de Gier said. "I'll give them copies of the second snapshot. We can track those two jokers, but they won't be here by the time we are ready to arrest them. They'll be on a Japanese Air Lines plane back to Tokyo. We'll have to be quick, sir. Shall I alert the military police at the airport?"

  "Yes," the commissaris said, "but the suspects will probably fly through Brussels or Paris and we are too late to alert the Belgian and French police, although we might try to do it by Telex. Why don't you do all that, de Gier. I will contact the ministry of Foreign Affairs, maybe they are interested, and I can also speak to the Japanese consul here in Amsterdam. Grijpstra, you take the girl to the train and tonight you can snoop around too. See if we've got something on the manager of that restaurant. Go and question him anyway. We'll shake them a little."

  "Sir," the detectives said and left. The commissaris picked up his phone again.

  "A Japanese matter?" a clerk at the Foreign Office asked. "Our ambassador to Japan is here for a few days, perhaps you would like to speak to him, sir? He is in the building somewhere; I can locate him for you."

  "That would be nice," the commissaris said, and waited. He had to wait for a long time, while the clerk kept on telling him at two-minute intervals that he was still trying to find the ambassador. The commissaris smoked a cigar and looked at his plants on the windowsill. The geranium was doing well, he thought; it had sprouted two new branches during the last month, each branch supporting a heavy load of succulent leaves and bright red flowers.

  "Commissaris?" a heavy voice asked.

  "Yes."

  "I am the ambassador. What can I do for you."

  The commissaris described his case and the ambassador asked a few short questions. "Yes," he said in the end. 'This is very interesting, and not just from a criminal point of view. Maybe this will give us our chance, a chance I have been looking for for a long time now. Can you come to The Hague? Tonight perhaps? We could have dinner somewhere."

  The commissaris rubbed his legs. The pain wasn't too bad.

  "Yes," he said. "With pleasure."

  "I'll be waiting for you at the Foreign Office," the ambassador said, "down in the lobby, at seven o'clock. What do you look like, commissaris?"

  "I am small and old," the commissaris said, "and I'll probably be limping."

  "Right," the ambassador said.

  The commissaris dialed the number of the American embassy. "Mr. Johnson, please."

  "Who can I say is calling?" the receptionist asked.

  "His rich uncle."

  "Yes, sir, just a moment, sir."

  Johnson sounded eager. The code words meant "drugs" and "police," and they made an appointment for the next morning. Johnson would come to Amsterdam. The commissaris was grinning when he put the phone down. "Little boys," he muttered, "playing our game. His phone won't be tapped but he'U never say anything on the phone. I am sure he thinks that there is a Russian under the carpet and a Chinese cemented in the ceiling. 'Rich uncle' indeed. I couldn't even tell him that there is a dead man involved; I don't know the code word for dead man. There's bound to be a code word for it. 'Fish,' or something. Rich uncle ate a fish. Bah."

  He was still giggling when he put his hat on. He was sure the Russians would have the code. Codes are usually sold before they are published.

  He was tittering when he walked through the revolving doors on his way to the courtyard where his Citroen was parked next to Mr. Nagai's white BMW, which was being taken apart by the experts. A uniformed sergeant in the courtyard saluted, but the commissaris didn't see him.

  Cracked, the sergeant thought, like the rest of them. They become abnormal as soon as the first star is sown on their shoulders. It's a good thing the police is run by sergeants.

  \\ 4 /////

  Grijpstra was behind his desk reading a note which a constable had placed on its gleaming plastic top. The note dealt with a case which had been closed months ago, and Grijpstra was studying it glumly, moving his heavy eyebrows and blowing through his thick lips. He read it
again, swept it off the desk, picked it up again, crumpled it and threw it at the wastebasket. He missed and he got up, kicking it behind de Gier's desk.

  "Japanese," he mumbled. "JA-PA-NESE. Killing each other right here. Why here? They've got their own country, haven't they? We don't go and make a mess in Japan, do we?"

  He picked up his drumsticks and played a slow roll on his largest drum, hitting a cymbal softly at the end. His head was askew as he listened. He hit the cymbal again, hesitantly, and tried a few dry knocks on the side of the smallest drum.

  "And she gave me an introduction to the restaurant," he said aloud, "and I've got to go there, to shake up the manager. A yakusa manager. A gangster. Gangsters are dangerous." He put the drumsticks down, sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He tried to think, but it was hot in the room and he felt drowsy. Far Eastern people are known for achieving their objectives in a roundabout way. Japanese are also known for their energy and cleverness. Why had she given him that slip of paper? It would buy him a free meal. But the manager of the restaurant would see the note, for the girl at the door would take it to his office, of course. And the manager also knew that Joanne Andrews, his beautiful hostess, had got away. And he also knew that Kikuji Nagai, the beautiful hostess's boyfriend, had been killed. And here was a heavy man, in a striped suit and a gray tie and a gun strapped to his belt, eating a free meal, authorized by the escaped girl. The manager would honor the note, of course. And then what? Would the manager have the guts to undertake something against a member of the Amsterdam Municipal Police? Grijpstra shook his head sleepily.

  When de Gier came in half an hour later Grijpstra was slumped in his chair, his hands folded on his ample stomach, and his mouth was slightly open. De Gier stopped and looked at his colleague, shaking his head. Grijpstra's mustache moved as he exhaled and his lips made a soft burbling sound.