The Japanese Corpse

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"And you think something happened…" Detective-Sergeant de Gier said hesitatingly, stressing the word "happened."

"Yes," the young woman said.

Detective-Adjutant Grijpstra* cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling of the white and gray room which housed part of Amsterdam's CID, or the "murder brigade," as the department was known by other branches which filled the large ugly building of Police Headquarters. The ceiling had cracked recently and Grijpstra eyed the crack with interest. It seemed to have grown a little again. He was wondering if it would ever crack right through because if it did he might be able to look up the skirts of the typists upstairs. He grunted. There would still be a wooden subfloor and some thick linoleum to block his view, and typists wore slacks nowadays, like the young woman who was sitting opposite de Gier's desk, in the low plastic chair reserved for visitors. The young woman's slacks were made out of velvet, and shone. Her blouse glittered. Her long black hair glowed. A very good-looking young woman, Grijpstra thought, too good-looking perhaps, and a bit overdressed. A prostitute perhaps?

De Gier had been thinking along the same lines.

"What's your profession, Miss Andrews?" he asked noncommittally and pressed his ballpoint. His notebook was on the desk.

"I am a hostess in a Japanese restaurant," Miss Andrews said in slow careful Dutch with only a hint of an accent, and smiled nervously. Capped teeth, de Gier thought. Slanting eyes. Black hair. Skin white, with a tinge of ivory. Mother must be Japanese, and father English or American. American probably.

"And your nationality?"

"American. I have a work permit." She opened her bag, a small elegant bag made out of black cloth with a dragon embroidered on its side. The dragon had curled its body and appeared to be sniffing its tail. She produced a small card and put it on de Gier's desk. He studied it and pushed it back.

"Joanne Andrews," he said aloud. "And you think something happened to your boyfriend, Mr. Kikuji Nagai. Nagai is the surname, that's correct, isn't it?"

"Yes."

De Gier raised his right shoulder and lowered it carefully again. His lips twitched. He had spent three hours practicing judo throws the night before and a muscle had been twisted or perhaps even torn. His ankle hurt as well. He was in bad shape. He was getting old. He remembered the birthday party his colleagues had given him the week before.

Forty years old. He had come in unsuspectingly that morning and his chair had been festooned with bright red and glaring yellow balloons; forty balloons. There had been a cardboard shield on the whitewashed wall with the figure 40 set in a frame of curly golden garlands. The constable-detectives of the murder brigade had lined the walls and burst out into song and he had been given a pair of handcuffs to replace the pair which he had managed to lose during a rooftop hunt. The handcuffs had been parceled in gilt paper decorated with a red bow. As the constables sang Grijpstra had played his drums, artfully extricating a melody out of the many gadgets that he had, during the last few years, attached to the old set, which had one day miraculously appeared in their room, probably stored there temporarily by the Lost Objects Department. The set had never been allowed to leave the room again, for Grijpstra had played drums in the school band once and the instruments had inspired him. They had inspired de Gier too, for de Gier played flute, a small flute which he carried in his inside pocket, an instrument which emitted shrill tones, blending remarkably well with Grijpstra's improvisations. But de Gier hadn't played his flute the morning of his birthday. He had been standing in the middle of the room, feeling lost and ridiculous while the constables sang and Grijpstra hit his bells and cymbals and the small wooden hollow objects which made such piercing, stunning sounds.

It had been a special song, composed by Grijpstra and the constables had practiced it many times, for Grijpstra believed in doing things as well as possible. At least three of the constables were trained singers and their voices had made de Gier's spine tingle. The tune was baroque and allowed for solos and choir. It had lasted about ten minutes, and for ten minutes de Gier had felt silly and thrilled simultaneously. But Grijpstra hadn't wanted to destroy his friend and colleague completely, and the sergeant had been given a heavy air pistol and told to shoot at the balloons so that he could release his rage as they popped one by one.

And now the scene had changed again. It seemed Grijpstra and he were back in business, after several weeks of sitting around, reading files and thinking of ways of making others pay for their coffee. Miss Andrews thought that something had happened to her boyfriend, the man who had promised to marry her. He had disappeared, she said. De Gier raised his shoulder again; the pain wasn't so bad now. Maybe the muscle wasn't torn after all. He sighed and studied his visitor. The girl was staring at him but she didn't see the handsome sergeant in his tailor-made blue denim suit, adorned with a silk scarf tucked loosely into his open shirt, and she didn't notice his thick brown hair, immaculately cut by the fat old homosexual hairdresser on the next canal, who charged top rates to his clientele of actors and artists. She didn't even notice the strong tanned hands that were playing with the ballpoint and the notebook. All Joanne Andrews saw was her own fear: the crumpled dead body of her boyfriend.

Grijpstra stirred in his chair. He had stopped looking at the crack in the ceiling and was changing his position, making the springs of his revolving chair squeak. His heavy body came forward a little and his hand rubbed the short gray bristly hairs on his large skull.

"Now, miss," Grijpstra said pleasantly, "maybe there's no reason to worry. He has only been gone two days, hasn't he? And he is a businessman you say, an art dealer. Perhaps he suddenly got a tip and went away for a few days. Didn't you say that he travels a lot? Selling art from the Far East to European dealers? Maybe he is in London and or Paris and hasn't got time to telephone."

"No," she said, trying to control her voice. "He is very reliable. And we had a date, day before yesterday. He was going to pick me up at the restaurant and take me to a nightclub. That night a young jazz pianist was scheduled to play at the club, just for one night, and Kikuji really wanted to hear him play. He had only heard him on records and the artist is supposed to be very good and Kikuji wanted to see him play. He was looking forward to it. But he never came. I went to the club alone and he wasn't there. I checked at his hotel and his luggage was in his room. He had gone out in the afternoon and he had told the clerk at the desk that he would be back for dinner. He had an appointment with a buyer and the buyer came but Kikuji wasn't there. It was an important appointment; the buyer was interested in some very expensive old sculpture which Kikuji had in his room. The sculpture was still there."

"Well, well," Grijpstra said.

"You must help me," Joanne Andrews said. "You really must help me. I brought a photograph, here."

She put it on Grijpstra's desk and de Gier got up and walked over to look at it. It was a color photograph and showed a fairly tall, thin-looking Japanese, slouched in a cane chair on the sidewalk in front of a cafe\ A narrow face under a crew cut, peering anxiously at the lens. He was looking over his glasses which had slid to the end of the slightly hooked nose. A stack of pocketbooks and a camera in a leather case had been dropped next to the chair. The telephone on de Gier's desk was ringing and he excused himself and picked it up.

"I took that photograph two weeks ago. He had just arrived from Tokyo and was still tired from the trip."

"He comes here often, does he?" Grijpstra asked.

"Often, almost every month. He always stays at the same hotel and I meet him at the airport in his car. I keep the car when he isn't here."

"A car," Grijpstra said hopefully. "Where is the car now?"

"I don't know."

"What sort of a car?"

"A white BMW, a year old. It belongs to the Japanese company he works for. A very nice car."

"Do you remember the registration number?"

"Yes, it's an easy number to remember, 66-33-MU."

"Right," Grijpstra said briskly. "We'll investigate the case. Don't worry, miss. I don't think there is a case but we'll go into it all the same. We have your telephone numbers and address and we'll let you know."

"Soon?" she asked nervously.

"Soon," Grijpstra said, and his light blue eyes looked at her kindly. "Tonight, in fact. Maybe we'll know nothing by tonight but we'll phone anyway. And you can phone us too. Here is my card. It's got my home number too in case I am not here."

He got up and shook her hand and opened the door for her.

De Gier had finished with the phone when Grijpstra got back to his desk. He sighed.

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "The fellow ran into another girl and is having the time of his life somewhere. Or he ran into a boy. Or he got drunk and had another drink when he got up in the morning. Always the same thing, happens all the time. But the wives or girlfriends never catch on."

"Women worry a lot," de Gier said, "most women anyway."

"Doesn't Esther worry?" Grijpstra asked.

"No," de Gier said bitterly. "She just makes coffee when I come home and pats me on the head. If she is in my apartment, that is. Sometimes she isn't there, and then I worry, and talk to the cat. Silly Oliver also worries when she isn't there."

"She has her own house," Grijpstra said, "and her own cat. She has things to do. Why don't you two get married?"

"She doesn't want to."

"Very sensible," Grijpstra said, and got up and stretched. "Well, it's a nice day."

De Gier looked out of the open window. "Yes, should be. It's summer, isn't it? What are we going to do about Miss Andrews' complaint?"

Grijpstra heaved himself out of his chair and joined de Gier at the window. He looked neat for a change. His usually crumpled suit, dark blue with a thin white stripe, had been drycleaned. He even looked healthy, for the weekend at the beach had tanned his face. He was rubbing his hands briskly. "While you were chattering on the phone I got some useful information," Grijpstra said.

"Chattering?" de Gier asked.

"Chattering," Grijpstra said. "Joking and gossiping. I heard you. And while you did that I got some information. Our Japanese friend owns a car, a white BMW, registration number 66-33-MU."

De Gier whipped out his notebook and wrote the number down.

Grijpstra nodded benignly. "Good. So now we can find out if the computer knows anything about the car. Maybe it was spotted somewhere, and if it wasn't it can be spotted now. We can send out an alert."

De Gier mumbled.

"You don't think it's worth it?"

"Sure," de Gier said.

"I agree. The young lady was worried, we should try to restore her peace of mind."

"Yes," de Gier said, and dialed a number. The computer didn't know anything. He dialed again and spoke to the radio room and asked to make the alert nationwide.

"And we have that photograph which Miss Andrews left," Grijpstra said, picking up the snapshot.

"Not worth much," de Gier said. "The picture is clear enough and we can have it multiplied and passed out, but the constables are always saying that all Chinese and Japanese look alike. They wouldn't spot him."

Grijpstra had lit a small cigar. He laughed.

"What?" de Gier asked.

"Japanese," Grijpstra said. "There must be ten thousand of them in the city now. Package tours, I think. I happened to be at the airport last week and I saw hundreds and hundreds of them come in. Several groups, coming from different planes and on different tours. To keep themselves organized they had guides and the guides had flags. One group had red flags, the other blue. They were following their guides and the two lines crossed. A very funny sight. They looked so serious."

"Yes," de Gier said. "I've seen them in town. They march around, like mechanical men, and they all have leather cross-straps, camera on the left, light meter on the right. Gray slacks, blue blazers. But the women seem very nice, especially when they are dressed in kimonos. They shuffle. Very dainty women."

"Hmm," Grijpstra said. "I'll have that snapshot multiplied when we get some news about the car. So far I don't feel suspicious, do you?"

"No. Mr. Nagai is on a binge. Or he has been on a binge and feels guilty now. I think he is sitting on the side of a bed right now with his head in his hands and cursing himself."

"And wondering whether he can replace the money out of his expense account," Grijpstra said, peering into his coffee cup. "This coffee is cold. Are you going to get some more?"

"No," de Gier said. "Why?"

"Just a thought. Why don't we go out? There's a new coffee bar close by and they have Turkish coffee and meatrolls."

"No," de Gier said. "It's my turn to pay. It always is my turn to pay, and I am broke!"

"Go and get some money," Grypstra said. "I'll meet you at the main door in ten minutes. I have to go and clean my pistol. The instructor said it was full of dirt when he inspected it last night during target practice."

"Right," de Gier said, and pulled the small automatic from under his armpit. "Clean mine too, will you? And ask the sergeant if he can replace that screw on the grip plate, it's getting old. The whole pistol is getting old. It'll probably explode next time I try to fire it."

"And you'll be standing next to me and I'll get it in my face," Grijpstra said gloomily. "Why should I clean your pistol anyway? I hate cleaning pistols. I can never get them together again and I have to ask and they all snigger at me."

"Because you are very fond of me and you like doing things for other people."

"I do," Grijpstra said."Meet you in ten minutes. Fifteen minutes maybe. Don't run off. And stay away from the chief constable's secretary."

"You are sounding like the Ten Commandments again," de Gier said, as he ambled out of the room.

They were both thinking about Joanne Andrews, Grijpstra as he watched the sergeant of the arms room clean his pistol and de Gier as he was reading the announcement of a judo match pinned to the bulletin board near the main entrance. The girl had looked lost and pathetic, in spite of the glamour of her expensive clothes and her natural beauty.

"Can't have been another woman," de Gier thought. "Man must be drinking somewhere."

The loudspeakers of Police Headquarters came alive. "Detective-Sergeant de Gier, please phone 853."

De Gier picked up the nearest telephone in the hall.

"We found the car you were inquiring about, sergeant, or rather the police in Utrecht found it. They found it at four A.M. today but the computer only told us just now. It was parked in Utrecht's red light district obstructing traffic and they towed it in. It was locked and they didn't open it. They can tow cars in some modern way now; they have some sort of gadget, lift them by the nose, I think, in a grip."

"Yes," de Gier said patiently, "and then what happened? The Utrecht police told the central computer, didn't they? So there must be something special about the car."

"Yes, sergeant. Blood on the front seat and a dent in the roof. They only saw it about an hour ago, according to the type-out. They think the roof has been hit by a bullet, fired from within the car. There is no hole in the roof, just a dent, so the bullet must be inside. Their experts are supposed to come and break the car open, but I just phoned Utrecht headquarters and told them to wait for you. The car is registered in Amsterdam so maybe the case is yours."

"Do you have the address of the police garage where the car is now?" de Gier asked, taking out his notebook and flattening it against the wall. He wrote the address down. "Tell them that we'll be out there within an hour and a half."

"Right."

"And call Adjutant Grijpstra, will you? He should be in the arms room. Tell him he and I are going to Utrecht and tell him to meet me in the main hall."

De Gier put the phone down, thought for a second and dialed.

"Yes?" the quiet voice of the commissaris asked.

"Morning, sir. De Gier here."

"Yes, sergeant?"

De Gier explained.

"We'll go in my car," the commissaris said. "It is parked right in front of the main entrance. I'll be down as soon as I have spoken to the chief constable in Utrecht. He might want the case as the car was found in his city, but we'll claim it because it started in Amsterdam."

"The crime may have been committed on the speedway between Amsterdam and Utrecht, sir, in which case it would be a State Police matter."

"Never mind what it might be, sergeant, it is ours. I'll be down soon. Get Grjjpstra."

"Yes sir," de Gier said, and rang off. * Dutch municipal ranks are constable, constable first class, sergeant, adjutant, inspector, chief inspector, commissaris. An adjutant is a noncommissioned officer.