The Japanese Corpse

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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 said. 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.