The Japanese Corpse

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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 stolen 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.

"A very valuable painting," Dorin said. "It's dated 1238 and must be one of Daidharmaji's most treasured possessions. It's amazing they are giving us the use of it, for it must be worth an absolute fortune. The tea bowls are also of value."

He held them up, one by one. "They are Raku pots, sixteenth century, made of very soft clay, as you can see, and feel."

The commissaris felt the first pot, reverently, admiring the irregular shape and the tender pink and red stripes baked into the glaze. "Formed by hand," Dorin said. "It was never turned on a wheel. These bowls were specially made for the tea ceremony. Together they form a set of four. One of them is made for a woman's hands. Three important men and one highly trained geisha."

"So what do we have here?" de Gier asked. "A hundred thousand dollars?" Dorin shook his head. "More?"

"Much more. The paintings can be compared to your Rembrandts. And the bowls are priceless too. This belongs to the best the East can offer."

He rolled the scrolls and put them back in their boxes and wrapped the bowls in cloth, placing them on top of the boxes in the far corner of the room.

There was a sound behind the sliding doors. The maid who had been broiling the fish as the commissaris came in had left, and he expected her to come back. The door opened, but only a few inches. The double-barreled end of a sawed-off shotgun peeked in. Then the doors were slid back completely, and three squat men dressed in Western-style dark-colored suits looked at them gloomily, bowing stiffly. They stepped into the room simultaneously, the two at the far ends closing the doors behind them. Only the man in the middle was armed with a shotgun; the other two held heavy-caliber pistols.

"Konnichiwa," the man in the middle said slowly. "Good day."

Dorin's face was frozen as he turned around to observe his visitors, but de Gier was grinning pleasantly. "Konnichiwa," he said softly. "Irasshai. You are welcome, gentlemen, what can we do for you?"

The man in the middle nodded at the fish, which had begun to burn, and the commissaris reached over, turning the spit. The commissaris was smiling too. Thoughtful and polite men, the yakusa. He made an inviting gesture, and the two men with the pistols knelt down in the opposite corners of the room, while the man in the middle, the heaviest and oldest of the three, and clearly the highest in rank, remained standing.

The commissaris, as he watched his guests, was reminded of a photograph out of the Second World War. The surrender of the Japanese forces on an American warship. There had been several Japanese generals and admirals and one or two civilians, ministers most probably, lined up in front of a table, all stiffly at attention, listening to General MacArthur. This man's attitude expressed the same polite passivity, but there was the shotgun to reverse his position. His twin barrels were oiled and shone with a bluish light, both cocks had been pulled back and the man's thick index finger rested near the double trigger.

"Must dispense with courtesies," the man said sadly. His voice was deep and slightly gritty and he was frowning with concentration, trying to remember the correct words. "You received warning but ignored same. You bought art." His eyes looked briefly at the little pile of boxes and cloth-wrapped bowls in the corner of the room. "Eastern art, property of Japan. We buy this art, not Westerners." The frown became deeper. "Orandajin. Dutchmen. Not for Dutchmen. Business is ours. Please get out of trade and return home. We take art." He nodded at the men on his left side, and the yakusa jumped forward, gathering the boxes and bowls and wrapping them in a large piece of square black cotton which he had taken from under his jacket. He had left his pistol on the floor, but the other gangster moved his, so that it pointed at the commissaris, then at de Gier, then at Dorin.

The bundle was placed near the sliding doors and the man knelt down in his original position.

"You lose much money now, but that is not enough," the deep voice said. "Also painful lesson to be learned."

He shifted the shotgun to his left hand and reached out with his right. The man on the left took out a long knife and placed it in the chief's hand. The shotgun was placed on the floormat and the chief came forward. He swept the sake jug and the three cups off the low table and, with a quick movement, made the knife's blade penetrate the wood so that it stood trembling.

"You," he said, looking at the commissaris. "Take knife and stick through left hand."

The commissaris was still smiling. "Knife?" he asked politely.

"Take a knife," the chief said.

The two yakusa in the corners brought up their pistols so that they were both aimed at the commissaris' chest. De Gier had moved back a little; he was on his knees, having changed his position as the chief spoke. Dorin had also moved. The pistols pointed at them for a brief moment, then moved back to the commissaris.

The commissaris took the knife by the handle and pulled it out of the table.

"This knife?"

"Yes. Now stick it through your left hand."

The commissaris was waving the knife about awkwardly. "Sorry," he said gently. "Not understand. Like this?" He pretended to stick the knife into his left hand, which he held up in the air.

The chief clicked his tongue in irritation and shuffled forward on his knees. "Like this," he said, and put his left hand on the table, stabbing at it with an imaginary knife.

"Ah," the commissaris said gaily, and brought the knife down with all the force he could muster. A spurt of blood welled from the chief's hand, which had been nailed securely to the tabletop. The commissaris' body was still moving; he had jumped over the table and grabbed the shotgun, aiming at the yakusa closest to Dorin. The yakusa had been watching his chief and the new development caught him unaware. Dorin had vaulted forward as the commissaris made his move and the side of his hand hit the yakusa opposite him full on the wrist. The man dropped his pistol and Dorin held the powerless wrist and twisted it so that the yakusa was forced on his side, grinning with pain. De Gier's opponent was also stretched out. The sergeant had grabbed his wrist with his left hand and hit him simultaneously in the neck with his right. As the sergeant's yakusa fell, his foot upset the charcoal brazier underneath the spitted turning fish, and the coals began to ignite the tatamis.

The chief was stumbling through the room, pulling at the knife. He got it out, tearing the flesh off his hand and stood staring at the weapon before he dropped it. He groaned and closed his eyes and sank slowly to his knees.

Dorin let go of his captive, who was covered by the commissaris' shotgun, kicked the pistol toward de Gier, who picked it up and ran out of the room. He was back almost immediately, pushing a waiter in a white jacket. The waiter carried a large fire extinguisher. Dorin shouted at the waiter, and a spurt of white bubbly foam began to cover the room's surfaces. One row of flames had almost reached the paper-covered doors leading to a large wooden deck outside, and Dorin shouted again. The foam hit the flames. The waiter-unnerved by the commissaris' shotgun, the two half-conscious yakusa on the floor and the chief who was bowing continuously, his head almost touching the tatami as he held his bleeding hand, and de Gier sitting quietly in his corner, resting the large automatic on his knees-kept on pressing the extinguisher's lever and Dorin had to shout again to make him stop.

"Ask him to get the girl who massaged me just now," the commissaris said. "She must have bandages and something to disinfect our friend's hand. That's a nasty wound."

Dorin barked at the waiter. The maid came within a minute, ignoring the shotgun and the pistol. The commissaris pointed at the chief. "Kudasai," he said. "Please."

The chief opened his eyes. "Your wound," the commissaris said. "She will dress it." He gave the shotgun to Dorin and went over to the chief, holding his arm while the maid dabbed the wound with cotton wool soaked in iodine and applied a gauze bandage, clipping it together with a metal catch. She made a sling out of a strip of white cotton and strapped it around the chief's shoulder.

The chief said something to her and the commissaris looked at Dorin. "He is thanking her," Dorin said.

The chief turned round slowly and bowed to the commissaris. "You get police?"

"No," the commissaris said. "Police make difficulty. We have had enough difficulty tonight, don't you think?"

The chief nodded gravely.

"You have a car?" the commissaris asked.

"Yes."

The chief spoke to the man who had been disarmed by Dorin. The man answered, and the chief turned back to the commissaris. "He says he can drive. With your permission we go now."

"Go to a doctor," the commissaris said. "You'll need stitches." The chief didn't understand and Dorin translated. "Ah," the chief said, and began to walk to the door.

"One moment, gentlemen, your weapons."

The commissaris broke the shotgun, took its two cartridges out, and closed the gun again. De Gier and Dorin were emptying the clips of the two automatics. One of the younger men accepted the arms, and bowed.

The waiter opened the sliding doors for them. "Yakusa?" he asked Dorin.

"Yakusa," Dorin said.

The waiter left and returned with the restaurant manager. They were invited to go to the restaurant's best room, and another, more copious, meal was prepared. The manager came back to serve the main dish. A gigantic sake bottle was brought in and ceremoniously shown around before the little jugs were filled and heated. The three men toasted the manager while the maids fussed around, bringing in small dishes with assorted delicacies, each in its own sauce.

"Very nice," Dorin said, filling the commissaris' cup. "We can drink now; they won't come back tonight. Congratulations, but you were close to losing your life just now. That shotgun was cocked and both pistols were loaded and had their safety catches off."

The commissaris was trying to fish a bit of raw squid from a small dish; it kept on slipping out of his chopsticks. "No," he said. "Not really. I don't think our friends had orders to kill us. I rather think they were told not to kill us. But I should have had a hole in my hand now. I really must apologize to you both. I risked your lives just because I didn't feel like hurting myself. They might have shot you out of nervousness when I performed my act. I am sorry. There." He finally managed to get the squid into his mouth and was chewing furiously. "Well? Aren't you going to accept my apologies?"

De Gier spoke first. "You wouldn't have stuck that knife into your hand," he said, and sneezed.

"It's the green mustard," Dorin said. "You must be careful." De Gier went on sneezing. "It's very hot, even to us."

Dorin turned back to the commissaris. "He is right, you know. You wouldn't have stuck the knife through your hand. We were both ready to jump them, and we would have if you hadn't been so quick. This way it was better. The two men were looking at the chief's hand when we jumped. Let's finish this jug." He waited for the commissaris to hold up his cup.

"No thank you," the commissaris said, "I think we have had enough. I have anyway. It's been a long day. Too much excitement."

De Gier was looking at the huge sake bottle. "There's about half a gallon left."

"Take it with you." Dorin was getting up. "He gave it to us. And I won't pay the bill. Yakusa never pay for their meals, and I am sure he thinks we are yakusa."

"Yakusa don't fight each other," de Gier said. "Or so I was told."

Dorin nodded. "They don't fight, but they have a little tiff every now and then, within the family. Let's go, you can have an early night."

But the sergeant didn't go to bed when they arrived at the inn. He took out his map and looked up the address of the Golden Dragon bar. The commissaris was in the bath and he stuck his head into the steaming little room.

"I am going to do a little drinking on my own, sir, in that bar Dorin told us about."

The commissaris was humming to himself. Only his head was visible above the wooden pine boards of the square bath.

"Are you all right, sir?" de Gier asked anxiously, peering through the steam. "You have a very red head."

"It's very hot in here, sergeant. You are going to the Golden Dragon?"

"Yes, sir."

"The very place, and the right moment. Don't forget to tell me about your adventure when you come back."

The sergeant looked dubious.

"Oh, you'll come back," the commissaris said, "and you'll have a very nice time. You know, sergeant, I am beginning to understand the Eastern mind. You know that song about East is East and West is West, and never the twain shall meet?"

"Yes. It's true, I think."

"It's rubbish," the commissaris said cheerfully. "Absolute rubbish. I don't think the twain have ever been apart."

It was close to midnight when de Gier left the inn. The innkeeper offered to call a taxi but the sergeant refused and walked down the empty street, noting with amazement that it was lined with plane trees, like the boulevard in Amsterdam where he had his apartment. He stopped to look at the peeling bark, leaving large exposed areas of a greenish yellow, and shook his head. He had expected something else, something more exotic. Orchid trees, slender palms, giant ferns perhaps. But they were plane trees. And yet the country still seemed very strange to him. He thought of the three gangsters moving into their room at the restaurant as if they were a wave of the surf, ready to break over their heads. He remembered the solemn way in which their chief had phrased his threat. The ambassador had told the commissaris, and the commissaris had passed the message to the sergeant, that, although many facets of Japan are pure Western its heart is all mystery, the mystery of the East.

He wondered whether the remark had any truth in it. Were these people, Dorin the secret agent, Dorin's uncle the polite innkeeper in Tokyo, the yakusa petty officer and his two henchmen, the maids, the waiters, the students who were always trying to talk to him in the street, the Zen priest who had lent them the treasures of his temple, the hoodlum he had almost killed in Tokyo, basically different in makeup from the people he knew in the West? Or were they as different as science fiction creatures on Planet CBX 700, followings its oval course around a silver sun in a corner of the universe a zillion light-years away? And would there be plane trees on Planet CBX 700 too?

He stopped at the corner of the street and raised his hand. A taxi made a U-turn and stopped. De Gier gave the address and the tiny car crashed into gear and shot off, squealing its tires cruelly at the next corner. The driver was a very young man, dressed in the student's uniform, and the face reflected in the rear mirror was haggard and tired. Working through the night to pay for his studies, de Gier thought, and his country is already overloaded with intellect.

His mind wandered off as the car raced on, beating traffic lights and forcing pedestrians to jump for their lives. He wondered what he would do for a living if he should find himself to be Japanese. He tried to envisage the life of a water policeman on the Japanese Inland Sea. He had seen something of the sea from the plane when he came into the country. Vast stretches of calm water with many tiny islands with strangely curved shores. He would float on and in beauty, and he would have little to do, for the Japanese are lawabiding citizens and even the yakusa, he felt sure now, lived along rigid rules, rules which could be learned.

The car jolted to a stop and he paid the low fare, tipping the driver who smiled wanly before making the taxi jump off again. The nightclub doorman saluted smartly when de Gier walked through the entrance, which was shaped like a rustic porch, in contrast with the building itself which looked as if it had been built the month before, poured out of concrete. An artificial waterfall tinkled on steps made out of smooth rocks, and a stone bear standing on its hind legs, caught some of the water in a basin. A young woman, dressed in a short skirt showing surprisingly straight legs, and carrying very full breasts under a transparent blouse, came out from behind the counter, greeted him in English, and took him to the rest room, where she gave him a new bar of soap and a small towel. He washed his hands and looked at the girl in the mirror. Most Japanese women seemed to have slightly bent legs and small breasts. He wondered if Dorin was right when he told them that many women have their breasts inflated with compressed air, injected mechanically. The treatment has to be renewed every few weeks, is expensive and destroys the elasticity of the flesh which, after some years, will lose all strength and become flabby and soggy. The girl smiled, showing a brilliant white set of capped teeth. An artificial woman, de Gier thought, completely remodeled. But he had to agree that the result was attractive. He turned around and kissed her cheek while he dried his hands, and she offered her lips. He kissed her on the mouth and felt her tongue darting in and out of his lips. Her arms clutched his neck and her hips and stomach rubbed rhythmically against his body. He gently broke the hold of her arms and stepped back, knocking into the washbasin. She laughed and playfully rubbed his back.

"Uai?" she asked. "Pain?"

"No pain." He walked into the bar and she came with him, holding his hand, but let it go when they were inside and wandered over to some Mends at the bar. He stopped and looked around in amazement. For a moment he thought that he was in an aquarium and that gleaming fish were swimming around him. A clever artist had been able to create a most mysterious light which flowed from the ceiling through small holes, and the girls, all dressed in very low blouses and short skirts, reflected a silver shine on their breasts. They were walking about slowly, a trick perhaps to lure the new arrival, and a fairylike glow moved with them. The light also reflected on the shaved skulls of the three barmen, shaved apart from one spot where their hair had been allowed to grow until it formed tails, the old-fashioned queues of the Chinese, and the tightly twisted hair ropes had been dipped in silver paint so that they glittered with every movement of their owners. The barmen were Chinese, and were talking to each other in the soft Canton dialect which he had heard so often in the old city of Amsterdam. They also spoke English, an exaggerated English with Oxford overtones.

"Would you care for a whisky, sir? Scotch or local? Or would you prefer a Canadian brand, or a bourbon perhaps?"

"A bourbon," de Gier said.

"On the rocks, sir?"

"On the rocks."

"Very well, sir. One bourbon on the rocks coming up, sir."

He raised his glass, returned the Chinese's flashing smile and drank. "Would you care for female company, sir? There is plenty of choice. If you tell me whom you prefer I will have her come over."

"I'll find one," de Gier said, "later."

"Very well, sir. Are you a poker player, sir? Or do you prefer roulette. Gambling has started about half an hour ago, sir."

"Gambling has always bored me," de Gier said. "I don't know what it is, but rolling dice and shuffled cards make me sleepy. I would rather just sit and drink. This is a nice bar you've got here."

"I only mentioned the gambling because it is in the back room, sir, and I haven't seen you before. I thought perhaps you might want to know about it. I don't like gambling myself, sir. Very strange for a Chinese, I don't even like mahjong."

"Good," de Gier said. "So we are not alone in our perversions. Do you like watching football?"

"No, sir."

"Excellent. Neither do I. What do you like?"

The barkeeper bent forward and whispered into de Gier's ear. "Watching flowers?" de Gier asked softly. "Where? In parks? Or do you grow them yourself?"

"I have a small garden," the Chinese said. "Very small."

More guests came in and the barman went over to see what they wanted to drink. De Gier stirred the crushed ice in his glass and thought about his balcony. His geraniums would be dead by now, and the nasturtiums, which he had been growing with great care, brushing the mites off twice a day, feeding with various vitamins, watering and spraying at set hours, should be in flower, but there wouldn't be much left except crumbling bone-dry brown stalks and leaves lying on cracked dry gray earth. And somewhere in the soil of Amsterdam rotted the corpse of Esther, and insects would be eating the cat Oliver, buried in the park opposite his apartment building. He thought painlessly, registering images, the images of death. He was staring at his glass while he thought, and he only looked up when he felt a thigh pressed against his leg and he recognized the girl who had gone into the rest room with him.

"Amerikajin?" she asked.

"Orandajin," he said. "From Holland. Do you know where Holland is?"

Another girl had joined them. The girl laughed and said something in Japanese. De Gier caught a few words and reconstructed the meaning of the sentence. "Foreigners stink as a rule, but if they have eaten garlic they stink too badly, even for a whore."

"I haven't eaten garlic," he said. "I ate some broiled fish in a Japanese-style restaurant. If I stink, I stink normally."

"Oh," the two girls said in chorus, and clapped their hands over their mouths. "Do you speak Japanese?"

"Two hundred words, but it was enough this time."

"Sumimasen," the girl said. "Tai-hen sumimasen. Very very sorry. I was very rude. Please forgive."

"Sure," de Gier said, and laughed. The girls looked as if they might break into tears any minute. "But of course."

"Yuiko," the girl from the rest room said. "That's my name, and my friend is called Chicako. But maybe you don't like us so much now, maybe we better call other girls for you, yes? Please look around and tell us who we must call."

"No, I like you both fine. Do you want a drink?"

The bartender had placed a dish filled with brown mushy objects, floating in a thick sauce, on the counter, and de Gier pushed it toward Yuiko. "Have some of this, whatever it may be."

"Thank you. They are mushrooms, very delicious. Try some yourself."

De Gier sighed and picked one up gingerly. His tongue had difficulty dealing with it but he managed to get it between his teeth and chewed.

"Nice?" Yuiko asked.

The taste was pleasant and he smiled.

"They look horrible, don't they?" Yuiko asked. "But they are very good. Have some more."

They ate a few each, and he repeated his suggestion about the drinks.

"Drinks are very expensive here," Yuiko said. "Maybe better not. Maybe we buy you a drink. Another bourbon?"

"One bourbon," de Gier said to the Chinese, "and two of whatever the ladies like." He felt his back pocket. Dorin had given him a fair amount in cash when he arrived, and he had been giving him more since. Compliments of the Japanese Secret Service. He should have enough to get through the night, even if the drinks were expensive.

"Do you like music?" Yuiko asked, pointing at a platform at the back of the bar where five musicians had appeared.

"Yes, jazz, but maybe they don't play jazz?"

"They do. What would you like to hear?"

"St. Louis Blues," de Gier said. Yuiko spoke to the pianist and he bowed and smiled. One two three FOUR, the men shouted, and the blues broke loose, the theme first and variations following, some of them played by everybody, some of them only by the trumpet backed up by the drums. They played well, de Gier thought, and he clapped and asked the barkeeper to send up five beers. The musicians came to attention, bowed, raised their glasses, shouted "BANZAI" and drained the glasses in one gulp.

"Banzai?" de Gier asked. "Shouldn't they shout 'Kampai'? I thought 'kampai' meant bottoms up. Banzai is some sort of war cry, isn't it?"

"They should say, 'Kampai,'" Yuiko said, "but these musicians are very crazy. They never react normally to anything. I think it's because they used to play on a cruise ship, Tokyo to San Francisco, back and forth, back and forth, forever. One of them is my cousin. He said they got so bored that they had to go crazy or they would jump overboard. One of them did jump overboard; there used to be six."

"Really?" de Gier asked, turning around to look at the musicians again. They appeared to be normal enough, five middle-aged small men. One was bald, the others had long hair.

"They live in an old temple nearby," Yuiko said. "Sometimes I go to see them. It is very nice out there. They live with their wives and girlfriends, and the bald man has two children. The owner of this club is very fond of them; he often goes out there. They play for him and they have parties. They are quite famous, you know. They often play for the TV studios and they have a lot of records out."

"In a temple," de Gier said dreamily. "I am sure it must be very nice to live in a temple. Do they meditate too?"

The girl mockingly imitated the Buddha posture, pulling up her legs and twisting them into each other and straightening her back. She closed her eyes and pouted. De Gier admired her legs; he could see her thighs and tightly stretched slip. Her pubic hair shone through the nylon.

She opened her eyes and freed her legs.

"No," she said. "They don't meditate but they drink a lot."

"Your English is pretty good," he said. "Why do you work in this bar? I thought English-speaking girls went to Tokyo. They can make a lot of money out there, I believe."

She smiled and ruffled his hair. "I used to work in Tokyo, but I prefer this city. It's nice and quiet here, and we often have foreign guests, especially in autumn. Scholars mostly, who come to lecture at Kyoto University."

"You learned your English in Tokyo?"

"Yes," she said. "My mother teaches English. I began to learn when I was very small and I like reading. I learned a lot of words, and later I took some courses."

The small, band had struck up again, and de Gier moved closer to the platform, putting his arm around Yuiko and taking her with him. The other girl had left them, having been summoned by an elderly man who had sat by himself at the bar, drinking steadily and humming to himself, but who had suddenly seemed in urgent want of female company and had expressed his wish loudly to the bartender, pointing to Yuiko's friend and complaining in a high nasal voice. The girl had darted off, smiling and bobbing, and started her duties by wiping the sweat off his gleaming face, using a dainty lace-lined handkerchief. She was cooing softly to him now, an older sister pacifying a naughty lost little boy.

The band was playing a Miles Davis number. De Gier couldn't remember the title but he recognized the slow exact style which had often heightened his perception in his Amsterdam apartment, when he had been alone with the cat rolled up in a tight ball next to his feet. The alcohol opened his mind a little more, and he seemed to be able to see the music rather than hear it; the trumpet as clear rays of light, the drums and bass as a dark rolling background and the piano as short dark orange bursts of fire. He stayed another hour, with Yuiko quietly sitting next to him, her hand resting on his forearm. She looked pale and there were shadows under her eyes and her hand felt moist.

"All right?" he asked.

"Yoroshii," she said softly. "Just a little tired. It's nice sitting here like this."

The bartender came to bring another bourbon, but he refused it and was served grape juice instead, and later, when the bar was more quiet, coffee in small high cups.

She asked him to go with her to her apartment, and huddled in his arm during the short ride in a bouncing taxi. In her room she was leaning against him and he bent down to look into her face. Her eyes were closed and her lips twitched. She still insisted that she felt fine, and filled the kettle to make tea, but the kettle slipped out of her hands and she collapsed on the floor, a helpless bundle of fear and pain. He picked her up and carried her to the bathroom and held her head while she vomited. He went back to the room and squatted on the tatamis while he heard her rummaging about, washing her face and readjusting her hair, but then there was a squeak and a thud and he rushed back into the bathroom.

She was crying, stretched out on the tiled floor. He asked her where it hurt and she pressed her stomach, but she couldn't talk anymore and whined softly as he stroked her hair.

He left the apartment and knocked on doors and shouted until a middle-aged woman appeared. He couldn't think of any words, and he pushed the woman into the apartment and on until they reached the bathroom. The woman spoke a little English and pronounced the word "hospital."

"A car?" he asked. "You have a car?"

"Taxi," she said, and pointed at the telephone. "O.K.?"

"O.K.," he said. "You tell driver to go to hospital."

She nodded and dialed a number. The taxi appeared within minutes and delivered them at the emergency ward of a large hospital, only a few miles away. Two nurses grabbed the unconscious body and wheeled it away and de Gier sat down. He had to wait for nearly an hour before a young doctor came to answer his questions.

"Food poisoning," the doctor said. "Did she eat anything out of the way? Something rotten or poisonous maybe?"

"Mushrooms," de Gier said. "That's all I saw her eat. I met her tonight, in a bar."

The doctor smiled. "Mushrooms, yes, could be."

"But I ate some too, I feel fine."

"One mushroom is enough. Perhaps they were picked carelessly. Mushrooms look alike. Sometimes they are good, sometimes they are murder. She was lucky you brought her here."

"Would she have died otherwise?"

The doctor shrugged. "Not likely. She is young and fairly strong, I would say, but she could have been very ill for a long time. This way we have nipped it in the bud; she'll be O.K. in a few days."

"Can I see her?"

"No, she is asleep now, better not disturb her. Come tomorrow."

When de Gier came back to the inn, the commissaris and Dorin were eating breakfast, and he flopped down, helping himself to their fried eggs and bacon before the maid came in to bring his own.

"Bad luck," Dorin said, when he had told them how he had spent his time. "I wonder what the yakusa members thought when they saw you in the lion's den. By now they will all know who you are. Maybe the girl was told to prepare a surprise for you."

"She did," de Gier said, with his mouth full. "I thought she was going to die on me."

"She wasn't acting, was she?" the commissaris asked.

"No, sir," de Gier said, buttering another slice of toast. "She wasn't."