The Japanese Corpse

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"Lookslike a grocer," the Commissaris thought, when he sat down opposite the ambassador at a comer table in what was probably the most expensive restaurant in The Hague. The room was quiet, and the waiters, impeccably dressed in dress coats and starched shirts and flowing striped trousers, glided around them, anxiously peering at the guests, and almost falling forward in their eagerness to serve. They were old men; one of them seemed to totter under the weight of a small silver tray loaded with two tulip-shaped glasses on high stems and holding jenever that was so cold that it was frosting the glass into opaqueness. Graybeards, the commissaris thought, dying out. Soon there will be a new generation of waiters who won't come when you call them and who'll point at the self-service counter and inquire if there is anything wrong with your legs when you insist.

He sighed and looked at the ambassador, who was raising his glass. He mumbled, the ambassador mumbled, and they both nipped and set the glasses down. The ambassador was a big man with a bald head and goldrimmed glasses. His face looked bland, but there seemed to be some intelligence in the calm green eyes that were studying the commissaris.

They approached each other carefully, finishing their drinks and calling for more and studying the menu, which ran into some twelve pages of handwritten specialties. There were no prices on the menu which the commissaris was holding, but he glanced at the ambassador's copy and his back quivered. They would spend more on this meal than the commissaris' youngest son was taking to France that day and the boy was planning to stay away for three weeks. To eat, the commissaris thought, an old man's pleasure, but he shrugged imperceptibly.

He had always doubted the value of money, and neither wealth nor poverty had impressed him much. He had known both. The war years had taught him how it feels to starve, and an uncle's inheritance had once given him some bizarre weeks in Paris where he drove a rented white sports car and lived in a hotel suite where the lavatory was bigger than his apartment in Amsterdam at that time. He had willfully wasted the money, blowing it all in three weeks' leave. His brother, who had inherited the same amount, had invested the money wisely and was now a rich man, living in a large house in Switzerland, worrying about his health and drinking too much wine.

"Your health," the commissaris said, and smiled at the ambassador. "Your very good health."

The eyes behind the gold-rimmed spectacles twinkled. "Thank you. Same to you. So we have a Japanese corpse, it seems, and the death is tied up with the yakusa and stolen art and maybe drugs. Your case interests me; we might use it to create some good will."

"Good will?" the commissaris asked, while he indicated his choice on the menu and acknowledged the servile bowing of the waiter.

"Exactly. You will solve the case, of course, I have no doubt about it. The killer or killers will be apprehended and taken to court. But there is more to it. This case will give us a chance to repay favors which the Japanese bestowed on us. Many years ago. The exact year was 1635, I believe, or 1636, I forget now."

"That's a little while back," the commissaris said.

The ambassador gestured. "What is time? 1635 was 'now' once, wasn't it? And the year 2000 will be 'now' soon, if we ever make it. You and I won't make it, of course, but other people, I mean. People in general. But maybe the planet will have exploded by then, or been devastated by uranium fires and throwouts, and a little napalm and laser beams gone wild, on the side. Wouldn't be a bad idea."

"You think so?" the commissaris asked politely.

"Wonderful idea," the ambassador said, warming up to the subject and vigorously stirring his soup with a minute spoon. "Just imagine, a dead ball of stone continuing its course around the sun for a billion years or so, or better even, no ball at all. Just empty space which the Earth once filled. Emptiness has always fascinated me, maybe because of my many years in the Far East. All the philosophies of the Chinese, except Confucianism, of course, which isn't a philosophy but a set of rules, seem to center on emptiness."

"Chinese philosophy?" the commissaris asked. "I thought you lived in Japan."

"Used to live in China, you know, for twenty-five years off and on. I've only been in Japan for the last three years. But the Japanese got their ideas from China and they are keeping them alive. Beautiful ideas. I am a Taoist myself but I have always been interested in Buddhism. Same thing maybe when you get down to it."

The commissaris slurped the dregs from his cup and chewed the shreds of turtle meat. "Yes," he said, "when you get down to it there is nothing left. The thought has often occurred to me, in jail. In jail there is a lot of time, and time can be used to reflect."

"Did the Germans get you?" the ambassador asked, looking interested.

"Yes."

"Nasty fellows. But the Japanese could be pretty nasty too during the war. They killed two of my brothers, captured in the former Dutch Indies and taken to Burma. They were officers and were beaten to death because they refused to work on some railway. I wonder if they would have beaten me too. I speak Japanese and I know their customs. I might have got away with it. They are really extremely polite and often very advanced people, but they can behave strangely when you rattle them."

"You speak Japanese?" the commissaris asked, and looked up. The ambassador still reminded him of a grocer, a successful grocer who owns a big store with a large assortment of food and who stands behind the counter, beaming at his clients and pouring sugar or flour into brown paper bags.

"Yes. I studied Chinese before I went to the East, but I learned some Japanese as well. When I was transferred to Japan the language came quickly to me. They use the same script as the Chinese, of course, but they also have their own script in addition, and the spoken language is very different. I managed, but I had some help." The ambassador giggled. "They say that the best way to learn a language is on the pillow. I hired a high-class call girl, a very educated lady, and together we read a lot of their literature. Beautiful literature; a pity that only a little is translated. We could learn much more from them, but there is such a shortage of intelligent translators."

"A geisha?" the commissaris asked, smiling eagerly.

"No. Geishas aren't prostitutes. They dance and sing and excel in intelligent conversation. A geisha may have lovers, but she chooses them herself. No, mine was a whore, I am afraid. Not that I have anything against whores; on the contrary. Do you?"

"Not at all," the commissaris said quickly. "No, not at all. And they are very useful in police work. I don't think we would ever get anywhere without them. You mentioned the year 1635. What happened in 1635?"

The ambassador sprinkled mint sauce on a lamb chop.

"1635," he repeated. "The island if Deshima was given to the Dutch. Four hundred feet long, two hundred and forty feet wide, connected to the city of Nagasaki by a little bridge. An island the size of a ship. But it was ours and we were the only Western nation allowed to trade with Japan in those days. The Japanese figured that we weren't going to convert them to anything, but were only there for the money. And so we were; we are simple people after all, always ready to make a silver dollar. The island had a chief and the chief had to go to Edo, or Tokyo as it is called now, once a year, to pay his respects. A trip of several hundreds of miles, and he was carried to the capital in a palanquin, in style. We had some Africans on our island and they did the carrying and the chief would have Javanese servants marching ahead and behind. A white man surrounded by black and brown men. What a sight that must have been. Most Japanese had never seen a foreigner and here they were in three colors, like some fancy ice cream."

The commissaris closed his eyes and tried to imagine the scene.

The ambassador smiled. "Can you see it?"

"Yes," the commissaris said, and opened his eyes again.

"And they were good to us, you know. They allowed us to make handsome profits and they kept us when Holland was conquered by France and no supplies came out for quite a few years. All that time Deshima was the only place on earth to fly the Dutch flag."

"Yes, yes," the commissaris said. "So they did us a favor and you want to repay it. Aren't we repaying it? We are still trading with the Japanese, aren't we? Amsterdam is full of Japanese. All their main commercial companies seem to have offices here and we welcome their tourists. Even their gangsters seem to be here, the yakusa. I hear they are dangerous. We aren't used to dangerous gangsters. I hope that my men can adjust to the situation. I would hate to see gun battles; they wouldn't do anybody any good."

"Have another chop," the ambassador said, and pushed a silver dish across the table. "Delicious. I know the cook here, he is a dedicated man. No, you won't have any gun battles. I don't understand this killing either; maybe somebody slipped up. If the yakusa kill they make it look like an accident or a suicide and they are very careful that nobody loses face. A man who loses face will usually try to revenge himself and revenge will lead to fresh revenge and there will never be an end to it. The yakusa want to live in peace and luxury."

"They may be selling heroin here, and it may be going from here to the American army in Germany," the commissaris said carefully, "if our information is correct, that is. The Americans are rather sensitive about the drug trade. It rots their army. Our own army is too busy growing its hair and going on leave to bother much with heavy drugs. Football and beer seem to be the main diversions. But the American soldiers have developed a craving for opium derivatives."

"Sure," the ambassador said, and filled his plate again. "It may lead to a Communist victory and we'll be marching past the queen's palace waving red flags and singing. But even under communism there are possibilities. I have met many clever men in Russia who have lovely villas in the country. Perhaps it is a return to the old days when only the stupid and silly worked and gentlemen lived gentle lives. Caviar on toast, a little glass of vodka and a Cuban musician playing his guitar in the corner. The Russians own a lot of coast in the Far East, and islands, lovely islands. One might get to travel."

"One might find oneself in a lunatic asylum being beaten up by large men because a Communist judge has found fault with one's ideas," the commissaris said, and pushed his plate away. The lamb chops were indeed delicious, but he was looking forward to the iced cake and the coffee and French brandy.

"True," the ambassador agreed reluctantly. "They do have rather a lot of lunatic asylums and camps and so on. Still, in these one might sit back and think of escape. Escape is a great game. However, heroin, you said. Yes, it would be nice to stop that traffic, and that's why we are here. Part of the reason anyway. You see, as an ambassador I sometimes meet the leading men in Japan and I know they are concerned about what goes on in Holland. They deliberately choose Amsterdam as a center for all Japanese activities in Western Europe, perhaps because we have a quiet country here, perhaps because Amsterdam is a good city, perhaps because of its fairly central location, or because of our currency which has been reasonably stable. It may also be a continuation of Deshima. They have always traded through and with us."

"They also made war on us," the commissaris said, wiping his thin lips with a damask napkin and studying an arrangement of oranges and bananas on a side table. "They destroyed our Far East fleet in a matter of hours, captured our army and killed most of our officers in workcamps, and kept our women and children behind barbed wire for nearly five years."

"They have forgotten. Most Japanese never even knew we were in the war too. They know about America and England. The fact is that they are involved with us now. But there is also the drug traffic that interferes with their reputation here, and there is the matter of stolen art. The Japanese are very proud of their art. Most Chinese antique art has disappeared or become unobtainable because of the revolution, but the Japanese have a good supply, both Chinese which they imported many years ago and original which has been created since then by their own great painters and sculptors and calligraphers and potters and so on. Most art is kept in temples, in some of the great complexes of Buddhist buildings where monks are being trained by masters. It's safe in those buildings; the monks and priests wouldn't dream of selling it and the people know about the treasures and come to see the art on certain days when the buildings are open to the public. But there are tens of thousands of temples in Japan and there is a shortage of monks and priests. Some temples are being taken care of by fake priests, men without training who have landed the job through some influence or other. Some caretakers are paid by the state and can be easily corrupted. And there will be degenerate priests, of course, men the yakusa can prey on. The yakusa are clever psychologists and they are powerful. The fact is that they managed to get hold of absolute treasures that will command a fortune at the Amsterdam auctions.

"It has been suggested to me that I might use my influence to interfere with and, it is hoped, terminate the Amsterdam channel. It has also been suggested that I collect funds to restore the island of Deshima, which has fallen into some disrepair. But my efforts have met with failure so far. Our government has no funds to repair buildings on an island. So now the Portuguese are paying for some of the restoration, ridiculous really. The Portuguese have also been on Deshima, but that was before our time and they were told to leave when they started trying to convert the Japanese to Christianity. We should pay, we, the Dutch, but we are too damned stingy. The Japanese don't like that; they are capable of great gestures themselves and expect it of others. But we have another chance now to save face."

The iced cake had arrived and the commissaris, glaring at his plate, grabbed his spoon. He was planning to cut the cake into two equal pieces with one cut. The conversation was annoying him, although he had already admitted to himself that he liked the ambassador. He had always had a low opinion of diplomats and had expected a chinless drunk who would ramble aimlessly for hours, but the large figure looming opposite him seemed in perfect control of himself, and although his flow of words was steady there was clearly a purpose behind the flow.

"Yes," the commissaris said briskly. "Quite, quite. Well, we will do our best. My men are deep into the case already and the drugs detectives are alerted and have undoubtedly started their investigations today. The killers of Mr. Nagai may have left the country by now, but it should be possible to arrest them later. We have their names and we even have a fairly good photograph of the pair strolling down a street in Amsterdam. I am reasonably sure we can collect enough evidence to bring them to court, and if the Japanese don't want to return them to us, should they have managed to escape from here, they can be tried in Japan somewhere. I believe they are from Kobe. Tomorrow I will try to visit the Japanese embassy and report on this case. If they are as interested as you indicate, they can work on the suspects and collect more names; perhaps even the top men can be arrested. The yakusa leader lives in a castle close to Kobe, I am told. And meanwhile we will continue our work here. The restaurant where Miss Andrews worked is already under observation, and one of my best men should be asking questions to the manager this evening. We'll do our job and if the communication with our colleagues in Kobe is good enough they can do theirs. That was the object of my call to you earlier today."

The ambassador pumped his cheeks and swallowed the last of his cake. He called for cigars.

"Yes. I am glad you telephoned. But I have a suggestion. I spoke to our Minister of Foreign Affairs today and he will speak to your ultimate chief, the Minister of Justice. I also had a brief conversation with the Japanese ambassador, and I called the American embassy. So far everybody likes my idea and has promised all support. The CIA is particularly enthusiastic, and Mr. Johnson said he expected to see you tomorrow morning. Mr. Johnson and his colleagues in Japan are good people to know. But it all depends on you in the end."

"Me?" the commissaris asked. "What else can I do but do my job? I assure you I will; I happen to like my job."

"I know, I know," the ambassador said soothingly, and gave the commissaris the cigar he had just selected for himself. "You have an excellent reputation, not only because of your intelligence but also because of your habit of never giving up. But my suggestion goes beyond the call of duty. What I had in mind is that you would go to Japan yourself and we would set you up as a buyer of art. The yakusa have established their channel but there is no reason that there couldn't be competition. The Dutch might try to do their own buying and selling, so, you see, you go there and try to organize a buying department of your own. We can help you, especially now that we know that the CIA will join the game.

"The CIA work closely with the Japanese Secret Service and they will probably give you some good assistants to work with. You should be perfectly safe. You can work with their people and pretend to be a buyer of stolen art, valuable pieces only, the pick of what the priests keep in their temples. Most temple art is officially declared to be national treasures, and to steal and buy and sell them is treason. The yakusa can be trapped and taken straight to the Supreme Court. I don't think the Japanese police will be involved. Maybe they will be allowed to play some minor role; they can stand around, so to speak. And you can do something about the traffic in heroin at the same time. The heroin doesn't come from Japan of course; the opium poppy isn't grown in Japan, not in quantity anyway. The yakusa buy it through their Chinese friends in Hong Kong who get it from mainland China. It is shipped directly to Amsterdam from Hong Kong. The Chinese probably have a man in Japan whom you should seek out. Once you know who directs the yakusa and who his lieutenants are, you can arrange a meeting and the Secret Service can grab the lot."

"I see," the commissaris said. "You make it sound very simple. But perhaps my trip isn't necessary. The yakusa chief lives in a castle close to Kobe. Miss Andrews can give me the exact address. She can also describe him. Your acquaintances can go there and arrest him, can't they?"

The ambassador burped carefully behind his napkin. "Excuse me! No, the matter is not so simple. The yakusa chief, or the daimyo, as he is called, is a powerful man. So far nobody has been able to touch him. No evidence, you see. The daimyo knows all the top brass in his country, he plays golf with them. He is well protected. But he has forgotten to make friends with the Secret Service and the Supreme Court. He probably couldn't, even if he tried. I don't believe much in honesty but some people are dedicated to this or that and their dedication is greater than their dishonesty. My acquaintances, as you call them, are really out to get the daimyo. And I want to annoy him so much that he steps out of his lair and then…" The ambassador rolled his napkin into a tight wad and banged it on the table.

The old waiter came running up to the table. "An insect, sir?"

"No, Johan, I was stressing a point." The old waiter cackled. "Very well, sir."

"I see," the commissaris said.

"Don't worry about your safety," the ambassador said. "Even the yakusa will not easily kill a foreigner on Japanese soil. They may try to hurt or intimidate him a little, but they won't kill him. The only foreigners who were killed by criminals in Japan this year died in Kobe. Kobe has many foreign residents. But you can try to avoid the city, although it may be difficult."

The commissaris wanted to say something, but sneezed instead.

"Your very good health," the ambassador said, and rubbed out his cigar. "Tokyo is a dangerous place too, but you won't have anything to do there. Your plane lands in Tokyo and you can stay a few days before you go farther. The yakusa in Tokyo are not the same as the Kobe lot and they have a different daimyo. His specialty is gambling and prostitution, with a chain of supermarkets as a side line. He doesn't figure in my plan at all. It's the Kobe daimyo I am after. He is the temple thief. Perhaps you could stay in Kyoto, the temple city close to Kobe. That's where some of the stolen art may come from. It's a holy city in a way, there is much to see. Temples, gardens and so forth. I wish I could do your job but I am too well known in Japan, unfortunately."

The commissaris' lips had formed a small o and he was exhaling with force. He was about to say something when one of the graybeards bent down reverently and whispered into his ear.

"I have a telephone call," the commissaris said. "Please excuse me."

He was back in five minutes and the graybeard helped him back into his chair. "It seems we have arrested the killers," the commissaris said, "the two men who, according to Miss Andrews, were sent to do away with her fiance\ They are being questioned, but so far they have denied everything. But we've got them anyway."

"Splendid," the ambassador said. "Let's drink some of this brandy in celebration of your department's speed and efficiency. It might make your work in Japan easier, if you are willing to go there. Are you willing?"

The commissaris didn't answer.

"It won't be a too dangerous assignment, but I think you can take one of your men with you. Perhaps you have somebody who speaks good English and who is a bit of a fighter."

"I have, my sergeant. He is a crack shot and is said to be proficient in judo. His English is fairly fluent."

"The very man. Well, what do you say, commissaris? I assure you of my complete cooperation. I'll be back in Tokyo in a few days' time, but you can always reach me by phone. I have friends in Japan and I can smooth some of your path but, in all fairness, I must warn you: the yakusa aren't a bunch of white rabbits." He shook his head. "Still, it's incredible to me that they would kill here. Maybe Mr. Nagai was a lot more important than he seemed. Perhaps he was about to give the game away and Miss Andrews has understated her point. But in a way it's a good thing our friends overplayed their hand; now we have something to go on. You will be doing very valuable work in Japan. I wasn't joking when I said that we should repay Deshima. Deshima is important to Japanese thinking and Japan is an important trading partner to us now. We really need their friendship, more than they need ours. Any other country would welcome their presence. There is no reason why they shouldn't go to Brussels or Paris or London. So it's all up to you and to those who are backing you. I am backing you, and I'll have two of our ministers here supporting me. And then there is the CIA and ultimately the Japanese themselves. You will find their Secret Service an interesting institution."

"What's my cover?" the commissaris asked.

The ambassador sighed. "Yes, an important point. Do you have relatives in the Far East?"

The commissaris thought. "A distant cousin in Hong Kong. He works for a shipping company."

"Same name?"

"Yes."

"Same age?"

"Five years younger. The man isn't married, as far as I know. He is a chief clerk, rather a dry man."

The ambassador smiled. "Good. Does he look like you?"

The commissaris thought again. "A little perhaps, but he is taller and he doesn't limp. I suffer from severe rheumatism in my legs. Perhaps you should take a healthier man. I might be too ill over there to be of much help. Sometimes I collapse and have to spend a few days in bed."

"Do you take medication?"

"Yes, but it doesn't cure. It dulls pain, but that's all. Hot baths are the best remedy."

"Hot baths!" the ambassador exclaimed, and clapped his hands. "But Japan is the country of hot baths! You'll find them all over the place. Natural hot springs. With a bit of luck we'll find you an inn with its own spring, although I wouldn't know of any offhand in Kyoto itself, just outside maybe. But even the ordinary Japanese bath should cure your rheumatism. You can sit and soak all day in a wooden tub with clean clear water, as hot as you can stand it. Their baths have copper tubes going through them twisted under a little wooden seat so that you can't burn yourself, and outside there will be a fellow keeping the fire under the bath burning. Or, if they are more modern, the bath will be electrically heated. My dear fellow, this is just what you are looking for. The baths alone will be worth your trip."

"Good," the commissaris said. The ambassador's enthusiasm was warming his bones and the brandy was seeping into his veins, taking the edge off the trials of the day.

"Splendid, splendid," the ambassador said. "Maybe you can give me the name and address of your cousin in Hong Kong, and the CIA can approach him and whisk him away for a while. Your sergeant won't have a cover, I presume, but I don't think the yakusa will worry about him. He'll be your bodyguard and can present himself as a tough young man from Amsterdam. The yakusa haven't met him here yet, have they?"

"Only the two men the sergeant arrested today."

"Well, they are tucked away in jail, and we'll arrange for them to be incommunicado."

"And Miss Andrews knows him."

"Yes yes. And Miss Andrews is staying with your niece, right?"

"She is. The police are keeping an eye on her movements."

The ambassador called for the bill and signed it with a flourish. "I am so glad we came to an agreement, I am sure you won't regret it. Japan is perhaps the most interesting country in the world. Exotic, mysterious and efficient, an unbelievable combination. You don't have to worry about seeing the Japanese ambassador, I'll take care of all details. You should be given your ticket within a week, I think, maybe earlier. We'll fly you out to Hong Kong first, so that you can familiarize yourself with your cover, and the sergeant can meanwhile fly out to Tokyo and meet whatever men the Japanese Secret Service will select to help you over there."

The commissaris mumbled his thanks for the dinner, and the ambassador reached out across the table and patted his guest's thin shoulder with a large hand on which thick blond hairs stood out individually in the light of four tall candles burning quietly on their silver chandelier.

"It was a rare pleasure having you here tonight. Leave it all to me now. I can work quickly when I am pushed, and a lot of different forces are pushing me right now."

They helped each other into their overcoats and strolled into the street. The ambassador didn't have a car with him and strode off into the drizzling rain, his hands clamped behind his back and his head and back bent slightly. The commissaris looked at the disappearing figure, snaking his head and scowling.

"How did I get into this?" he muttered fiercely, as he got into the Citroen. "Another year and I'll be retired. Why me?"

But there was no answer in the cold long streets of The Hague where nameless pedestrians shuffled about in the night, on their way home from a late movie.