Janwillem De Wetering - The Japanese Corpse

De Gier hesitated. He should take the gun, of course, and he shouldn't have put his own away. He might still reach his opponent before the old man could draw, but he also had to steer the boat and would be forced to divide his attention. To leave the daimyo in possession of a weapon was asking for trouble. But he shook his head and smiled, a warm smile this time. "No. Keep the gun."

"Abunai," the daimyo said. "Dangerous." The daimyo smiled too. His eyebrows were indeed very black and grew forward, bending off in sharp points at the sides of his face which gave the round head a whimsical expression. The face was red, almost purple, due to a web of small burst veins. De Gier guessed the man to be in his late sixties but he still seemed to have strength. He sat heavily on the little bench, the short legs spread and the chest pushed out. The folds of the bull neck showed under the open collar of his coat and thick shirt.

"You speak English?" he asked.

"Little. Some words." The daimyo turned and pointed at the cutter, which was following the fishing boat with the young man at the tiller. The cutter was making more speed than the fishing boat.

"Yuiko-san," the daimyo said. "She has many words. We get her, yes?"

"Sure." De Gier pulled the lever back into neutral and the diesel idled again. He paid out the sheet and the mainsail flapped. The cutter, sailing smartly under its heavy load of cloth, would overtake them in a few minutes.

The daimyo was still smiling and nodding. De Gier suddenly grinned. The daimyo had reminded him of the fat Chinese god which hung in the cheap eating house in the old city of Amsterdam where de Gier would eat his favorite meals, once or twice each week. The god, painted on silk and framed in cheap tinsel, tooked benevolent and also somewhat childish, but de Gier, as he ate his fried noodles or sweet and sour pork, had thought other characteristics into the deity. Cunning, and indifference. An indifference based on insight into a mystery which de Gier, during his wanderings through the maze of Amsterdam's alleys and canals, had often approached but never grasped. But now the god was close and had assumed a form of flesh and bones and arteries pumped full of blood. Maybe he could ask the god about the mystery sometime.

As Yuiko climbed aboard the fishing boat, looking much relieved after her lonely ordeal, Dorin's motor launch came alongside too. De Gier had been watching the sleek dark gray craft for the last minute, as it cut a heavy line through the lake's lessening waves, for the wind was now definitely abating. The launch looked efficient and menacing, with a high bow and low steel sides. The three men aboard had their arms, Uzzi submachine guns, snub weapons with heavy clips attached to the short barrels, pointed at the daimyo, and de Gier started with surprise as he recognized the commissaris standing between Dorin and the man at the helm. The commissaris was close enough for de Gier to see his face, and the sergeant noted the twinkle in his superior's eyes.

"Battle stations," the commissaris shouted in Dutch. "He isn't giving you any trouble, is he?"

"No, sir."

"Good, otherwise I'll pump him full of lead."

The commissaris was wearing a sailor's cap, with a shining black visor and a large embroidered gold anchor showing against the spotless white cloth of the top. The cap was set at a jaunty angle, so that some of his neatly parted hair was visible. He stood with his legs apart, the machine pistol's grip resting on his hipbone and the clip held by his left hand, a thin old man's hand with white knuckles and spidery fingers. He looked dapper but also utterly ridiculous, like a faded image from an outdated movie, and de Gier had to breathe deeply in order not to burst out in hysterical laughter. The muscles of his face began to hurt and he was thinking desperately of something to do, anything. This wasn't the moment for uncontrolled mirth.

"Where did you get the boat, sir?" he asked in a high voice. "I thought you would spend the day in the bathhouse?"

"Dorin rented it in Otsu, a little town farther along the shore. We've been on the water all day. Is your captive our man?"

"Yes."

Yuiko was pulling his arm and de Gier turned to look at her.

"The daimyo wants to speak to you through me. Are you ready?"

He turned to face the daimyo and made an inviting gesture with his hand spread out. "Go ahead."

"He wants to know if your boss wants to come aboard, and Dorin-san too."

The commissaris had heard and climbed carefully over the launch's gunwale and the fishing boat's rail. Dorin followed him. The daimyo made a place for the commissaris on his bench and Dorin sat near the tiller, still holding the Uzzi, but he had lowered the weapon so that its barrel pointed at the floorboards.

"Who is the third man?" Yuiko asked.

"He is mine," Dorin snapped. The young man began to lash the two boats together. The cutter was sailing close by, manned by the daimyo's assistant, and the daimyo waved him on.

The daimyo looked at his audience, turning his heavy head slowly from side to side, and began to speak. Yuiko translated his words sentence by sentence. She was no longer using the third person.

"I have been looking forward to this meeting, gentlemen," the daimyo was saying, moving his eyebrows so that the curved tufted ends accentuated his words, "and it came about as I had foreseen, although some of the details turned out differently from what I had planned."

The commissaris was listening attentively. The man in the launch, a young, athletic and fairly tall man with a crew cut and large laughing eyes, stood close to the gunwale of his boat. He had put down his submachine gun but it was still within reach.

"But we cannot plan for all eventualities," the daimyo continued, "and although we did know a little, many of our actions were based on assumptions. I admit I am impressed by your reactions to our various attacks." He bowed. Dorin bowed back. The commissaris and de Gier also bowed, but their acknowledgment of the daimyo's compliment took a little longer.

The daimyo giggled and reached into the cabin of the fishing boat. He withdrew his hand and showed them a microphone attached to a rubber-lined thick cord. "I keep in touch. This morning I spoke to the manager of the Golden Dragon bar which, as you know by now, is our local office. He told me about the dead flies which we scattered in Dorin-san's room and which found their way back to us. That was very good also. The Golden Dragon is usually well protected, also during the hours when it is closed, and the manager hasn't figured out yet how you managed to get in and sprinkle the flies around, not only in the bar but in several rooms as well. An excellent performance."

"Excuse me," the commissaris said, and the daimyo, who was ready to start another sentence, paused.

"Flies," the commissaris said. "A note was passed to Dorin with a text which we traced back to the time that Dutchmen lived on the small island of Deshima. "When the Dutch go to the Far East flies follow."

Yuiko translated and the daimyo nodded.

"The note was obviously connected with the dead flies found in Dorin's room in the inn."

The daimyo nodded again.

"But the note interests me," the commissaris said. "It was written in Japanese and Chinese characters, but we were told that the characters had been drawn by a foreigner, a Westerner presumably. Who wrote that note? Do you employ a gaijin in your organization?"

"The note," the daimyo exclaimed, and began to laugh. The wrinkles around his eyes contracted and his small stubby nose showed two deep folds. "That note was written by your own ambassador in Tokyo. I met him years ago at a geisha party and we both had much to drink. It was a meeting of businessmen and high officials and had to do with Japan's export trade. I forget now how I came to be there. Maybe it was because I am president of several small companies that sometimes trade with the West, or perhaps I was introduced by a friend. But I did meet your ambassador, a very big man." He spread his hands and stood up, expanding his chest and shoulders and pulling in his chin. His puffed-up cheeks made the imitation perfect. The commissaris recognized the ambassador; even the gesture of the daimyo's hands was exact. The ambassador making a sweeping statement. "He speaks our language well," the daimyo continued, "and he knows our history. I was interested and he told me more about Deshima and that part of our country's past than I knew at the time. And he can also write Japanese. He drew that quotation for me and I kept it. I still have it. The note we delivered to Dorin-san was a copy made by one of my clerks."