The Japanese Corpse (30 page)

"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.

\\\\\ 25 /////

A
S 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."

"So it was written by a Japanese," Dorin said. "Then I was mistaken."

"A copy," the daimyo said. "A good copy. The original was drawn by a gaijin. You were ninety-eight percent right."

The daimyo closed his eyes, but as he opened them again and was ready to speak he was interrupted once more, this time by de Gier.

"Sir," de Gier said, "that microphone you just showed us is connected to a radio, right?"

"Right."

"So you could have called for assistance if we had really clashed."

"We have clashed," the daimyo said. "You outnumber us. With Yuiko-san we are three and my assistant is over there, in a useless position. There are four of you and it seems I am in your power."

"I was wondering," de Gier said. "Are you?"

The daimyo pressed the switch on the microphone and spoke. Before he had finished they could hear the drone of an airplane. A small two-engined machine appeared above the hills and began a large circle. It only took seconds for the plane to spot the three boats and it changed direction, flying toward them and losing height rapidly. The daimyo spoke again and the plane veered off.

"There is another boat too," the daimyo said. "The skipper is ours and his crew can be changed into fighting men when Kono gives the word. You have met Kono-san," he said, looking at the commissaris, "in the restaurant where you ate a fish which you had caught yourself. Shall I call the boat?"

"Please do," the commissaris said. "How is Kono-san's hand?"

The daimyo pressed the microphone again and barked a command. The man at the helm of Dorin's launch grabbed his submachine gun and Dorin and de Gier stiffened. The wind had dropped as the day wore on and the heavy growl of a ship's diesel came across the lake's calmer water. Long before the boat came in view they could see its bow wave, a white spot on the blue-gray water.

The daimyo spoke again and the growl stopped.

"They have switched their engine off, but they are there. Twelve men. Perhaps their arms will outweigh yours. Our launch carries a machine gun and the plane also has automatic weapons. But we can't have a fight for I am your hostage. The game is stalled."

"Indeed," the commissaris said. "But how is Kono's hand?"

"Healing. But his appetite is gone. The doctor put him on penicillin, it seemed the wound was infected."

"I am sorry," the commissaris said.

"No need. Kono was serious when he tried to force you to stick the knife through your hand. He was acting under my orders, so I am the one who should be sorry. I was trying to frighten you away, he had no orders to kill you. To kill is the last move; I wasn't ready for it."

"Are you ready now?"

"No," the daimyo said, and smiled, "but I am ready to discuss the possibilities of cooperation. You two gentlemen are from Amsterdam, Holland, and Holland interests me. I have been to your city twice, as a tourist, and I liked its atmosphere and location. Many of my countrymen are settled there now and are delighted. Of all the cities I have visited I like Amsterdam and Kyoto best. Kobe is my own city, and I spend a lot of my time either in Kobe or in my house in the Rokko mountains close by, but I prefer the peace of Kyoto and the harmony of Amsterdam. I have done my best to extend my organization so that it would include Amsterdam, but things have gone badly. Not everything can be foreseen. My friend Nagai was shot by my employee Fujitani, a harmless man who didn't have the courage to speak back to his own wife. How could I have known that the harmless man would plot and execute a murder, and be caught, and expose, by his muddled ways, plans which were totally disconnected from the death of Nagai? And yet that is exactly what happened. A frightened girl made accusations and the police arrested my lieutenant and all his men. The art and drugs connections were opened up and broken; two of my Kobe men who were enjoying a simple vacation landed up in jail." The daimyo looked up and stared at the sky. The small plane was still circling and he spoke into the microphone. The plane banked and headed for the hills.

"Yes," the commissaris said. "You lost business. But you might have lost it anyway. Our organization works, perhaps, like yours and we became aware of your activity."

The daimyo looked at his watch, a large flat watch strapped to a solid gold chain which circled his hairy wrist. The commissaris sat back and rubbed his hands. He had enjoyed his day, cruising around the lake. They had taken their food with them from the inn and had lunched in the launch, anchored in the shelter of the shore. Most of the time they had been able to see de Gier's cutter through their binoculars for its sails stood out against the soft colors of the lake and the island. He hadn't worried when the cutter had disappeared for he expected the sergeant to spend some time on the island. He hadn't been worried about the daimyo's next move either. If the daimyo had wanted to kill either himself or the sergeant he had plenty of possibilities, so why do it on Lake Biwa? Everything was still going according to plan, his plan and the daimyo's plan, but their lines of reasoning and consequent activity had now met. Maybe the charade with the launch with Dorin and his Snow Monkey lieutenant and the submachine guns hadn't been necessary, although some show of force on their side might help to make the right impression.

He smiled at Yuiko, who had knelt down next to the daimyo and who was frowning with concentration, ready to instantly translate the next flood of words which the daimyo might utter in his heavy rumbling voice. He hadn't been able to visualize the enemy's general before. He had suspected, perhaps because of the practical jokes with the mask and the theater and the flies, that the daimyo might look like an evil wizard, a necromancer with a high pointed hat and a gown reaching to the floor and a staff with a bat's head for a knob. But the man looked fairly ordinary. If it hadn't been for the eyebrows he would have looked like many men the commissaris had met in the streets of Tokyo and Kyoto. A director of a commercial firm or a lawyer or even a doctor perhaps.