Mr. Fujitani came in twice, but excused himself each time after a few minutes. The restaurant had filled up and he was kept busy behind the counter, preparing special dishes and supervising. He was a small man, in his forties, glancing nervously through his steamed-up spectacles.
"Very good girl," he kept on saying when Grijpstra questioned him about Joanne Andrews. "She won't come back, you think? Very good hostess, quiet and efficient." He spoke quickly, firing the words as if from a gun, and keeping the tone of his voice on the same high pitch.
"No," Grijpstra said. "I don't think she will come back. She is very unhappy about the death of her boyfriend. She seems sure that he has been killed, although so far we haven't found his body yet. Who would want to kill him, do you think, Mr. Fujitani?"
But Mr. Fujitani only bowed and said "Saaaaah," shaking his head and looking utterly bewildered.
"When did you see Mr. Nagai last?"
But Mr. Fujitani went on saying "Saaaaah" and shaking his head.
Grijpstra looked at Mrs. Fujitani, but she was imitating her husband's behavior. They looked like two toys, moved by clockwork.
"Try to remember," Grijpstra said gently.
"No," Mrs. Fujitani said. "I don't know. Some days ago, I think, he came in here, but we are always so busy and so short of staff and the food takes so much time to prepare and there are only two young boys in the kitchen for the washing up and they never catch up so we have to help out. Many Japanese come here, we know most of them and we say a few words but then we forget again. Too much work."
"Yes," Grijpstra said. He was thinking of the drug-brigade detectives who would be having a lot of Japanese meals soon, while they looked for the Dutch and Japanese ship's officers Joanne Andrews would have described to them. They would have to set some sort of trap to catch the heroin smugglers. He wondered what detectives would be chosen, wishing he could be one of them. The food was excellent, he thought, as he looked at his bowl, fishing out a large mushroom with his lacquered chopsticks.
One of the serving girls came in, speaking rapidly to Mrs. Fujitani.
"You have a telephone call," she said. "Will you take it in here?"
"Please," Grijpstra said, and took the telephone, which she had taken from a side table, pushing one of its buttons for him.
"De Gier," the voice said. "How is the food? Enjoying yourself?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said. "This is a beautiful place. I can't believe I am in Amsterdam. This must be the perfect Japanese room. You should come and see it." He looked at Mrs. Fujitani who was smiling, although her eyes were still moist. He wondered whether she had any special attachment to Mr. Nagai? Or to Joanne Andrews?
"We have those two jokers," de Gier was saying. "They were sitting in their hotel room watching television. They say they don't know what the hell we are talking about. One of them speaks a little English; maybe we can get an interpreter tomorrow. There was nothing in their room, no firearms, no paintings or sculptures, no drugs. Their papers are in order, they say they are on holiday, two weeks in Amsterdam."
"And their jobs? What do they do?"
"Salesmen," de Gier said. "They sell chemicals in Kobe, work for some large company, I've written the name down. They were given the trip as a sort of prize, sold more than they were supposed to, or something."
"Did you arrest them?"
"Sure," de Gier said cheerfully. "The State Police found a little evidence. A Japanese man bought a shovel in a store close to the speedway to Utrecht. He was driving a white BMW; the storekeeper noticed the car. And some people in the same village noticed that a Japanese man was trying to clean the upholstery of a white BMW. He had parked the car on a field near a pond and was rubbing the front passenger seat with a towel or a large dustcloth. He had dipped it in the water of the pond."
"They only saw one man?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes, but the other one was around, I suppose. Maybe waiting in the car. The witnesses aren't too clear. They are coming in tomorrow to see the suspects. I have the jokers here in Headquarters."
"Are they upset?" Grijpstra asked.
"Not very. They want to see their consul. I have phoned him. He is out but I'll phone again tomorrow morning. They smile and nod a lot and say 'Saaaaah.'"
"Yes," Grijpstra said. "I have heard the word. I wonder if it means something."
"'Don't know' probably," de Gier said. "Are you finished up there? Want to meet me for a drink?"
"No," Grijpstra said heavily. "I am going to walk home and nothing is going to disturb me."
'Thanks," de Gier said.
"A little further down this street there is somebody playing Bach on a clavichord," Grypstra said happily. "Something sad, but there is a lovely gliding rhythm in it. It starts up and dies out and starts up again. Very fresh, I think you can play it. You have it on a record, but I can't have been listening properly when you played the record. The music is delicate, starting off with a tee-taa pom pom and then some sadness comes into it, played with the left hand, a sort of slide, I think I can do it on the middle drum."
"Yes," de Gier said. "I remember, a prelude it was. You said you liked it at the time. But later on it gets intricate you know. I maybe could play some of it but I would have to be able to read it."
"Balls. I listened carefully just now. We don't have to do that intricate part, as long as we get the slide right and some of the tee-taa pom pom. I'll sing it for you, maybe it will come back to you." Grijpstra hummed.
Mrs. Fujitani was watching him. The smile had gone, but she looked peaceful.
"Yes," de Gier said. "I remember. It made me think of a man crossing a lake in a small boat. He is leaving everything behind and it saddens him, but there is also some great love being born; he is going to it."
"Yes," Grijpstra said. "Death. The man is dying, or he has died already. The lake is black, but there is a glimmer of light, silver light. Tell you what, I'll meet you at Headquarters. You've got your flute?"
"Yes," de Gier said. "Don't take too long. I'll try to remember as much as I can. There's another bit coming back to me now, the end. Beautiful. I can play it, I think, and if you use brushes you can get the left hand in. It's the man's final statement before he meets whatever he meets."
"I'll take the streetcar," Grijpstra said, "be there in fifteen, twenty, minutes."
"Can't make it too late," de Gier said. "Esther said she was coming to my apartment around eleven. She had to give an evening class tonight."
"Yes," Grijpstra said, and rang off.
"You were singing very nicely," Mrs. Fujitani said. "Would you like coffee before you go?"
"Singing? Ah yes, I was. But it is impossible, I can't sing Bach. Do you like music, Mrs. Fujitani?"
"Koto," she said. "It is a type of guitar. But I am not good at it. I took classes as a child and I sometimes play for my husband now, when he is very tired, or upset about something. Here, in this room."
"I would like to hear it sometime," Grijpstra said, and tried to get up, but his legs were cramped again and he couldn't stand on them. He was frantically rubbing his calves and trying to push himself up, but there was nothing to hold on to and he grunted and fell back.
"I am sorry," Mrs. Fujitani said, "but there are no chairs in this room, they wouldn't look right. I should have served you downstairs, but the restaurant is so noisy now."
"It's all right," Grijpstra said, finally managing to stand up, "and I won't have time for the coffee. We have some suspects at Headquarters; perhaps I'll talk to them tonight. You may be invited to come to the police station tomorrow. I believe the two men used to eat here, maybe you can give us some information."