The commissaris grinned. "You think so, adjutant?"
"No," Grijpstra said, "I think I believe her, and there was blood in the car, and a bit of skull. Somebody is dead."
"Maybe she killed him herself," de Gier said, "and this is just a long story to put us on the wrong track. Murderers have come to see us before."
"You think so, de Gier?" the commissaris asked.
"No, sir, I don't think so, I think she was speaking the truth as she saw it. But I've been known to think wrong before."
"Yes," the commissaris said, "but for the time being she will be with my niece who is an intelligent woman. She lived in Hong Kong for many years with her husband who was the head of a trading firm. And during the war the Japanese interned her in a small camp for women and children. My niece was the head woman and the guards dealt through her only. She even learned to speak a little Japanese. Miss Andrews will be observed closely while she is in hiding and the local police can keep an eye on the house. I'll phone them later today."
"Ah," said Grijpstra, "that's different. And she hasn't got her passport, so she can't rush off somewhere. Do you think the Americans will help?"
"Certainly. And if this tip about drugs going to Germany opens a lead they'll be grateful. They know drugs travel through Amsterdam to the army camps near Cologne and Bonn, and the CIA is supposed to break the traffic. They are working with us."
"If Cardozo is traveling with the girl I'd better take charge of the detectives tonight," de Gier said. "I'll give them copies of the second snapshot. We can track those two jokers, but they won't be here by the time we are ready to arrest them. They'll be on a Japanese Air Lines plane back to Tokyo. We'll have to be quick, sir. Shall I alert the military police at the airport?"
"Yes," the commissaris said, "but the suspects will probably fly through Brussels or Paris and we are too late to alert the Belgian and French police, although we might try to do it by Telex. Why don't you do all that, de Gier. I will contact the ministry of Foreign Affairs, maybe they are interested, and I can also speak to the Japanese consul here in Amsterdam. Grijpstra, you take the girl to the train and tonight you can snoop around too. See if we've got something on the manager of that restaurant. Go and question him anyway. We'll shake them a little."
"Sir," the detectives said and left. The commissaris picked up his phone again.
"A Japanese matter?" a clerk at the Foreign Office asked. "Our ambassador to Japan is here for a few days, perhaps you would like to speak to him, sir? He is in the building somewhere; I can locate him for you."
"That would be nice," the commissaris said, and waited. He had to wait for a long time, while the clerk kept on telling him at two-minute intervals that he was still trying to find the ambassador. The commissaris smoked a cigar and looked at his plants on the windowsill. The geranium was doing well, he thought; it had sprouted two new branches during the last month, each branch supporting a heavy load of succulent leaves and bright red flowers.
"Commissaris?" a heavy voice asked.
"Yes."
"I am the ambassador. What can I do for you."
The commissaris described his case and the ambassador asked a few short questions. "Yes," he said in the end. 'This is very interesting, and not just from a criminal point of view. Maybe this will give us our chance, a chance I have been looking for for a long time now. Can you come to The Hague? Tonight perhaps? We could have dinner somewhere."
The commissaris rubbed his legs. The pain wasn't too bad.
"Yes," he said. "With pleasure."
"I'll be waiting for you at the Foreign Office," the ambassador said, "down in the lobby, at seven o'clock. What do you look like, commissaris?"
"I am small and old," the commissaris said, "and I'll probably be limping."
"Right," the ambassador said.
The commissaris dialed the number of the American embassy. "Mr. Johnson, please."
"Who can I say is calling?" the receptionist asked.
"His rich uncle."
"Yes, sir, just a moment, sir."
Johnson sounded eager. The code words meant "drugs" and "police," and they made an appointment for the next morning. Johnson would come to Amsterdam. The commissaris was grinning when he put the phone down. "Little boys," he muttered, "playing our game. His phone won't be tapped but he'U never say anything on the phone. I am sure he thinks that there is a Russian under the carpet and a Chinese cemented in the ceiling. 'Rich uncle' indeed. I couldn't even tell him that there is a dead man involved; I don't know the code word for dead man. There's bound to be a code word for it. 'Fish,' or something. Rich uncle ate a fish. Bah."
He was still giggling when he put his hat on. He was sure the Russians would have the code. Codes are usually sold before they are published.
He was tittering when he walked through the revolving doors on his way to the courtyard where his Citroen was parked next to Mr. Nagai's white BMW, which was being taken apart by the experts. A uniformed sergeant in the courtyard saluted, but the commissaris didn't see him.
Cracked, the sergeant thought, like the rest of them. They become abnormal as soon as the first star is sown on their shoulders. It's a good thing the police is run by sergeants.
\\\\\ 4 /////
Grijpstra was behind his desk reading a note which a constable had placed on its gleaming plastic top. The note dealt with a case which had been closed months ago, and Grijpstra was studying it glumly, moving his heavy eyebrows and blowing through his thick lips. He read it again, swept it off the desk, picked it up again, crumpled it and threw it at the wastebasket. He missed and he got up, kicking it behind de Gier's desk.
"Japanese," he mumbled. "JA-PA-NESE. Killing each other right here. Why here? They've got their own country, haven't they? We don't go and make a mess in Japan, do we?"
He picked up his drumsticks and played a slow roll on his largest drum, hitting a cymbal softly at the end. His head was askew as he listened. He hit the cymbal again, hesitantly, and tried a few dry knocks on the side of the smallest drum.
"And she gave me an introduction to the restaurant," he said aloud, "and I've got to go there, to shake up the manager. A yakusa manager. A gangster. Gangsters are dangerous." He put the drumsticks down, sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. He tried to think, but it was hot in the room and he felt drowsy. Far Eastern people are known for achieving their objectives in a roundabout way. Japanese are also known for their energy and cleverness. Why had she given him that slip of paper? It would buy him a free meal. But the manager of the restaurant would see the note, for the girl at the door would take it to his office, of course. And the manager also knew that Joanne Andrews, his beautiful hostess, had got away. And he also knew that Kikuji Nagai, the beautiful hostess's boyfriend, had been killed. And here was a heavy man, in a striped suit and a gray tie and a gun strapped to his belt, eating a free meal, authorized by the escaped girl. The manager would honor the note, of course. And then what? Would the manager have the guts to undertake something against a member of the Amsterdam Municipal Police? Grijpstra shook his head sleepily.
When de Gier came in half an hour later Grijpstra was slumped in his chair, his hands folded on his ample stomach, and his mouth was slightly open. De Gier stopped and looked at his colleague, shaking his head. Grijpstra's mustache moved as he exhaled and his lips made a soft burbling sound.
"Hey," de Gier said. Grijpstra slept on. De Gier tiptoed to the drum set and picked up a stick.
"Yes?" Grijpstra asked when the stick had hit the cymbal and the room was filled with the disc's ear-splitting brass clang. "What is it, sergeant? Something urgent?"
"No. Just that I have been working while you were snoozing away here. Why don't you work? The city pays you a salary, doesn't it?"