The Japanese Corpse

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"And you think something happened…" Detective-Sergeant de Gier said hesitatingly, stressing the word "happened."

"Yes," the young woman said.

Detective-Adjutant Grijpstra* cleared his throat and looked at the ceiling of the white and gray room which housed part of Amsterdam's CID, or the "murder brigade," as the department was known by other branches which filled the large ugly building of Police Headquarters. The ceiling had cracked recently and Grijpstra eyed the crack with interest. It seemed to have grown a little again. He was wondering if it would ever crack right through because if it did he might be able to look up the skirts of the typists upstairs. He grunted. There would still be a wooden subfloor and some thick linoleum to block his view, and typists wore slacks nowadays, like the young woman who was sitting opposite de Gier's desk, in the low plastic chair reserved for visitors. The young woman's slacks were made out of velvet, and shone. Her blouse glittered. Her long black hair glowed. A very good-looking young woman, Grijpstra thought, too good-looking perhaps, and a bit overdressed. A prostitute perhaps?

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