man was sitting in the meditation posture, and his long hands held a stick made out of some kind of hardwood. Dorin explained that the stick was used to guide monks as they faltered along, trying to gain insight. Zen monks meet with their master in private at least once a day during their training periods. They present their views, and are hit if they show signs of going astray.
'A very valuable painting,' Dorin said. 'It's dated 1238 and must be one of Daidharmaji's most treasured possessions. It's amazing they are giving us the use of it, for it must be worth an absolute fortune. The tea bowls are also of value.'
He held them up, one by one. 'They are Raku pots, sixteenth century, made of very soft clay, as you can see, and feel.'
The commissaris felt the first pot, reverently, admiring the irregular shape and the tender pink and red stripes baked into the glaze. 'Formed by hand,' Dorin said. 'It was never turned on a wheel. These bowls were specially made for the tea ceremony. Together they form a set of four. One of them is made for a woman's hands. Three important men and one highly trained geisha.'
'So what do we have here?' de Gier asked. 'A hundred thousand dollars?' Dorin shook his head. 'More?'
'Much more. The paintings can be compared to your Rembrandts. And the bowls are priceless too. This belongs to the best the East can offer.'
He rolled the scrolls and put them back in their boxes and wrapped the bowls in cloth, placing them on top of the boxes in the far corner of the room.
There was a sound behind the sliding doors. The maid who had been broiling the fish as the commissaris came in had left, and he expected her to come back. The door opened, but only a few inches. The double-barreled end of a sawed-off shotgun peeked in. Then the doors were slid back completely, and three squat men dressed in Western-style dark-colored suits looked at them gloomily, bowing stiffly. They stepped into the room simultaneously, the two at the far ends closing the doors behind them. Only the man in the middle was armed with a shotgun; the other two held heavy-caliber pistols.
'Konnichiwa,' the man in the middle said slowly. 'Good day.'
Dorin's face was frozen as he turned around to observe his visitors, but de Gier was grinning pleasantly. 'Konnichiwa,' he said softly. 'Irasshai. You are welcome, gentlemen, what can we do for you?'
The man in the middle nodded at the fish, which had begun to burn, and the commissaris reached over, turning the spit. The commissaris was smiling too. Thoughtful and polite men, the yakusa. He made an inviting gesture, and the two men with the pistols knelt down in the opposite corners of the room, while the man in the middle, the heaviest and oldest of the three, and clearly the highest in rank, remained standing.
The commissaris, as he watched his guests, was reminded of a photograph out of the Second World War. The surrender of the Japanese forces on an American warship. There had been several Japanese generals and admirals and one or two civilians, ministers most probably, lined up in front of a table, all stiffly at attention, listening to General MacArthur. This man's attitude expressed the same polite passivity, but there was the shotgun to reverse his position. His twin barrels were oiled and shone with a bluish light, both cocks had been pulled back and the man's thick index finger rested near the double trigger.
'Must dispense with courtesies,' the man said sadly. His voice was deep and slightly gritty and he was frowning with concentration, trying to remember the correct words. 'You received warning but ignored same. You bought art.' His eyes looked briefly at the little pile of boxes and cloth-wrapped bowls in the corner of the room. 'Eastern art, property of Japan. We buy this art, not Westerners.' The frown became deeper. 'Orandajin. Dutchmen. Not for Dutchmen. Business is ours. Please get out of trade and return home. We take art.' He nodded at the men on his left side, and the yakusa jumped forward, gathering the boxes and bowls and wrapping them in a large piece of square black cotton which he had taken from under his jacket. He had left his pistol on the floor, but the other gangster moved his, so that it pointed at the commissaris, then at de Gier, then at Dorin.
The bundle was placed near the sliding doors and the man knelt down in his original position.
'You lose much money now, but that is not enough,' the deep voice said. 'Also painful lesson to be learned.'
He shifted the shotgun to his left hand and reached out with his right. The man on the left took out a long knife and placed it in the chief's hand. The shotgun was placed on the floormat and the chief came forward. He swept the sake jug and the three cups off the low table and, with a quick movement, made the knife's blade penetrate the wood so that it stood trembling.
'You,' he said, looking at the commissaris. 'Take knife and stick through left hand.'
The commissaris was still smiling. 'Knife?' he asked politely.
'Take a knife,' the chief said.
The two yakusa in the corners brought up their pistols so that they were both aimed at the commissaris' chest. De Gier had moved back a little; he was on his knees, having changed his position as the chief spoke. Dorin had also moved. The pistols pointed at them for a brief moment, then moved back to the commissaris.
The commissaris took the knife by the handle and pulled it out of the table.
'This knife?'
'Yes. Now stick it through your left hand.'
The commissaris was waving the knife about awkwardly. 'Sorry,' he said gently. 'Not understand. Like this?' He pretended to stick the knife into his left hand, which he held up in the air.
The chief clicked his tongue in irritation and shuffled forward on his knees. 'Like this,' he said, and put his left hand on the table, stabbing at it with an imaginary knife.
'Ah,' the commissaris said gaily, and brought the knife down with all the force he could muster. A spurt of blood welled from the chief's hand, which had been nailed securely to the tabletop. The commissaris' body was still moving; he had jumped over the table and grabbed the shotgun, aiming at the yakusa closest to Dorin. The yakusa had been watching his chief and the new development caught him unaware. Dorin had vaulted forward as the commissaris made his move and the side of his hand hit the yakusa opposite him full on the wrist. The man dropped his pistol and Dorin held the powerless wrist and twisted it so that the yakusa was forced on his side, grinning with pain. De Gier's opponent was also stretched out. The sergeant had grabbed his wrist with his left hand and hit him simultaneously in the neck with his right. As the sergeant's yakusa fell, his foot upset the charcoal brazier underneath the spitted turning fish, and the coals began to ignite the tatamis.
The chief was stumbling through the room, pulling at the knife. He got it out, tearing the flesh off his hand and stood staring at the weapon before he dropped it. He groaned and closed his eyes and sank slowly to his knees.
Dorin let go of his captive, who was covered by the commissaris' shotgun, kicked the pistol toward de Gier, who picked it up and ran out of the room. He was back almost immediately, pushing a waiter in a white jacket. The waiter carried a large fire extinguisher. Dorin shouted at the waiter, and a spurt of white bubbly foam began to cover the room's surfaces. One row of flames had almost reached the paper-covered doors leading to a large wooden deck outside, and Dorin shouted again. The foam hit the flames. The waiter-unnerved by the commissaris' shotgun, the two half-conscious yakusa on the floor and the chief who was bowing continuously, his head almost touching the tatami as he held his bleeding hand, and de Gier sitting quietly in his corner, resting the large automatic on his knees-kept on pressing the extinguisher's lever and Dorin had to shout again to make him stop.
'Ask him to get the girl who massaged me just now,' the commissaris said. 'She must have bandages and something to disinfect our friend's hand. That's a nasty wound.'
Dorin barked at the waiter. The maid came within a minute, ignoring the shotgun and the pistol. The commissaris pointed at the chief. 'Kudasai,' he said. 'Please.'
The chief opened his eyes. 'Your wound,' the commissaris said. 'She will dress it.' He gave the shotgun to Dorin and went over to the chief, holding his arm while the maid dabbed the wound with cotton wool soaked in iodine and applied a gauze bandage, clipping it together with a metal catch. She made a sling out of a strip of white cotton and strapped it around the chief's shoulder.
The chief said something to her and the commissaris looked at Dorin. 'He is thanking her,' Dorin said.
The chief turned round slowly and bowed to the commissaris. 'You get police?'
'No,' the commissaris said. 'Police make difficulty. We have had enough difficulty tonight, don't you think?'
