The commissaris got up, walked over to his cylinder desk and came back carrying a fax that he handed over.
Katrien read that the commissaris's colleague Hugh O'Neill (a high-ranking detective with the New York Police Department, the commissaris explained) was nominally in charge of investigating the case of Bert Termeer, deceased, this fourth of June, in Central Park. The dead body had been found dressed in rags and covered with a filthy blanket. The autopsy indicated a fatal heart condition aggravated by trauma, an injury caused to Termeer's chest. A fallen branch was found near the corpse. Termeer's case was about to be defined as death due to natural causes, or caused accidentally, without intent. A sport-related incident hadn't been ruled out.
'The book dealer was struck by an unidentified implement, possibly propelled or wielded by an unknown party?' Katrien asked. She had been to New York and tried to recall a visit to Manhattan's Central Park. 'Don't people play ball there?'
'This case is about to be closed,' the commissaris said. He sipped apple cider. 'A piece of cake, Katrien. Mere routine. I'm only looking into it in order to help out a nephew of the deceased, a policeman known to Grijpstra.'
'Do book dealers wear rags in New York?' Katrien asked. 'Do they sleep in parks under filthy blankets?'
The commissaris said he planned to look into those controversial aspects.
'Maybe golf,' Katrien said. 'Or baseball, or something. Victim was hit, collapsed, crawled into the bushes?'
The commissaris nodded.
Katrien was still thinking. 'No. Wouldn't he be more likely to stay in the open, where help would be forthcoming?'
The commissaris fetched more fresh rolls from the kitchen.
'A busy park within the metropolis,' Katrien said. 'A man has a heart attack. Wouldn't people notice?'
The commissaris agreed.
'What age was Grijpstra's pal's dead uncle?' Katrien asked.
'Seventy, Katrien.'
'Enjoying good health, apart from the heart condition?'
The commissaris said he would inquire.
'Not a drunk? Or an addict? So why would he wear rags?'
The commissaris planned to find out.
Katrien, frustrated, ate something after all-thinly sliced cheese-and drank coffee, no cream, no sugar.
The commissaris played with his roll, then handed the rest to her.
'Looks like it is all over,' Katrien was saying. 'What do you expect to come up with, Jan? Old people don't respond well to shock. They tend to just keel over. Remember my father?'
'Uncle Bert wasn't married,' the commissaris said.
Katrien interrupted her eating. 'Meaning what, my sweet?'
The commissaris meant that when Katrien's father died, he hadn't just switched off. He had been gradually worn down by seventy years of irritation caused by life's vicissitudes. That he was also hit by a truck was because, exhausted, he was paying no attention.
Katrien stared at her husband.
'I don't mean that you irritate me,' the commissaris said. 'Don't worry, Katrien. I'm sure the case is simple, even if it seems puzzling when we look at it from here. I'll check the details, ask around a little bit, study the location, go into this Uncle Bert's background. I'm sure my final report will put complainant's mind at rest.'
'You'll be mugged,' Katrien said. 'You've been very sickly lately. You hardly sleep at night. You don't even enjoy napping. You keep taking pain pills. And I can't go with you because of our daughter's due date. I won't let you go.'
Soon, the commissaris said, he would be retired. All the rest a man could ask for. He would wallow in nondoing.
'I'll go with you,' Katrien decided.
'You promised to be here for the grandchildren's birth.'
There was that-twins were about to be born to Katrien and Jan's youngest daughter. The birth was predicted to entail some complications. Katrien had promised support.
'I'll be fine,' the commissaris said.
Katrien wanted to do something. The police convention accommodations consisted of a room in a Holiday Inn. Katrien had inherited a small fortune in tax-free jewels from a tax-evading aunt who had left her the key and authorization to enter a Swiss bank's safety deposit box. Katrien never wore 'trinkets.' She had sold the stashed rubies.
'I'll get you a nice hotel room. Right on the park. That will be pleasant. Maybe that place near that enormous museum. The Cavendish? I'll get you a suite. You can rest and enjoy room service.'
The commissaris didn't hear her.
'You are thinking of something,' Katrien said.
His attitude didn't change.
'Stop stirring your coffee, dear.' She took away his spoon.
He looked at her over the rim of his cup.
'You don't have a premonition, do you?' Katrien asked. 'I have one myself. Or was it that dream you were going to finish telling me about this morning? About the driver of a Number Two streetcar? You did tell me something but I kept dozing off.'
'The Angel of Death,' the commissaris said. 'The driver was an angel. The message had to do with death, but not mine, I don't think.'
'Good,' Katrien said. She worried-about his frail health, the strenuous journey he was about to undertake, his coming retirement.
He helped his wife wash up.
'Will you tell me about that dream now?'
The commissaris busied himself stacking plates in the cupboard.
'Don't put that funny look on,' Katrien said. 'I know that look. That streetcar driver was a woman, wasn't she now? I know the one you mean.'
'Which one?' he asked.
'That blonde? Long legs in the glass driver's cabin, glass all the way down to the street. On the new type of streetcar. You forget we were together when you noticed that lady driver. You were all eyes. You wouldn't talk much afterward.'
The commissaris admitted that the driver had made an impression, had set off an erotic fantasy. The new model Amsterdam electric streetcars had all glass fronts, enabling the drivers to see in every direction. The drivers were therefore visible themselves. A long-legged female driver on a Number Two streetcar had made an impression. The woman displayed her body well. She wore a miniskirt and had a magnificent hairdo. She sat there like a prostitute in a window in the inner city, proud of her qualities, pretending not to notice men leering, possibly drooling. As a tram driver in uniform she was unapproachable, of course-the tram's radio connected to all police cars. This unapproachable status made the fantasy even stronger. 'But the dream wasn't really all that sexy, Katrien. I mean, nothing happened.'
Katrien smiled sincerely. 'Enjoy your naughty dreams, Jan.'
'It was more like a mystical dream,' he insisted. 'There was an extra meaning. More like divine, Katrien.' He looked up. 'One doesn't have sex with angels.'
'Yes, right,' she said kindly.
He was arranging the silver, forks with forks, knives with knives, neatly lined up in their drawer.
'Jan,' Katrien said sternly, 'is that why you use public transport nowadays? You want to be near that long- legged blond driver again, have her take you where she wants to?' She patted his cheek. 'And you have such a nice car.'
'I don't use the Citroen anymore because there is no more parking in town, Katrien.' He sighed. 'Not unless one tolerates the exorbitant charges. Last time I tried I was delayed and they put a boot on one of my tires. Another enormous hassle. A fine. I had to stand around while they took the boot off.'
