The central radio room was managed by a skeleton staff, short of three senior constables and a sergeant. The constable thought of his colleagues and smiled grimly. He could picture them clearly enough, for he had watched them leaving the large courtyard of Headquarters that morning. White-helmeted, carrying cane shields and long leather sticks, part of one of the many platoons which had roared off in blue armor-plated vans. It was riot time in Amsterdam again. They hadn't had riots for years now and the screaming mobs, flying bricks, howling fanatics leading swaying crowds, exploding gas grenades, bleeding faces, the sirens of ambulances and police vehicles were almost forgotten. Now it had started all over again. The constable had volunteered for riot duty but someone had to man the telephones, so he was still here, listening to the lady. The lady expected him to come and see her. He wouldn't. But once he knew where she was, a car would race out and there would be policemen in the car and the lady was now speaking to the police. Police are police.

The constable was looking at his form. Name and a dotted line. Address, and a dotted line. Subject, dead man. Time, 1700 hours. She had probably gone up to call the dead man for tea, or an early dinner. She had called him from the corridor, or the dining room. He hadn't answered. So she had gone up to his room.

"Your name, please, madam," the constable said again. His voice hadn't changed. He wasn't hurrying her.

"Esther Rogge," the woman said.

"Your address, madam?"

"Straight Tree Ditch Four."

"Who is the dead man, madam?"

"My brother Abe."

"You are sure he is dead, madam?"

"Yes. He is dead. He is on the floor. His head is all bloody." She had said it before.

"Right," the constable said briskly. "We'll be right there, madam. Don't worry about a thing now, madam. We'll be right there."