But the faces belonged to live beings, to large, quiet adjutant Grijpstra, accepting the world with some mild misgivings from under his gray bristle of unbrushed metal-like hair, and to lithe Sergeant de Gier, whose soft, large brown eyes observed whatever was going on, or not going on, over high cheekbones shadowed by carefully combed locks and thick curls. His hairstyle was a little too elaborate perhaps. A pedestrian who bumped into the car and cursed its driver, and bent down to have a closer look at the subject of his rage, might mistake the sergeant for a woman-provided, of course, that the sergeant would be blowing his nose. The sergeant's wide, upswept mustache clearly proclaimed him to be male. And so he was; an athletic adventurer with a reputation of antagonism, not so much to the world of crime as to the various systems of authority that interfered with his individualistic routines. But the sergeant was also a reasonable man and allowed his unfortunate inclination to go his own way to be checked by the adjutant's mellow mannerisms and the sly but gentle admonitions of the commissaris.

The sergeant's eyes rested on the commissaris' thin, blue-veined hand that had begun to play with a pencil on the polished desktop.

"Yes, Suzanne," the commissaris said softly. "I am very sorry to hear the bad news. When did it happen?"

A vague murmur came from the telephone. There were words and sobs. Then there was a moist whisper that could also be a fit of crying.

"Friday? But that's four days ago! Why didn't you let me know earlier? I might have been able to come out for the funeral?

"You kept on having bad connections? Poor dear."

The commissaris put his hand over the telephone and looked at the adjutant. "My sister, she lives in America. Her husband died." The commissaris' notebook was on the table and he flipped through the pages. "Yes, dear, I have your address. Of course I will come. Soon. Yes. Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. I'll telephone you. Can you meet the plane, do you think?"