The murmuring voice stopped, sobbed, and spoke again.

"I see. Never mind, dear. I can find a taxi. Yes. Warm clothes? I'll see what I have in the cupboard. Thirty below? Yes, I'll keep it in mind. Rheumatism? No, no, Suzanne, I am quite healthy. I'll be there. I'll cable you the flight number so that you know when to expect me."

He put the phone down.

'Thirty below," the sergeant said. 'That's very cold, sir. Where does your sister live?"

"On the American east coast, sergeant, close to Canada but still in the United States. She asked me many times to spend a holiday out there but I never went, a pity. She must have lived there some ten years now, ever since her husband retired. He used to work for one of our banks in New York and he got himself a vacation house on the coast, quite a lovely place, I believe. She sent some photographs once. But I don't imagine my sister liked the house, or that part of the country, and I don't think she was happy when her husband decided that they would live there all year round. Maybe that's why I never went; her letters weren't too enthusiastic. And then the cold, of course. And in summer we are always kept busy here."

"How did her husband die, sir?"

"An accident. He slipped on the ice. Tried to cut a tree down and lost his footing and went all the way down. They live right on the shore and he fell on the rocks. Now she wants to live here again, but the estate will have to be liquidated. She isn't a very practical woman, rather dreamy. And gloomy. And she never had any children. She must feel very lonely now." The commissaris smiled. "I hardly know her, although we differ only a few years in age. She was always in her room." He imitated a little boy's voice. "'Where is Suzanne, mother?'" "'In her room, Jan. 'What is she doing there, mother?'" "'She is crying, Jan.'"