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good-night, having nudged Cardozo into the direction of the staircase. There was a gentleness in his touch that seemed to reach her. She no longer purred; her voice had become slightly hoarse instead. She left the door open as she walked back into her room and he closed it, for he had heard the constables come in to fetch the corpse. They were maneuvering awkwardly, bumping the stretcher against a wall. A trickle of water ran from die sodden body and the head flopped. The victory that Grijpstra had seen in Elaine earner’s face earlier in the night was still there, but the joyous expression wasn’t very substantial as her head moved past the commissaris. A thin victory, reached through great agony, the agony of a useless life. The commissaris had only a glimpse of the victim, but the moment cut into his perception and the shock bared his long yellowish teem and aggravated the cold pain in his legs so mat he stumbled and had to support himself against a wall.
    Death was his game, of course, and as the officer in charge of Amsterdam’s murder brigade he dealt with it continuously, but he had never made his peace with death. On a few occasions he had seen people die and seen fear change into surprise, a surprise mingled with horror. This was the first time he had seen surprise mingled with joy, or was joy the wrong definition?
    The question stayed in his mind as the car made its way carefully through the southern part of the old city. Grijpstra and Cardozo were on the back seat, both sunk into apathy, and de Gier was steering, trying to see something through the waves of water that the nervous little wipers couldn’t deal with. After a few minutes the rain suddenly stopped, and the commissaris saw die torn and broken trunk of a weeping willow that had graced a small square for as long as he could remember. Large puddles of inky water were almost brought to foam by a sweep of the gale. He still saw Elaine Camet’s head, the bedraggled clown’s mask of a middle-aged woman. Who cares? he thought. The dead are dumped and we tear into the living flesh of the killer if we can find him and frazzle the nerves of a number of suspects in the process. His gloom, cold edged with razor-blade cuts of the pain in his legs, increased and he braced himself in defense. He had to find refuge in the calm that he knew to be in his mind as well. This was a murder case like any other and it would have to be approached by normal methods. He would go into die mess tomorrow, for a mess it was. He only hoped that it was a simple mess that could be cleared quickly. Like de Gier and Grijpstra, he felt sure mat there had been a crime, although he wouldn’t forget the easier explanation of a combination of accidental causes.
    Gales are known to unsettle people’s minds. Mrs. Carnet had probably been a nervous woman, lonely and fearful. Her favorite spot was the porch with die ugly chairs and the TV set and a gramophone and old records mat reminded her of her glamorous past. She also drank. The doctor would be able to tell him how much she drank, once he had done his tests. She had been drinking that evening. She might have fallen down her garden stairs, why not? The broken wineglass in the garbage container, the cigar butts with plastic mouthpieces, the wedding ring on the floor … clues that might lead to nothing.
    But he didn’t think so. The meeting with Gabrielle had only deepened his suspicions. De Gier was probably right, she had been acting too well. Grijpstra, as usual, wouldn’t commit himself. Cardozo was too young and inexperienced, he would only say what he had heard, seen, smelted, felt, tasted, as a young detective should. But Cardozo’s assistance would be important, for he had met Gabrielle before her mother died.
    The commissaris was organizing his attack on the knot of lies, schemes, hidden emotions, suppressed fears, mat had already shown itself in part, but he got caught up again in the gale and in what the gale was doing to the