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for Grijpstra to come back, then." De Gier dropped the sticks. "I'm much too cheerful on my own. Come along, colleague." He opened the door. "After you."
    "Where to?"
    "There's a shortage of officers this morning," de Gier said. "Lead me to a café of my choice. It's your turn to pay. I won't do any work until the commissaris returns this afternoon and hands out orders."

\\\\\ 4 /////
    T HE COMMISSARIS, LIMPING THROUGH AN ENDLESS corridor on the top floor of the Police Headquarters Building, wondered whether anyone remembered that he could have been chief constable himself. When honors are turned down, they're usually forgotten. Many of the officers he had gotten close to in some way had retired during the last few years. The previous chief constable was a good older friend who was asked by the mayor to sound out the commissaris about the offered promotion. The commissaris hadn't given a reason for his refusal then, for he was talking to an officer he was asked to replace. To say that the job wasn't interesting enough might have sounded impolite. A chief constable doesn't hunt; a chief of detectives does. The commissaris preferred to remain out in the open. He found the door he was looking for, and knocked. A green light flashed on.
    "Had a good holiday?" the chief constable asked. "Care to sit down? Coffee, perhaps?"
    "No, thank you, sir, I haven't been to my office yet."
    The commissaris looked at his superior, finding the man hard to define. Polite, smooth, well-dressed, of course, no characteristics that stood out. Maybe that was why he had climbed so high in little time. "To float upward because of lack of weight," the commissaris's father had been fond of saying when he discussed the careers of others. Perhaps. He had to be careful, the commissaris told himself. Jealousy always makes judgment murky.
    "Whatever happened during your absence has been properly taken care of," the chief constable said. "Did you hear about the terrorist? That came off rather well."
    "There was a victim on our side?" the commissaris asked.
    "Unfortunately." The chief constable nodded sadly. "Not a life-threatening wound, but in the face, I'm afraid. Plastic surgery will be required."
    "Anyone I know?"
    "I forget his name. A young detective."
    "Ah," the commissaris said. "See you later, sir."
    He undertook the long walk back to the elevator, thinking that he should perhaps be using his cane again. The cane was too conspicuous, however. It might alert the authorities to his infirmity. The rheumatism was improving somewhat lately. The Austrian baths didn't help, of course, but his wife always had such a good time in Bad Gastein. She liked fashionable resorts. And the commissaris was supposed to like calling on his retired brother who lived peacefully in a luxurious chalet in the Austrian Alps. They would invariably discuss old times. The commissaris preferred discussing new times, but there weren't any for his older brother. Reminiscences. The commissaris scowled. Would he be analyzing the past too, soon? His retirement crept closer every day. He still enjoyed the present.
    A uniformed officer walked by, saluting politely. "Glad to have you back, sir."
    "Yes," said the commissaris. He stopped and turned. "Halba?"
    The officer stopped and turned.
    "I was reading the paper in the plane this morning. Seems you've been quite busy. Do you have time to see me later this afternoon? Bring me up to date?"
    "Certainly, sir," Chief Inspector Halba said. "Will sometime around five be in order? The mayor wants to see me this afternoon, about the terrorists. Bit of a celebration. That's why I'm in uniform. The press is invited. Perhaps you might care to come, too."
    "Awfully kind," the commissaris mumbled. "But not really, I think. Haven't seen my men yet, you know. Are they all back now?"
    Halba's eyes glinted behind his rimless glasses. "Haven't seen them sir. They don't like to report to my office. I was meaning to mention that to you. Sergeant de Gier