The Hollow-Eyed Angel Read Online Free PDF Page B

carry arms are ways to indulge power.
    He stared into de Gier's eyes. "And you, my dear?"
    De Gier said that he wanted to serve the queen and that one could see the queen, or her symbol, the crown, as a kind of opening, a tunnel through which the aware and diligent disciple could approach divinity, even here on earth.
    "That's nice," Grijpstra said.
    De Gier poured boiling water into his teapot. "So what else do we know?" de Gier asked. "The commissaris mentioned that Termeer, according to Antoinette, appeared to be a 'young fellow of forty."'
    "Some young fellow," Grijpstra said. "Six foot two, a sporting type, physically not unlike yourself but mentally more pure. Less cynical, I mean."
    De Gier had the same impression. Termeer could be described as childlike. As "nice."
    "You told that to the commissaris?" Grijpstra asked.
    De Gier said he had but that, in spite of the possibly authentic complaint, now sustained by a profile drawn up by an experienced criminal investigator...
    ("Meaning you?"
    "You too somewhat," de Gier said.)
    ...he didn't think it was fair that because of Grijpstra, via his pushy introduction of his star student, complainant Jo Termeer, the commissaris was now more or less forced to jump into a risky set of circumstances. In a dangerous city like New York of all places. Right before the rheumatic little old gentleman was to be retired.
    Grijpstra felt bad.

Chapter 3
                                            "Grijpstra should feel bad," Katrien said.
    The commissaris was having breakfast—a Sunday morning ritual comprising a choice of three cheeses, fruit juices in antique tumblers, perking coffee, which set him up for the day.
    Since Katrien no longer smoked she had done away with breakfast. Her sudden gain in weight distressed Katrien. The commissaris kept saying he liked her "ladylike figure."
    "You like nothing better than being a hero in America," Katrien said, "another ruse that you hope will make your image live forever."
    The commissaris, squeezing a fresh roll, spilled crumbs.
    "Or would this case be somehow special?" Katrien asked. "A nasty twisted puzzle requiring your exclusive genius perhaps?"
    The commissaris butchered a new piece of Gruyere.
    "What is so peculiar about an Amsterdam book dealer found dead in Central Park, New York?"
    The commissaris got up, walked over to his cylinder desk and came back carrying a fax that he handed over.
    Katrien read that the commissaris's colleague Hugh O'Neill (a high-ranking detective with the New York Police Department, the commissaris explained) was nominally in charge of investigating the case of Bert Termeer, deceased, this fourth of June, in Central Park. The dead body had been found dressed in rags and covered with a filthy blanket. The autopsy indicated a fatal heart condition aggravated by trauma, an injury caused to Termeer's chest. A fallen branch was found near the corpse. Termeer's case was about to be defined as death due to natural causes, or caused accidentally, without intent. A sport-related incident hadn't been ruled out.
    "The book dealer was struck by an unidentified implement, possibly propelled or wielded by an unknown party?" Katrien asked. She had been to New York and tried to recall a visit to Manhattan's Central Park. "Don't people play ball there?"
    "This case is about to be closed," the commissaris said. He sipped apple cider. "A piece of cake, Katrien. Mere routine. I'm only looking into it in order to help out a nephew of the deceased, a policeman known to Grijpstra."
    "Do book dealers wear rags in New York?" Katrien asked. "Do they sleep in parks under filthy blankets?"
    The commissaris said he planned to look into those controversial aspects.
    "Maybe golf," Katrien said. "Or baseball, or something. Victim was hit, collapsed, crawled into the bushes?"
    The commissaris nodded.
    Katrien was still thinking. "No. Wouldn't he be more likely to stay in the open, where help would be