Hard Rain

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A thunderclap preceded sudden hard-driving rain, blotting out the shots, two insignificant little bangs compared to the divine anger bursting forth, booming in splendor. When the rain fell, IJsbreker fell too. The rain splashed on the windowsill, into the open window on the body and the floor. Outside it lashed at the tarmac, houseboats, and parked cars, whipped trembling leaves on gigantic elms, cut into the quiet water of the canal, split myriad tiny waves that the sudden storm brushed up.

The corpse lay quietly, after a spasm that made its long legs kick and its balding head shudder. The sprawling body was lit up by lightning flashes. The city of Amsterdam, surprised by the sudden change in heavenly temper-for it had been a pristine day in spring, windless under a protective dome of clear sky -waited quietly for the rain to subside. The Godfearing citizenry of the Binnenkant, meaning "Inner Side," where bank director Martin IJsbreker resided in a luxurious, fully restored, medieval gable house, were safely home, most likely in bed, for the tiny shots cracked at 11:00 P.M. The rain was so hard that it even blocked traffic. Both quays of the Binnenkant, lit by rustic streetlights, were devoid of movement. Nothing stirred, except the elm's branches, begging forgiveness of the rain, as they tried to spring up and were cruelly pushed down again, until four dim shapes darted up the stone steps leading to the banker's freshly painted front door. They slipped through the door, which gave way willingly enough, and three of them ran up the dark stairs. The fourth followed awkwardly, waving both arms, dragging one leg.

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