The Hollow-Eyed Angel

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"Yes," the gentleman whose name the commissaris hadn't quite caught said, "it's about my uncle, who is dead, murdered. And about my serving with the Police Reserve, for quite a few years now, serving the queen, and serving you too in a way. And that a thing like that can happen, in New York, that's terrible, don't you think so, sir?"

The commissaris, chief of detectives, municipal police, Amsterdam, Holland's capital, sighed. Because the gendeman (whose name-he said it again-was Johan Termeer) had added a question mark to his summing-up, an answer would be expected.

The commissaris could just say yes, that it was indeed terrible. That the world is not getting any better. That an uncle goes out for a quiet walk, in Central Park of all places, in New York, richest city in the most powerful country-God help us!-Sunday morning-the sun is shining-kids at play-music-balloons-and, inexplicably, the dear old man dies between the azalea bushes? That's terrible, yessir.

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