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Grijpstra grabbed the microphone from de Gier’s limp hand. “So if the lady is on her way to hospital who is left in the house you want us to go to?”

“Her husband, man by the name of Moozen, a lawyer, I believe.”

“What hospital is Mrs. Moozen being taken to?”

“The Wilhelmina.”

“And you have no one else on call? Sergeant de Gier and I are supposed to be off-duty for Easter, you know!”

“No,” the radio’s female voice said, “no, Adjutant. We never have much crime on Easter day, especially not in the morning. There are only two detectives on duty and they are out on a case too — some boys have derailed a streetcar with matches.”

“Right,” Grijpstra said coldly, “we are on our way.”

The old Volkswagen made an effort to jump away, protesting feebly. De Gier was still muttering but had stopped cursing. “Streetcar? Matches?”

“Yes. They take an empty cartridge, fill it with matchheads, then close the open end with a hammer. Very simple. All you have to do is insert the cartridge into the streetcar’s rail and when the old tram comes clanging along, the sudden impact makes the cartridge explode. If you use two or three cartridges the explosion may be strong enough to lift the wheel out of the rail. Didn’t you ever try that? I used to do it as a boy. The only problem was to get the cartridges. We had to sneak around on the rifle range with the chance of getting shot at.”

“No,” de Gier said. “Pity. Never thought of it, and it sounds like a good game.”

He looked out of the window. The car had left the park and was racing toward the city’s center through long empty avenues. There was no life in the huge apartment buildings lining the old city — nobody had bothered to get up yet. Ten o’clock and the citizenry wasn’t even considering the possibility of slouching into the kitchen for a first cup of coffee.

But one man had bothered to get up early and had strolled into the park, carrying his folding chair and a piece of rope to break off the painful course of his life, once and for all. An elderly man in good but old clothes. De Gier saw the man’s beard again, a nicely cared-for growth. The police doctor had said that he hadn’t been dead long. A man alone in the night that would have led him to Easter, a man by himself in a deserted park, testing the strength of his rope, fitting his head into the noose, kicking the campstool.

“Bah!” he said aloud.

Grijpstra had steered the car through a red light and was turning the wheel.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Just bah.”

“Bah is right,” Grijpstra said.

They found the house, a bungalow, on the luxurious extreme north side of the city. Spring was trying to revive the small lawn and a magnolia tree was in hesitant bloom. Bright yellow crocuses set off the path. Grijpstra looked at the crocuses. He didn’t seem pleased.

“Crocuses,” de Gier said, “very nice. Jolly little flowers.”

“No. Unimaginative plants, manufactured, not grown. Computer plants. They make the bulbs in a machine and program them to look stupid. Go ahead, Sergeant, press the bell.”

“Really?” the sergeant asked.

Grijpstra’s jowls sagged. “Yes. They are like mass-manufactured cheese, tasteless; cheese is probably made with the same machines.”

“Cheese,” de Gier said moistly, “there’s nothing wrong with cheese either, apart from not having any right now. Breakfast has slipped by, you know.” He glanced at his watch.

They read the nameplate while the bell rang. H. F. Moozen, Attorney at Law. The door opened. A man in a housecoat made out of brightly striped towel material said good morning. The detectives showed their identifications. The man nodded and stepped back. A pleasant man, still young, 30 years or a bit more. The ideal model for an ad in a ladies’ magazine. A background man, showing off a modern house, or a mini-car, or expensive furniture. The sort of man ladies would like to have around. Quiet, secure, mildly good-looking. Not a passionate man, but lawyers seldom are. Lawyers practise detachment; they identify with their clients, but only up to a point.

“You won’t take long, I hope,” Mr. Moozen said. “I wanted to go with the ambulance, but the driver said you were on the way, and that I wouldn’t be of any help if I stayed with my wife.”

“Was your wife conscious when she left here, sir?”

“Barely. She couldn’t speak.”

“She ate an egg, a chocolate egg?”

“Yes. I don’t care for chocolate myself. It was a gift, we thought, from friends. I had to let the dog out early this morning, an hour ago, and there was an Easter bunny sitting on the path. He held an egg wrapped up in silver paper. I took him in, woke up my wife, and showed the bunny to her, and she took the egg and ate it, then became ill. I telephoned for the ambulance and they came almost immediately. I would like to go to the hospital now.”

“Come in our car, sir. Can I see the bunny?”

Mr. Moozen took off the housecoat and put on a jacket. He opened the door leading to the kitchen and a small dog jumped around the detectives, yapping greetings. The bunny stood on the kitchen counter; it was almost a foot high. Grijpstra tapped its back with his knuckles; it sounded solid.

“Hey,” de Gier said. He turned the bunny around and showed it to Grijpstra.

“Brwah!” Grijpstra said.

The rabbit’s toothless mouth gaped. The beast’s eyes were close together and deeply sunk into the skull. Its ears stood up aggressively. The bunny leered at them, its torso crouched; the paws that had held the deadly egg seemed ready to punch.

“It’s roaring,” de Gier said. “See? A roaring rabbit. Easter bunnies are supposed to smile.”

“Shall we go?” Mr. Moozen asked.

They used the siren and the trip to the hospital didn’t take ten minutes. The city was still quiet. But there proved to be no hurry. An energetic bright young nurse led them to a waiting room. Mrs. Moozen was being worked on; her condition was still critical. The nurse would let them know if there was any change.

“Can we smoke?” Grijpstra asked.

“If you must.” The nurse smiled coldly, appraised de Gier’s tall wide-shouldered body with a possessive feminist glance, swung her hips, and turned to the door.

“Any coffee?”

“There’s a machine in the hall. Don’t smoke in the hall, please.”

There were several posters in the waiting room. A picture of a cigarette pointing to a skull with crossed bones. A picture of a happy child biting into an apple. A picture of a drunken driver (bubbles surrounding his head proved he was drunk) followed by an ambulance. The caption read: “Not if you have an accident, but when you have an accident.”

De Gier fetched coffee and Grijpstra offered cigars. Mr. Moozen said he didn’t smoke.

“Well,” Grijpstra said patiently and puffed out a ragged dark cloud, “now who would want to poison your wife, sir? Has there been any recent trouble in her life?”

The question hung in the small white room while Moozen thought. The detectives waited. De Gier stared at the floor, Grijpstra observed the ceiling. A full minute passed.

“Yes,” Mr. Moozen said, “some trouble. With me. We contemplated a divorce.”