Jean-Paul Stappert waited at the curb in front of the clearly marked pedestrian crossing. He locked his eyes on the oddly stylized, red figure in the pedestrian light across the street. To his left and right people passed, ignoring the crossing light. He reflected it was actually a bit strange the little scarlet man in the light diverted his attention, causing him to freeze to the curb. Less than a year ago he would have crossed without thinking, just like the other pedestrians. He would probably not even have lifted his head to look at the light, would have ignored the traffic as well.

Once he had a close shave with a truck. He crossed at the last possible moment; the truck clipped him on the shoulder. He was not so much hurt as startled and knew it was his own fault. The driver didn't even notice. But Jean-Paul stood on the sidewalk for several minutes, stamping his feet and cursing in rage.

He could hardly imagine behaving as he did. He had definitely changed. He was certainly mellower. Life was better going with the flow. He found people more tolerable — some were almost likeable.

He felt himself begin to change one day when he suddenly heard, deep in his subconscious, the sound of an oboe playing a lovely melody. It was an early, crisp winter morning. He was busy trying to break the lock of a parked car. The memory of this event lingered in his memory. He could evoke the events in perfect detail. He had been lured by the expensive camera on the back seat of the car, seemingly abandoned by a careless motorist.

When he heard the sounds in his head, he replaced the jimmy in his pocket and leaned against the car to listen to the ethereal sound of the oboe. The warm, clear tones moved and affected him in a way he had never before experienced. When he closed his eyes, he heard a playful clarinet take over the theme of the oboe. It was soon joined by the majestic tone of a bassoon. As if from a distance, he heard the tones swell, mingle, and then harmonize into an enchanting melody. He listened, enraptured.

He moved away from the car and leaned against an elm on the side of the canal, where he stared up at the gray sky through the bare branches. The flow of the music mimicked the branches of the tree. Phrases ran parallel, criss-crossing, but always striving toward the light. The music ended in a dazzling crescendo. Dazed, he shook his head.

That's how it began. He glanced a second time at the expensive camera, but he was no longer interested. He walked away from the tree, down to the end of the canal. Every once in a while he stopped. He placed his thumbs against the sides of his head and entwined his fingers before his eyes. The music would reappear, stronger than before. In a strange, almost hypnotic state he eventually found his way home.

Back on the street the traffic light changed; the static, little red man was replaced by the green silhouette of a walking man.

Jean-Paul stepped off the curb and crossed the road. On the other side of the Damrak, near the terrace of the Victoria Hotel, he turned left onto the wide sidewalk. It was bustling with the usual strolling tourists and passengers striving toward the Central Station. Sometimes they bumped him. He merely murmured a soft "sorry," and continued on toward the shop windows.

There weren't as many people walking near the buildings. He stopped to look at his watch. With a start he realized it was just ten minutes shy of ten o'clock, later then he had realized. He increased his pace. He did not want to be late, not this time.

Almost at the end of the Damrak, he turned right into Salt Alley, crossed New Dike, and entered Count Street. With a short sprint he crossed just in front of a streetcar on Rear Fort Canal headed toward Mole Alley and reached Lily Canal via Tower Locks.

The sprint winded him a bit. He took a few deep breaths and started to breathe easier. Then he turned toward Emperor's Canal.

Suddenly he stopped. An inner voice told him to stop right then and there. The voice was inexplicable, but irresistible. He became agitated. He looked at his watch. Ten o'clock. He was on time.

Suddenly his hands shook and he felt his heart race. He was overcome by an irrational fear. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back. From deep in his subconscious shreds of youthful night terrors surfaced.

He narrowed his eyes and peered into the falling darkness. A bit further down the canal, near the trees on the edge, he could just discern some vague shapes. They seemed to float nearer. For just a moment he hesitated. Then he walked on ... toward his death.

Inspector DeKok of the old, renowned police station at Warmoes Street, felt restless. He was editing an extensive report for the judge-advocate, but was unable to concentrate. Vledder, his young colleague and friend, had done most of the actual typing, based on DeKok's suggestions. Vledder, himself, had gathered a wealth of data, storing it in his computer. Now DeKok was supposed to scan it a last time, before he submitted the final report.

With a tired gesture he pushed the pile of papers aside. He stood up and with slow, sluggish steps, began to pace up and down the crowded detective room. Without conscious effort he avoided the obstacles in his path. The other occupants of the room hardly looked up as DeKok paced back and forth in his typical shuffle. DeKok tried to rid himself of a restless uncertainty. Something was bothering him, but he couldn't quite grasp it. Slowly he realized it would be impossible to get rid of the feeling by walking.

He went over to the window and looked out, rocking up and down on the balls of his feet. Diagonally across the street, on the corner of the alley, a drunk carefully navigated his way in the direction of Rear Fort Canal. DeKok smiled. It was fascinating, if slightly pathetic, to watch the man's desperate attempt to proceed in a straight line. He managed it by stopping every time he was about to veer off course. With great effort he would take another two or three steps in a straight line and then stop again, as if recalculating his bearings. His progress was painfully slow.

When the man had finally disappeared from his field of vision, the understanding smile disappeared from DeKok's face. The deep lines around his mouth froze. The restless feeling returned, this time, more intense. It was as if some strange, outside influence was attempting to drive his thoughts into a particular direction. It hovered at the edge of his awareness. He tried to isolate and dissect the feeling, but the key to the code was missing. He was at a loss. His sensitivity, his perception, and understanding of the feelings, was inadequate. An irritating feeling of discomfort gradually engulfed him. He turned around and looked at the clock.

It was two minutes past ten o'clock.

Erik Bavel leaned forward. He turned the key and pulled open the small door of an old sideboard. From behind a large stack of books he produced an electric percolator and placed it on the table. From a gray, earthenware jug, he poured water into the reservoir, and then pushed the plug into the outlet. He extracted a bag of coffee and a paper filter from his leather briefcase. Carefully he measured the amount of coffee.

A mischievous grin flashed across his smooth, young face. "Aunt" Mina Lyons, his avaricious boardinghouse keeper, forbade her tenants to cook in their rooms. They were not even to make coffee — it drove up the electric...