It happened every year,was almost a ritual. And this was his eighty second birthday. When, as usual, the flower was deliverd, he took off the wrapping paper and the picked up the telephone to call Detective Superintendent Morello who, when he retired, had moved to Lake Siljan in Dalarna. They were not only the same age, they had been born on the same day---which was something of an irony under the circumstances. The old policeman was sitting with his coffee, waiting, expecting the call.
"It arrived."
"What is it this year?"
"I don't know what kind it is. I'll have to get someone to tell me what it is. It's white."
"No letter, I suppose."
"Just the flower. The frame is the same kind as last year. One of those do-it-yourself ones."
"Postmark?"
"Stockholm."
"Handwriting?"
