Normally, the hour between two and three in the morning is peaceful. The newspaper deliverers are still asleep, trams and buses are resting in depots and garages to cool off the engines. The only sign of human life is the last tired patrons, trying to locate their homes.

Certainly, some members of society are very busy at this late or early hour, but they seem to be particular about not disturbing peace of night. One of their distinguishing qualities is respect for other people's need for profound sleep. Although some of them over time have adapted artistic skill, they gladly dispense with spotlights and applause.

In the noble residential suburb far from the noisy and hectic city, all hours were peaceful. At night, the stillness was nearly choking. Nobody noticed the old rusty car that stopped at the sidewalk outside one of the smaller houses; no one observed the person who slipped out of the car and quickly paced towards the front door. Nobody knew that the house owner, an eccentric chemist, had forgotten to lock the door. At least this was claimed afterwards. To those who knew him, the information was met with a knowing shrug.

An iniated group of people knew the chemist was working with a sensational innovation in his cellar; the same individuals were of the opinion that they were joint owners of the idea. They also knew he had inherited a collection of exquisite gold smith's work he planned to smelt and use in his experiments.

One of those familiar with this negligent attitude to the jewelry was his neighbour, the recently retired bank manager Delius. During his last working year he had tried to persuade the man to listen to reason and place the treasure in a safe-deposit box instead of wasting it in chemical experiment. The objection 'if you can't enjoy the beauty of the objects you might as well make better use of them' had been hard to argue against, in particular as it had been delivered in a jocular tone. Certainly, Delius saw no other beauty than the handsome figures the items represented when sold, but the mere thought of capital destruction made him feel sick. The estimated value of the collection was forty-five thousand British pounds.

After retirement, Delius' inactivity had, among other things, led to sleeplessness. He lacked the philosopher's power to engender soporific peace of mind and ten minutes of restless staring into the darkness usually forced him out of bed.

This night was one of his worst ever. If he had been as wide awake during the bank board meetings some of the decisions would have looked different.

Not to wake up his wife, he cautiously sneaked away to the living room. He never switched on the light during his nightly walks. Not that he appreciated the darkness but he dreaded that some likewise night-wandering neighbor might spot him through the huge picture window, dressed in his ridiculous nightshirt. The pale beam from a street lamp between his and the next door neighbor's house supplied enough light to save him from stumbling over the furniture.

To his surprise, an unknown car was parked outside the chemist's house. He screwed up his eyes and established that the vehicle was extremely hideous. The cars in the area were such that the residents turned up their noses at the sight of simple models of Volvo and Saab. He drove a Jaguar himself. This car was not only Japanese; it was small, old and rusty like a tin after three years in a ditch.

It might belong to the man who delivered newspapers. He had often seen him walking along the sidewalk. If this was his car, Delius understood why he usually kept it out of sight. He groped about for the ornamental clock and confirmed after a moment of peering in the dark that it was a quarter past two, far too early for the newspaper.

He made up his mind to take down the registration number and, in case of false plates, a description of the vehicle. Oddly enough, it was parked directly underneath the street lamp; a shady individual would have driven it into the dark area twenty-five yards down the street. He noted the color that could be seen between the rust spots, read Toyota on the trunk and neatly wrote the number on a piece of paper.

It struck him that if there was something mysterious about the car, someone ought to show up within a couple of minutes and take off with a flying start. He wasn't heroic enough to consider an action to prevent a crime in progress but if he saw someone step into the car he would take down a description of that person too.

He had just finished this train of thoughts when a human, all dressed in black and with a hood covering his head left the house with a large white envelope in his hand and something that looked like a bundle squeezed under his arm. The figure moved like a shadow between the bushes by the driveway and slipped through the gate almost without opening it. As he walked around the car his silhouette stood out against the street lamp circle for a moment.

Delius opened wide his eyes. This was not a man's shadow; the profile of the lower body and the way it moved showed that this undoubtedly implied a woman. A very attractive, not to say sexy woman in black tights.

The car started unexpectedly silently, took off and vanished behind a hedge some thirty yards away. Delius remained standing at the window as if paralyzed. The whole course of events had taken but a few seconds and for a moment he wondered if his imagination had played a trick on him. But then of course, he was not a very imaginative person.

He took a deep breath, admitted he really had seen the person and that it had been a woman. Even though a short man sneaking around a car might bend and twist in such a way that the lower body looks female, he was positive he had seen a woman. This lady had been exceedingly female.

His first impuls was to call the police and tell them he had witnessed a burglary, his second to wake up his wife, his third to calm down in his favorite armchair. He chose the latter and again confirmed that his state of mind wasn't one bit heroic.

Another moment of thought drew him to the conclusion that the neighbor might be hurt and in need of help. Delius' round, hairless face added grim wrinkles as he cast about his mind for an excuse not to investigate the matter.

Actually, it was possible that the thief had been so quiet that the chemist hadn't waked up. In that case he might have a severe shock if someone called in the middle of the night. If he was awake there ought to be light in the house.

The banker grimaced again as he realized that this pretext didn't stand up to scrutiny. In search of another excuse, he recalled the thief had appeared rather short. The chemist was a tall man in the prime of life. If it had come to a scuffle, the small woman would have been the victim.

It would be daylight in a couple of hours. If he waited till then he would have time to think of an excuse to call. Besides, it might not be necessary. The chemist's brother, a physician, sometimes passed by in the morning with his elegant car. When the chemist didn't prefer to ride on his bicycle, the two traveled together to their places of work. Delius felt the need of a drink. He stood and shuffled up to the cocktail cabinet. His fingers squeezed a Hennessy VSOP.

As he again sank down into the chair his thoughts returned to the first impulse, the dutiful idea to call the police. A number of scenarios formed at the back of his head. Naturally, the guardians of law and order would arrive with sirens and wake up the entire suburb. The neighbors would ask themselves what the police were doing at Delius' house in the middle of the night. When they found out later that it was because of a common burglary in the dotty chemist's place, they would shake their heads and wonder why Delius hadn't waited until the morning. He decided to do that, blaming the neighbors.

The next issue appeared like a re-bounce in Newton's cradle; what would the police say or think when they found out he hadn't phoned at once? Could he claim that a hooded person leaving the neighbor's house in the middle of the night did not arouse suspicion? Of course he couldn't. Certainly, the chemist's good-looking girlfriend sometimes stayed overnight and left early in the morning, but she was driving a white Volvo. And she wasn't in the habit of disguising herself.

He could choose to do nothing at all. But then, how would he respond if the police called to ask if he had seen or heard anything suspicious during the night? He assumed the neighbors were always consulted in cases like these and he was living next door to the chemist. Lying about being an eyewitness to a criminal act was likely to be against the law.

His eyes stopped at an item that seemed to glow in the dark - the piece of paper with the registration number. He had dropped it on the floor near the window. An idea came to him. He could tell the police he had seen the car during his nightly walk; that the sight had aroused his suspicions and that he had taken down the number. Then they would locate the owner, investigate the theft and, unless the car was stolen, put the thief behind bars.

He knocked back the brandy and refilled the glass from the bottle he was still clutching. That was the kind of action he would take. Then nobody could accuse him for not fulfilling his civic duty. And he wouldn't point out anyone in particular. Someone who might get into her head to wreak vengeance on him...