“And what’s the trouble here?” ask those of the police officers who walk on the house roofs or with both of their arms stretched out to the sides, balanced precariously on the cornices. “And what’s the trouble here?” ask those of the police officers down on the street, who, squatting in front of the doors, peer through the letter flaps. “And what’s the trouble here?” is shouted in through grated gates with only a faint echo as repartee. “And what’s the trouble here?” ask police officers, who are encountering police officers, who themselves, somewhat despairing, ask the same question: “What is the trouble here?” Even at night, while the running lights of an airplane inch across the sky, the questions can be heard as a hardly audible mumbling in the darkness between houses: “What . . . is . . . here?”
 
 
 
Husundersøgelse

“Og hvad foregår der så her?” spørger de af politibetjentene, som går rundt på hustagene eller med begge arme strakt ud til siderne balancerer faretruende oppe på gesimserne. “Og hvad foregår der så her?” spørger de af politibetjentene nede på gaden, som, siddende på hug foran dørene, kigger ind gennem brevsprækkerne. “Og hvad foregår der så her?” råbes der ind gennem portåbningers gitterlåger med kun et svagt ekko som gensvar. “Og hvad foregår der så her?” spørger politibetjente, der møder politibetjente, som selv, noget opgivende, stiller samme spørgsmål: “Og hvad foregår der så her?” Selv om natten, mens de blinkende positionslys fra et fly langsomt bevæger sig over himlen, lyder spørgsmålene som en næppe hørbar mumlen i mørket mellem husene: “Hvad . . . så . . . her?”