Osewoudt ran to the other side of the Singel canal and down the steps to the basement urinal by the water. It was unoccupied. He had a good view of the lay of the land through the slits at the top, just above pavement level. He fumbled under his coat to transfer the pistol from his trouser pocket to his raincoat pocket.
Nothing unusual was going on. Trams came past at regular intervals, now and then a car, some bicycles. No cause for any anxiety. He stood there for a quarter of an hour, then thought: I might just as well have left immediately. The police aren’t coming or they’d have been here by now, they know it’s too late anyway.
At that moment he caught sight of Zéwüster.
Zéwüster was coming from Spui, walking along in his brown suit, looking exactly the same as before. He was alone. Both his hands were visible. The booklet poked ostentatiously from his jacket pocket. At the corner he looked in all directions as if he wanted to cross the street, but Osewoudt wasn’t fooled. No, Zéwüster was not about to cross, he was simply on the alert. He made his way towards the University Library and halted by the entrance. Again he looked behind him and across the canal. Then he went in. Wait for him to come out again? Follow him inside?
But Osewoudt stayed put.
The library door swung open to let someone out. A moment later the door opened again, this time it was Zéwüster. Just popped in to fetch his coat, obviously. He paused on the pavement, again looking around him, then set off in the direction of Heilige Weg.
Osewoudt mounted the steps to street level, and walked slowly towards Koningsplein. Zéwüster knew who I was, he thought, and he was scared. Or he thought I was Dorbeck, and it’s Dorbeck he’s afraid of. He may not be a traitor after all, he didn’t go to the police, he simply bolted and then came back for his coat.
Osewoudt did not go in the same direction as Zéwüster, although there was no particular reason to avoid a second encounter. He walked with his hands in his pockets, the palm of his right hand growing moist around the butt of the pistol.
He sauntered along Leidsestraat, crossed to the far side of Leidseplein and walked onwards, not knowing how else to pass the time.
On Overtoom he went into a shop selling fruit, after making sure there were no other customers within.
A woman with a red, chapped face stood behind the counter in a starched white apron.
‘What can I get you, sir?’
Osewoudt lifted his hat, but did not take it off.
‘I’d like to ask you something. Do you ever have occasion to make deliveries to people in prison?’
‘Certainly, sir. We can make deliveries anywhere.’
‘But if you’re not certain which prison the person is being held in, is there a way around that?’
‘I don’t know, it certainly complicates matters.’
‘The thing is, my mother’s in custody, she was arrested by the Germans, and I think she’s being held in The Hague. Would you be able to get a basket of fruit to her there?’
‘Oh, sir, how very upsetting. And you don’t even know exactly where they’ve taken your mother?’
‘No I don’t, they wouldn’t tell me. But I’d very much like to send her something, as I’m sure you understand, only I don’t know how to go about it. Even if they won’t say where they’ve taken her, it might be possible for a parcel to reach her in prison.’
‘Wouldn’t it be better if you took it yourself? Then you’d at least be able to find out more.’
‘That’s just the problem, I can’t get away at the moment, and I don’t know anybody who could do it for me. Couldn’t you help me out? I’ll pay whatever it costs.’
‘Oh sir, how dreadful it all is. You can leave it to me, no extra charge. I’ll send my daughter. That’s the best I can do. Only, we can’t guarantee that the parcel will reach your mother.’
Osewoudt looked at her, contorting his mouth into a grin. The woman’s eyes filled with tears. She wore gold studs in her ears, and he noted that her right earlobe had an extra piercing above an earlier one that had torn. Attacked in the street by a thief when she was a girl, he thought, possibly raped. She had a pencil tucked behind the same ear.
‘What did you have in mind, sir?’
‘Cherries would be best, I think.’
‘That’s all there is anyway. And in another week or so they’ll be finished, too. We only get to sell fruit when there’s a glut and there’s so much the Krauts can’t eat it all themselves. Yes, that’s the way things are nowadays, isn’t it?’
The woman crossed to the display, took handfuls of cherries from a propped-up crate and placed them in the scales. With her head to one side she read out the weight, slightly under.
‘Do you want a card to go with it?’ she asked.
‘No, no, that won’t be necessary.’
She took the pencil from behind her ear and set a very tall, narrow ledger on the counter.
‘And what is your mother’s name, sir?’
‘Mrs van Blaaderen.’
‘Van Blaaderen? But that’s our name too! We’re not related, are we?’
He looked at the shop window and saw the name in reverse on the glass – with two a’s. He wanted to shout for help, but just stood there quietly.
‘I don’t believe we are,’ he replied. ‘We have no relatives.’
He undid the buttons of his coat and reached into his breast pocket.
‘Oh no sir, I won’t hear of it. You can settle up once the order has actually been delivered. We’ll let you know how we get on. Your name, please?’
‘F. van Druten,’ Osewoudt replied.
‘Van Druten, you say?’
She wrote it down. He now saw tears falling on her ledger. Meanwhile, he tried to think of an address.
The woman looked up.
‘Oudezijds Voorburgwal, number 274,’ said Osewoudt.
The woman stood her pencil upright with the point in the air.
‘But sir! That’s the address of the giro office! I should know – we’re a sub-agent for them.’
‘What did I say? I meant Achterburgwal, Achterburgwal.’
She began writing it down. Waiting for her to finish was torture, but he steeled himself.
Made a right mess of that, he thought, when he was back on the street. If it hadn’t been for me saying the fruit was for my mother I could have given her my real name, no trouble. How could I be so stupid? I’ll lose my wits altogether if this goes on much longer.
He could just hear the woman telling her family about him in her parlour: a man’s mother … by the name of van Blaaderen, same as us … no, no relation … the man’s called van Druten … Oh, he was so twitchy … I didn’t want him to pay in advance … he gave the address of the giro office, but he meant Oudezijds Achterburgwal, not Voorburgwal.
He visualised the daughter getting on the train to The Hague, carefully putting the bag of cherries in the luggage net … catching the tram to Scheveningen … asking the way to the prison … asking at the gate for Mrs van Blaaderen … being told she wasn’t there … not believing them … flying into a patriotic rage, mouthing off about Hitler … being arrested herself, having the cherries thrown back in her face!
That must not happen. How could it be avoided? Oh, easily enough. But it won’t get my mother her cherries!
He continued down Overtoom until he reached the T-junction with Jan Pieter Heyestraat. There was a public telephone in front of the technical college, and an electric clock across the street. There was also a tram stop.
Everything he needed for the next operation was at hand. Only, it was the wrong time: half past three.
So he walked on, turned left and came to Vondel Park. There he sat on a bench and waited for an hour and a quarter.
He was back at the telephone box at five to five on the dot, a precautionary measure in case it was occupied. It was not. To be on the safe side he went in anyway. He compared his wristwatch with the electric clock: they showed identical times. A woman with a brown leather shopping bag
on her arm crossed the street and made her way towards the phone box. To justify his presence Osewoudt started leafing through the telephone directory. At his back the door was opened.
‘Sir, since you’re not on the phone, could I go first?’
‘No! Clear off!’
‘Charming, aren’t you!’
Osewoudt grabbed the handle and forcibly pulled the door shut; fortunately the woman let go.
He held on to the door, using his free hand to lift the receiver, which he rested on the ledge while he fed a ten-cent coin into the slot and dialled the number. Then he picked up the receiver and listened. It rang only once before it was answered.
‘Is that you, Osewoudt?’
‘Yes, it’s me. Dorbeck, is it really you? I say—’
‘Shush! I recognised your voice. Forgive me for cutting you short, Osewoudt, but I want you to listen to what I have to say, just listen, you understand, I have little time.’
‘But Dorbeck, I never get to see you, it’s four years since you were last in touch. There’s a lot I need to tell you, and a lot of questions to ask, too. Where have you been?’
‘Some other time, can’t go into that now. Just listen. I want you to be in the waiting room at Amersfoort railway station at 12.30 p.m. on Wednesday. Make sure you go to the correct waiting room, because there are two. Yours is the small one on platform one. Buy a return ticket to Wageningen beforehand. In the waiting room you’ll see a girl in the uniform of a National Youth Storm leader. You go up to her and ask: haven’t we met before? Aren’t you Comrade Nispeldoorn’s fiancée? If you’ve got the right person she’ll say yes and show you a photo you’ll recognise. Make sure you locate her before the train leaves for Lunteren. She’ll give you further instructions. Good luck. And take some pliers with you! Mind you don’t forget!’
‘Dorbeck! Elly has disappeared! And how did she get hold of that photo I sent you? Wait, please listen—’
‘Elly was betrayed in Utrecht by de Vos Clootwijk.’
The phone went beep, beep in his ear.
Beep, beep. Osewoudt hung up and hunted for another ten-cent coin.
‘Still not finished yet?’
‘No. Sorry. My business is at least as urgent as yours.’
He took the phone off the hook again, put the coin in the slot and dialled 38776. No reply. He hung up, the hook sank slowly with a rattle, the coin was returned. He dialled 38776 again. This time he heard a shrill tone, rising and falling. Wrong number, obviously. He hung up and started afresh, carefully dialling first three, then eight, then seven twice and finally six. Again the tone rising and falling, the same shrill tone as when he had tried ringing Uncle Bart from Leiden and his telephone had been cut off. The woman with the brown shopping bag now posted herself at the front of the box and pressed her nose against the glass, glaring at him.
Osewoudt hung up, dialled directory enquiries, got through to someone, and said: ‘Could you tell me the name listed for number 38776?’
‘38776. Just a moment.’
He waited. The phone made a very soft purring sound, like a gramophone record come to the end of the side. The woman went round to the back of the phone box.
‘Sir! Are you doing this just to annoy me?’
He turned his back on her. She wedged her foot in the door and lunged forward, but as the box was a step up from the pavement she did not tower over him.
‘You’ve been in there for over a quarter of an hour!’
‘A quarter of an hour in a box is nothing these days, my dear madam!’
With his free hand he felt in his inside pocket and pulled out a card, which he waved under her nose, muttering: ‘Polizei.’
The woman let go of the door and made off without a backward glance. She walked stiffly and with her head thrown back, as if that was the only way she knew to keep herself from running.
He waited.
‘Hello, sir?’
‘Yes, Miss?’
‘The number you gave is not listed, sir.’
At that moment a tram came into view. He ran to the stop and managed to catch it. By quarter to six he was at Central Station. He bought a single ticket to Utrecht and went to platform one.
In the telephone box he looked up the name: van Blaaderen, Vegetables, Fruits and Delicacies. The phone rang normally.
‘Van Blaaderen speaking. What can I do for you?’
‘This is van Druten. Do you remember me? I was in your shop a while ago to order cherries for my mother.’
‘I remember, sir.’
‘I have just heard that my mother has been released.’
‘Oh that is splendid news! We’ll deliver the cherries to her home address then shall we?’
‘That won’t be necessary. I’m sorry.’
He slammed the phone down. Shopkeepers! Money grubbers! And it’s not even true that my mother’s been released! She may be dead for all I know.
On the train to Utrecht he had ample opportunity to mull over his conversation with Dorbeck. The most plausible explanation was this: the first time, when he had actually got through to Dorbeck, the number he had dialled had been the right one. The second and third times he must have got the number wrong. But the right number never came back to him. He had torn up the photo with the number written on the back and thrown away the pieces. I memorised the number, didn’t make any note of it, I was convinced it was 38776 but apparently not. What number did I dial the first time? 38876? 37886? 38667? 38676? 38677? 38687? 37886? He felt in his pockets for a scrap of paper and a pencil, found them, and began writing all the numbers down in the hope of recognising the correct combination if he saw it in black and white. But the train lurched so violently that he soon could no more rely on his handwriting than on his memory.
He screwed up the piece of paper, put the pencil back in his pocket and peered through the steamed-up window.
Utrecht. He had never been to Utrecht before, didn’t know his way about.
On the platform he asked for a telephone box. It turned out he was standing practically beside one. He had already gone in when he saw that the directory was missing. A note had been stuck on the ledge, saying TELEPHONE DIRECTORY IN THE STATION CAFÉ.
At the café he ordered a cup of ersatz tea. He let it stand while he opened the directory at the letter V. But the name he was looking for wasn’t listed under V. Under C then? Clooving, Cloppers, Cloppers, Clootwijk.
There it was: Clootwijk, J. B. G. M. de Vos, Chief Engineer Netherlands Railways, 21B, Stadhouderslaan.
Osewoudt paid and left the café without finishing his ersatz tea.
He asked directions, was told which bus to take.
It was half past six when he rang the bell at 21B Stadhouderslaan. Police, he said to the maid who answered the door. He lifted his right hand to the brim of his hat, but pulled the hat down over his eyes instead of removing it.
‘Is Mr de Vos Clootwijk in?’
‘They’re having supper. I’ll go and tell him there’s someone to see him.’
‘Very good.’
He didn’t remove his hat until he was in the ill-lit hall.
‘Do you mind waiting in there?’
The maid opened a door and went into a room. Osewoudt stood in the doorway. She went over to the windows and untied some cords. Blinds of black paper came down. She said: ‘We’re very strict about the blackout.’
‘Quite right, too.’
The only light in the room now came from the corridor. Yet the girl didn’t bump into anything on her way back to the door, where she turned a light switch. At the opposite corner of the ceiling, two small lamps with burgundy silk shades lit up. There were two more such lamps at the other corners, as well as a large ornamental lamp in the centre, but these remained unlit. The girl paused, her hand on the doorknob.
‘Mr de Vos Clootwijk will see you presently.’
Osewoudt nodded, and she shut the door.
Over the mantelpiece hung a very large mirror, tilted forward slightly so that Osew
oudt, standing in the centre of the room, could see himself from head to toe. The pale shade of his coat looked mauve in the burgundy glow of the ceiling lights, his face livid and luminous. He thought: it’s true, I do look like the kind of sod who’d work for the Germans. The ghostly lighting, the oversized armchairs upholstered in purple-striped moquette, the lavishly carved, high-backed ebony chairs, the ebony cabinet, the almost uniformly dark-brown paintings, the luxurious light fittings, which also ran to a standard lamp with a satin shade and silk fringe – all this made on him an impression of invincible wealth. He wondered whether this visit would mark the beginning of the end. But he kept his eyes fixed on the mirror even when the door was opened. A portly gentleman entered, whom Osewoudt observed in the mirror before confronting.
The man paused after closing the door behind him, watching Osewoudt’s movements. He was bald and bullet-headed; he wore a trimmed grey moustache. His jacket was unbuttoned and the pockets of his waistcoat were linked by a thin gold chain hanging down in two little loops.
Osewoudt made a fanning gesture with his hat, as if to dispel the atmosphere the man brought with him.
‘Are you Mr de Vos Clootwijk?’
‘What precisely do you want? I was at Maliebaan police station yesterday, and gave a full report of what happened. I have nothing further to add.’
The man stopped speaking, but went on working his mouth, the way people disturbed during a meal sometimes do.
Osewoudt took a step towards him.
‘Did someone by the name of Elly Sprenkelbach Meijer get in touch with you?’
‘As I said: I told them everything at Maliebaan station!’
‘I have nothing to do with that station, I’m from the Binnenhof police station in The Hague.’
Osewoudt stepped sideways and dropped into an armchair. He gritted his teeth to stop them from chattering.
‘It is annoying to be obliged to repeat the same story a hundred times.’
The Darkroom of Damocles Page 11