The Darkroom of Damocles (5 page)

His watch showed five past eight when he got off the blue tram at Voorburg.

Through the underpass, over the level crossing, and there, a bit further on, is the yellow-tram terminal. Blue trams, yellow trams, trains, nowhere is there such a concentration of rail transport as in the suburbs of The Hague – and all of it crawling with Germans. How am I to spot a woman holding a rolled-up newspaper, how can I be sure she's alone? There could be two or three armed Germans watching the terminal, ready to pounce the moment I address her. Quite possible. They could be lurking among the other waiting people.

But rather than slowing down, he quickened his pace. He went through the underpass, nipped across the thoroughfare, arrived at the level crossing where the barriers were up, and came to the other side of the track.

Now for the clump of trees marking the terminal of the yellow tram. He could see the shelter clearly, and also the tram wires, starkly defined against the dark grey sky. But he couldn't get a good view of the people. A yellow tram rolled up and halted. I'll wait for it to go, he thought, then she'll be left standing there on her own. It's too crowded now. If she still isn't alone when the tram's gone I'll know how the land lies.

But the tram, having reached the end of its route, was in no hurry to depart. Osewoudt turned round, went back over
the level crossing and struck left, thinking to keep an eye on the terminal from there. But he couldn't see it: there was a mass of new bricks stacked up along the railway line. He walked on, only to find his view blocked by the small station. Bells began to ring, a railway signal dropped. When he got back to the level crossing, it was closed. A rumbling in the distance. Hanging over the barrier, Osewoudt focussed his eyes on the tram shelter. The tram whistled and set off.

A car pulled up beside him, followed by a second. When the train finally thundered past dozens of cyclists were standing around him. The cars started up and the cyclists pushed off, one foot on the pedal.

In the middle of that small flow, hampered by a similar flow coming from the opposite direction, Osewoudt crossed the tracks and walked without hesitation to the now deserted tram shelter.

There she was. As soon as he saw her she met his gaze and held out a rolled-up newspaper.

She was hatless, her hair was long and sleek, and she wore a white raincoat.

He saw nobody else at the stop.

In lieu of a handshake he grasped the newspaper, saying: ‘Elly? Are you the Elly who rang me up?'

‘Yes, that's me. I wanted to speak to you.'

‘I've never seen you before. Why did you phone? Why me?'

‘I'll tell you later. Not now, not here. I've been here for ages, and I'm a bundle of nerves as it is.'

Her face was round and very pale, her mouth was small with red lips, which she moved slightly as though shaping words under her breath.

Osewoudt looked in all directions, but saw nothing alarming.

‘Fine, we'll go somewhere else.'

He took her elbow and steered her along, away from the
tram stop and past the nursery garden at the corner of Prinses Mariannelaan.

‘Now, will you tell me how you got my address?'

He was still holding her elbow and could feel her arm trembling. She was short, even shorter than him; he actually found himself looking down into her face. Her big, bulbous blue eyes stared up at him, unblinking, as she said: ‘I was given your address in England.'

‘When were you in England then?'

‘I left the day before yesterday.'

‘By train, I bet,' he muttered, letting her go. He thrust his hands in his pockets, his right hand seeking reassurance from the pistol.

‘I have proof, you can trust me!'

He didn't reply for the next few minutes; then, at the corner of Laan van Middenburg and Prinses Mariannelaan, he pushed her into a café. He made sure they took a table near the door. She said: ‘Why are you so pale? Your hands are shaking, it isn't malnutrition, is it?'

‘No, things aren't that bad yet. Is that what they're saying in England? That people aren't getting enough to eat?'

‘Yes, they say all sorts of things in England that aren't true.'

She couldn't be older than eighteen.

She now opened a bag that hung from a strap over her shoulder.

‘They told me to show you this.'

Osewoudt almost gasped but took the photograph from her anyway. He had immediately seen what it was: a snowman wearing a Dutch army helmet and holding a rifle instead of a broom.

‘I don't know what it means. They said it didn't matter, they just told me to show it to you and you'd know I was safe!'

‘Who do you mean by “they”?'

‘You know, back in England.'

He slipped the photo into his pocket.

‘How did you come to be in England?'

‘I was there already at the end of '39. I was staying with a family to improve my English. My father and mother are in the East Indies.'

‘I didn't catch your name when you phoned. Would you write it down for me?'

Osewoudt took out the photo again and laid it face down before her. She fished about in her bag and brought out an unusual-looking writing tool. It resembled a propelling pencil, but the writing appeared to be in ink.

‘What have you got there?' He snatched it from her. At the pointed tip he noticed a tiny ball.

‘It's a ballpoint pen. What's so special about that?'

‘We don't have them here. Don't ever use it again! The Germans haven't got anything like that. Have you gone mad? What will they think if they see you with that?'

‘In England they never said I shouldn't take it with me.'

‘Could you tell me a little more about the organisation that sent you?'

‘No. They told me not to.'

‘How did you get here?'

‘In a dinghy.'

‘When was that?'

‘They put me ashore last night, at Scheveningen.'

‘So where did you spend the night?'

She began to laugh.

‘You're only asking because you want to check me out, naturally. You knew I'd phone, of course you did. You knew what was going on.'

‘I don't know anything. Explain it to me.'

‘In England I was given an address, an address in
Scheveningen. But the people weren't living there any more. So I went to an aunt of mine, here in Voorburg.'

‘What did your aunt say?'

‘Not much. But I've got to find somewhere else. On no account am I to stay with relatives. It's the rule.'

‘Where will you go?'

‘That's for you to say.'

‘Is that why you phoned?'

‘No, that wasn't the only reason. I wish you'd stop fussing! It was all arranged long ago!'

‘I don't know what you're talking about. The first time I heard your name was this afternoon.'

‘You don't expect me to tell you my real name, do you?'

‘So it isn't your real name?'

‘Are you saying you thought agents would ever use their real names? Are you having me on or is there something wrong with you?'

‘I think there's something wrong with you, not me. You're telling me you just arrived from England on a boat. Nobody's allowed on the beach, it's swarming with Germans, and you say you came in a dinghy, just like that? You expect me to believe you? Well, well. Next you show me a picture which is totally meaningless as far as I'm concerned. Where did you get it? In England? When was that?'

She twisted her hands and lowered her eyes.

‘Yesterday!' she said. ‘Just before I boarded the dinghy, which was at half past eight. I was taken across the Channel in a motor-torpedo boat, then they rowed me to the beach. They gave it to me just before I got into the dinghy.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Almost sure!'

‘Not absolutely sure?'

‘No, not absolutely sure. There was such a lot to remember,
I didn't think I was expected to remember when I got the picture. Stupid perhaps, but not unreasonable for someone who thinks others share their ideals. That's my biggest weakness.'

‘Keep your voice down. Do you want the whole café to hear?'

‘You make me want to scream, going on like that. You're making excuses because you're scared.'

Osewoudt jumped up, walked to the bar, paid and left the café without a backward glance.

But she went after him, still clutching the rolled-up newspaper.

‘I don't know what to do,' he said. ‘Best would have been for you to stay right there at that table. But it would be pretty naïve of me to think you'd leave me alone.'

‘Leave you alone?'

‘Yes! Leave me alone! Did you think I'd let you draw me out? What is it you want from me? Why did you phone?'

‘I'd have told you straightaway if I thought I could trust you.'

‘So why don't you?'

They were walking down Laan van Middenburg, in the direction of Rijswijkse Weg.

‘I'll tell you why I don't trust you. You've got a shady look about you. That pale face of yours, the pale hair and smooth cheeks. And then that high squeaky voice. It's not that I'm scared, mind you. You can guess what I think you are. But if I tried to run away you'd get out your pistol and shoot me. Go on then, take me to the police – I've had it. I've been set up.'

A tram with blacked-out headlamps rolled towards them, whistling persistently.

‘If you're so sure I'm from the Gestapo,' said Osewoudt when the tram had gone, ‘you might just as well tell me now why you left England to come here. Save yourself some torture later on.'

‘No, I'm not talking. I'd rather be dead.'

‘That would be a shame. You're a nice girl, although you seem to have taken a dislike to me.' He put his arm around her and whispered: ‘I'll tell you exactly what I think of you. When I saw that weird pen you've got in your bag I thought: where did she get that from? Must have been in England. But the picture, you understand – no, it's got nothing to do with me.'

‘So you don't believe I got it in England?'

‘No.'

‘Why not? If it's nothing to do with you, if you've never seen it before, why won't you believe I got it in England?'

Another two paces and she in turn put her arm around him.

But Osewoudt drew back.

‘I can't help you! I must get home! You'll have to fend for yourself!'

He turned his back on her.

‘Don't go!' she cried. ‘You just gave yourself away! You must have seen that picture before, or you wouldn't care whether I got it in England or not.'

When they boarded the tram together he had yet to make up his mind where he would take her. Amsterdam would be the best place for her to stay. But with whom?

He looked her up and down, then glanced around in the gloom of the tram car, which was lit only by a few bulbs largely covered in black paint. Was she wearing anything that might stand out? Wasn't her white raincoat rather unusual, and what about that bag with the shoulder strap?

When the conductor came she opened the bag and handed him a silver guilder for the fare.

The conductor held the coin between thumb and forefinger and said: ‘Is this a real one?'

‘No!' said Osewoudt. ‘You can keep it if you like, but here's a paper one. A silly mistake, you understand, a mistake.'

The conductor held on to the coin for a moment longer, then accepted the note instead.

Osewoudt gave Elly a nudge.

‘Didn't you say you were saving it to have it made into a pendant?' he said, a little too loudly.

‘All right for some,' said the conductor.

Osewoudt gave him a zinc ten-cent coin as a tip. The conductor moved away.

‘What was wrong with that guilder?' she asked.

‘Where did you get that thing? Everyone handed in their silver guilders ages ago.'

‘I got it in England.'

‘They might just as well have sent you here with a label on your back saying
MADE IN ENGLAND
. How many of those guilders do you have?'

‘Twenty.'

‘Don't ever spend one again!'

As they went into the railway station in The Hague, he said: ‘Wait there, by the ticket window.' He ducked into a telephone box, dialled his own number and waited with pinched nostrils in readiness, his pulse pounding in his forehead.

‘Osewoudt tobacconists,' he heard Ria say. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘This is …'

His eye fell on an advertisement on the cover of the telephone directory.
Mijnhardt's Tablets
. He said: ‘This is Mijnhardt speaking, could I speak to Mr Moorlag?' He kept pinching his nostrils.

‘Meinarends, did you say? One moment please, I'll see if Mr Moorlag is in.'

He heard her lay down the receiver. Then came Moorlag's voice: ‘Hello Meinarends, hello!'

‘Moorlag! This isn't Meinarends. Don't say anything yet,
don't give me away. I'll speak as softly as possible, I'm afraid Ria may be listening. Can you hear me?'

‘Yes.'

‘I won't be coming home tonight, I have to go to Amsterdam, I'll be back tomorrow. I couldn't tell Ria myself, you've got to help me. Stop her from getting upset when I don't come home. I'll be back, though, at least I hope I will. I have to find somebody a place to stay. She says she arrived here from England yesterday, identified herself with a photo that was still in my hands a week ago. So I don't believe the photo came from England. But I can't leave her in the lurch either. Wait for me at the station in The Hague tomorrow morning at quarter to twelve. If I'm not there, take my Leica and all the papers and hide them as quickly as you can. Do your best, Moorlag, help me!'

He did not wait for a reply but dashed out of the telephone box: their train, the last to Amsterdam, was leaving in two minutes.

‘Did you get the tickets?'