The Darkroom of Damocles by Willem Frederik Hermans Read Free Book Online Page A

rental window in the hope of seeing the clerk who had told him that box 234 was not in use. That man surely knew more. That man was an accomplice, it was an inside job, because how else could the key of 234 have been in the possession of a Salvation Army woman only two days ago? That man had lied. There had to be some way of getting him to talk.
    But someone else was on duty at the window the whole time. Osewoudt had hardly noticed what the man he had spoken to looked like, but he was sure it wasn’t the one there now. Waitfor the other one to come on duty again? But what would he say?
    He got on the blue tram, got off at Voorschoten, waited for it to leave again, crossed the street and paused outside his shop to study the display.
    In front of him, up against the glass, stood the plaque: EMPTY PACKAGING .
    As if I’m running a shop selling packaging materials, he thought – everything I have on offer is empty, null, void. A tobacconist with an ugly, cheating, penny-pinching wife who’s seven years older, a mother who’s mental, and a father who was murdered – so much the better, too. Not that I had a hand in it. Shame. What is there left for me to do? I’ve got a Leica and a pistol stashed under the counter. But I don’t know what to photograph and no one will tell me who to shoot. Things just happen. Nothing I do ever makes a difference. No news from Dorbeck for four whole years, and now that he’s back he still hasn’t shown his face.
    He stepped to one side and opened the shop door. As if in response, the telephone began to ring.
    He let it ring a second time, closed the shop door, waited for the phone to ring yet again and then lifted the receiver.
    He didn’t say a word, only listened.
    â€˜Hello? Is that Mr Osewoudt? I’d like to meet you. I beg your pardon, but I would really like to meet you.’
    Osewoudt kept silent.
    â€˜I can’t explain everything on the telephone, sir. My name is Elly Sprenkelbach Meijer. You have never heard of me. The thing is, I’d like to meet you, but you don’t know me by sight.’
    â€˜Come to the shop tomorrow morning then.’
    â€˜I’d rather not. Can’t we meet somewhere in The Hague? I have an important message for you.’
    â€˜About what?’
    â€˜Oh, that doesn’t matter. What matters is how you will know it’s me. I’ve thought of something. Could you come to the yellow-tram terminal at Voorburg this evening at eight? It’s right by the viaduct. Be there at eight. I’ll be holding a rolled-up copy of today’s
Telegraaf
in my left hand.’
    The line went dead.
    He looked down at his watch. It was quarter past seven.

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