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?’