‘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 Osewoudt, 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.’
‘But I haven’t heard it yet. What happened, exactly?’
The man began to pace up and down at the far end of the room, by the window. He put his hands together and pressed them briefly to his nose.
‘It was like this. Last Wednesday at about one o’clock, the maid came to tell me there was someone to see me. I was pressed for time, I went into the hall where the person was waiting. She made an extremely unfavourable impression. I told her I was in a hurry and had to be off in five minutes. She said she wanted to ask me something. And what do you suppose she asked me? Whether I would be prepared to give her information about trains being used for German troop movements, and if not, would I give her the address of some colleague who would. I told her she had come to the wrong man. So she left. But she had hardly been gone a second when the bell rang again. I was still in the hall, so I answered the door myself. It was the same young lady. She said: I am Miss Sprenkelbach Meijer. Please do not mention any of this to Mr van Stockum.
‘I said I would not.
‘My wife had been watching from behind the net curtains in the dining room, on the other side of the hall. My wife, too, formed an extremely unfavourable impression of her.
‘I went to my office and reported the matter to my head of department, Mr Beuleveld. Mr Beuleveld contacted the police.’
‘What for?’
Osewoudt stood up.
The man did not move.
‘I suggest you ask Mr Beuleveld that, sir.’
‘Did you think Miss Sprenkelbach Meijer was some sort of provocateur, sent by the Germans to give you a little test?’
‘No I did not. She came from London! She also said her boyfriend was English. That is what she said.’
‘So you believed her when she said she came from London?’
‘Yes!’
‘You believed her, did you? Strange. Then why did you turn her down?’
‘Sir, I must protest! What makes you think I would pass on information to a complete stranger who turns up on my doorstep?’
‘That wasn’t all she asked for; she also asked, in the event of your being unable or unwilling to provide information, for the address of someone who might be.’
‘But sir, do you really think that I, in my position—’
Osewoudt stepped forward. The man was not tall, but still taller than Osewoudt by half a head.
‘Sir! You are, I believe, the right man in the right place at the right time! You occupy a senior and responsible post, but you’re not sufficiently patriotic to run the slightest risk! You could easily have kept your mouth shut with your head of department, but you didn’t even do that! Clearly it is not the place of someone like me to criticise your treatment of an emissary of the former government in London, but I must say: you have some funny ideas about our police methods! Thinking we would take it into our heads to send you some girl just to draw you out! You seem to have a strange notion of National Socialist values! Or, to be more precise: you seem to suffer from a mixture of base fear and a complete lack of political sense. What did you think — that the Germans have nothing better to do than send provocateurs all over the place to find out if any Tom, Dick or Harry might be persuaded to serve the very same government that they’d served until four years ago? As if the German police don’t already have enough on their plate. The idea is absurd!
‘The Germans only use provocateurs when they need evidence against people they already have reason to suspect. In other words, people who pose a threat, and whom they want to get rid of. But don’t worry, you’re not among them, you’re too much of a coward.’
Osewoudt put on his hat and made for the door.
Mr de Vos Clootwijk stood rooted to the spot, working his mouth with increasing agitation, though by now he must have had time to swallow his food.
Osewoudt said: ‘I dare say it surprises you to be addressed in this way by a plain traitor, a Dutchman assisting the German police. But I must advise you, sir, not to mention this conversation to anyone, not to the police at Maliebaan station and not to your head of department either. And if your wife happens to be eavesdropping you’d better tell her to keep her mouth shut, as you could be in great danger. I hope you survive this war, because I’d like to hear what you have to say for yourself when it’s over and you are held to account. Thank you! I’ll let myself out.’
He went out into the corridor, through the hall, and left the house. He ran off on tiptoe, darted into the first side street and then another. Only then did he slow down.
The train was still some distance from the station when Osewoudt posted himself at the carriage door. He swung it open before the train came to a halt.
He hurried down the platform, his fingers folding the lower half of his Leiden-Amersfoort return ticket. He ran up the steps of the railway bridge, down the other side, passed through the barrier and walked to a ticket window.