In this outfit he walked along the high street, a rolled-up towel under his arm containing his swimming trunks wrapped round the pistol.
He took the tram to Leiden, and there he took the train to Haarlem.
At 2.45 sharp he entered the waiting room at Haarlem station. Dorbeck was occupying a table beside a tall potted palm; there was another man with him. Otherwise the waiting room was empty. Dorbeck laid his lighted cigarette on the ashtray, half rose from his seat, and signalled to him.
Osewoudt went to the table, passing the towel from his right hand to his left. The other man, who had remained seated, looked up.
He had a large, despondent head oozing perspiration. His black hair was slicked down from a centre parting. On the table in front of him lay a small briefcase.
‘This is Zéwüster,’ Dorbeck said.
Osewoudt shook hands with him, but did not mention his own name.
Zéwüster was at least thirty-five years old. He wore a thick suit of brown serge.
‘The address we’re going to,’ Zéwüster said, ‘is Kleine Houtstraat 32. Just follow me. Better stay a few paces behind. There’s a fish shop near there where I’ll wait for you. We go inside together. As soon as we’re in the living room, you shoot. Shoot whoever’s nearest to you. Mind you don’t make a mistake, because if we both shoot the same man the other one’ll take us out.’
Dorbeck called the waiter and paid the bill.
They all shook hands deliberately, as if they were saying goodbye for a long time, then left the waiting room. Dorbeck in the lead, Zéwüster following some ten metres behind. Osewoudt brought up the rear.
When he emerged from the station, Osewoudt didn’t see Dorbeck anywhere. He could still see Zéwüster, though.
Walking on opposite sides of the street, they went down Kruisweg and then on in a straight line. Osewoudt was in the shade, Zéwüster in the sun. How light Osewoudt felt in his tennis shoes, compared to Zéwüster! It was like being on another planet, where the force of gravity is only a fraction of the earth’s.
Zéwüster’s wide body lumbered forward under the oppressive sun. The buttons of his jacket must all have been done up, for the thick fabric strained across his back and his pockets gaped. His left hand gripped the handle of the worn black briefcase. He held his arm pinned to his side, as if the briefcase contained dynamite that might explode at any moment, which gave him a strange, jerky gait. He did not look back.
They came to the side street where the terminal for the blue trams to Zandvoort, The Hague and Amsterdam was. Zéwüster stopped outside a fish shop. He still didn’t look round, seemingly engrossed in the window display. Osewoudt crossed the street and joined Zéwüster in front of the window. Walking side by side they came to a tree-lined square.
‘The public swimming pool’s over there,’ Zéwüster said. ‘You can take a dip as soon as we’re done. Was that what you had in mind?’
‘No, I just took the towel to make the folks in Voorschoten think I was going to the beach. The son of the chemist across the street is a Nazi.’
Kleine Houtstraat 32 was on a corner. While Zéwüster rang the bell, Osewoudt looked in all directions, but didn’t see Dorbeck. The door opened almost at once, and a spongy, bald man with a red face stood before them in the hallway.
‘May we come in for a moment?’ Zéwüster said.
Introductions and handshakes were apparently not expected. They filed down a cool but stale-smelling corridor. Zéwüster in front, then Osewoudt, and finally the man with the red face.
The door at the end of the corridor was ajar. Zéwüster paused by this door for Osewoudt and the other man to catch up. The man with the red face pushed the door wide open and they went in.
They found themselves facing a conservatory where, indistinct against the light, two figures rose from their chairs. Before they were fully upright Zéwüster said: ‘Aunt Amelia sends her regards,’ and immediately shots rang out. Osewoudt could no longer see a thing. He had his right hand in the rolled-up towel, which he held with his left hand to his chest like a muff, and through the towel he fired three shots at the red-faced man standing next to him. The man opened his mouth wide as if about to vomit, reached out to grab Osewoudt’s shoulders, but missed and fell to the ground.
In the room hung a grey vapour that stank of cough drops.
Osewoudt ran into the corridor with Zéwüster at his heels.
Once outside, they saw Dorbeck across the street, bending over someone who was clinging on to his leg. Osewoudt saw Dorbeck kick the man’s head. That was all he saw. He ran back to the square, slowed down, and walked calmly to the swimming pool.
The entrance hall of the swimming pool was crammed with maybe more than a hundred smelly German soldiers. Osewoudt leaned forward to the girl behind the ticket window.
‘Do you have a Wehrmacht card?’ asked the girl.
‘No.’
‘The pool is reserved for the German Wehrmacht today. Always is on Tuesday afternoons.’
He walked evenly out of the building, glanced around and strolled in the direction of the tram stop at the junction. A tram was just moving off, to the accompaniment of long-drawn-out whistles. Osewoudt broke into a run and jumped on. Not until the conductor approached him did he notice that the tram was going to Zandvoort.
He bought a return ticket to Zandvoort and headed for the ‘Smoking’ section. How could this be? There, sitting by the window, was the chemist’s son. Evert Turlings was looking outside, unaware of Osewoudt. Go up to him and start a conversation? No, better get off at the earliest opportunity. But Turlings was on the right-hand side of the car, and people sitting there tend to notice passengers getting off. So he would be bound to see Osewoudt.
Osewoudt turned back and stayed in the ‘No Smoking’ section for the remainder of the journey. He had picked a seat as far away from the door as possible. At the Zandvoort terminal he waited for everyone to get off. When at last he left the tram there was no sign of the chemist’s son.
He would have preferred to return by the same tram, but didn’t dare. He might be recognised by the conductor, who would wonder why he had come to Zandvoort with a towel but hadn’t gone for a swim. Just the kind of detail that would come back to him when the police started offering a reward for his capture.
So Osewoudt went down to the beach and sauntered along the seashore without bothering to take off his tennis shoes. He saw ships on the horizon; he also saw the black streaks his sweaty hands were making on the towel, and felt how tired they were from carrying the heavy object rolled up in it.
After an hour he turned his back on the sea and returned to the tram terminal. There was Evert Turlings, coming towards him. Evert’s hair was sopping wet and plastered down on his head. Like Osewoudt, he carried a towel.
‘Henri! I saw you!’
‘No need to shout.’
‘I saw you having a fight with someone in Houtstraat!’
‘I didn’t have a fight in Houtstraat. I wasn’t there.’
The Nazi son of the God-fearing chemist looked down on him for a moment or two, raising the corners of his mouth. Then he began to whistle.
‘You got changed quickly!’ he said. ‘You don’t fool me, you know.’
‘When would I have changed my clothes? Don’t be daft! I haven’t been anywhere near Houtstraat.’
‘You got changed. You were wearing a grey suit before, with long trousers.’
‘But I’ve been here for the past half-hour!’
‘Liar! Otherwise you’d have been on the same tram as me coming here, and I didn’t see you.’
‘What does that prove? Trams take a lot of passengers.’
‘You only just got here. Your hair’s dry. You haven’t been for a swim.’