He felt his knees beginning to quake. If only he weren’t so conspicuously alone! He had every right to stand there, of course, but wouldn’t people notice him and wonder what he was doing? The last delivery had been made. What was he waiting for? Osewoudt turned round slowly, suddenly afraid that he was being watched, that it was perhaps a trap.
He stood where he was, his hand on the butt of the pistol in his trouser pocket. There were two exits, left and right, and he glanced continually from one to the other. The post office was now practically deserted.
Then he saw a woman enter. He thought she was coming straight towards him. She was wearing the Salvation Army uniform. He couldn’t see her face as the light was behind her, only the shape of her bonnet with the bow, her dumpy figure belted tightly in her navy raincoat, her spindly black-stockinged legs. A shopping bag hung from her left hand. She marched up to the wall of post-office boxes and opened number 234, as if she came here every day. She put something in her shopping bag, shut the metal door with a click and walked off.
When she reached the revolving door Osewoudt went after her. She had a head start of some twenty metres. In the street too he maintained the same distance.
She crossed the street just before a yellow tram came past, clanging loudly. Osewoudt had to wait. When the tram had gone the Salvation Army woman was nowhere to be seen.
* * *
The following day, at the same time, Osewoudt went to the post office again and waited by the boxes. But no one came to unlock number 234. He went back two more days; on the last day he was there at one o’clock and again at five. He waited until half past five, but no one turned up.
He went to the porter and asked which window dealt with post-office box rental. The porter pointed it out.
The window was empty. Osewoudt drummed his fingers on the slate counter and craned his neck to see as far inside as he could. At last a clerk arrived and asked what he wanted.
Osewoudt took a deep breath and said: ‘Could you give me the name of the owner of box number 234? I can explain. That box number belongs to an acquaintance of mine, or rather, I believe it does. But I never get replies to my letters. So now I think I may have the wrong number.’
‘Number 234, did you say?’
‘Yes! 234!’
The clerk consulted a list, narrowed his eyes, shook his head.
‘That number is not currently in use,’ he said. ‘If you have a moment I’ll get your letters and return them to you.’
Off he went.
Osewoudt also went off, to the exit, out of the building.
And yet, the next day he was back again, hanging around the post-office box 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. Wait for 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.
‘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.
‘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.’
‘Come to the shop tomorrow morning then.’
‘I’d rather not. Can’t we meet somewhere in The Hague? I have an important message for you.’
‘About what?’
‘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 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?’