And then he was the one rolled up inside the carpet, after all. He couldn’t make a sound, could hardly breathe, but he could hear their excited whispers even so. This is a good place to put him! Nobody will ever find him here. He’s a totally unnecessary person. Why should we worry about anybody like that?
And he yelled at them, to bear in mind their moral responsibilities. Yes, that is exactly what he yelled, but of course it didn’t do much good, the carpet was too thick and they were already leaving, and it was extremely difficult to make yourself heard when you didn’t have a head.
The woman shook his arm. He opened his eyes and was just going to yell once more that they should bear in mind their moral responsibilities when he realized that he had woken up.
She said something, and he had the impression that her eyes were full of sympathy. Or something like that, at least.
Am I dead? Van Veeteren wondered. She looked quite
angelic, in fact. It was not an impossibility.
But she was holding a telephone receiver. Everything
seemed to be bordering on the profane, and then the penny dropped: He hadn’t even been operated on yet. It was morning, and everything was still in store.
“Telephone,” she said again. “A call for the chief inspector.”
She handed him the receiver and walked away. He cleared his throat and tried to sit up.
“Hello?”
“DCI Van Veeteren?”
It was Munster.
“Speaking.”
“Please excuse me for troubling you at the hospital, but you did say that the operation wasn’t until eleven. . ”
“What time is it now, then?” He searched for a clock on the empty walls, but couldn’t see one.
“Twenty past ten.”
“Oh.”
“I thought I ought to tell you that we know who it is. .
You did seem to be a bit interested.”
“You mean the body in the carpet?”
For a fraction of a second he thought he was dreaming again.
“Yes. We’re all quite sure it must be Leopold Verhaven.”
“What?”
For a couple of seconds Van Veeteren’s mind was a blank.
A minute expanse of stainless steel from which everything bounced off and had no chance of penetrating.
“What the hell was that you said?”
“Yes, Leopold Verhaven. He’s the one. I take it that you remember him?”
Three seconds passed. The steel melted and allowed the information to penetrate.
“Do nothing!” said Van Veeteren. “I’m on my way.”
He started to climb out of bed, but at that very moment the doors opened and in marched an unexpectedly large squad of personnel dressed in green.
The receiver was left dangling.
“Hello?” said Munster. “Are you still there?”
The nurse picked it up.
“Mr. Van Veeteren has just left for the operating theater,”
she explained and replaced the receiver.
III
11
There were two good vantage points and two possible trains.
The first wasn’t due until 12:37, but even so he had taken up his position at about 11:00. It was important that he should get the right seat: at one of the window tables on the veranda. He had scouted it out a few days beforehand: The view over the square in front of the station was excellent, especially the area between the taxi rank and the newsstand. It was at the center of his field of vision, and all newly arrived passengers were bound to end up there sooner or later.
Unless they took the prohibited route over the railroad tracks, of course; but why would he do that? His house was in this direction; there was no reason for him to head northward; so if he intended to come straight home, he would pass by here. Sooner or later, as already stated. Most likely round about a quarter to one.
An hour and a half from now.
What he would do next was an open question; but the
probability was that he would take a cab for the remaining ten miles or so. That was of minor significance. The main thing was that he came.
Then everything would work out, no doubt. Somehow or
other.
He ordered lunch-cold cuts with salad; bread, butter and cheese. But he hardly touched the food during the two hours he sat there. Instead he smoked about fifteen cigarettes, occasionally turning the pages of the book he had propped up to the right of his plate-without reading more than the occasional line here and there and without having the slightest idea of the content. If this was camouflage, it was a poor effort.
Anybody taking a closer look at him would doubtless have noticed that something fishy was going on. He was well aware of that, but there was no risk.
Who on earth would want to take a closer look at him?
Nobody, he had decided; and that was, of course, a perfectly correct conclusion to reach. Between eleven and two, some 200 to 250 customers would have lunch at the railroad restaurant. Most of them were regulars; but there would be a large number of chance diners, making it highly unlikely that anybody would pay any attention to this ordinary-looking man in corduroy trousers and grayish green pullover by the window, minding his own business.
Especially if you bore the time factor in mind. He couldn’t help smiling to himself at the thought. If everything went to plan, an awful lot of time would pass. Months. With any luck, years. Masses of time. Ideally what was going to happen would never be discovered.
Needless to say, that would be the optimal solution-nothing ever seeing the light of day-but he realized that it would be stupid to bank on that. It was better and smarter to be prepared for all eventualities. Better to sit here quietly and do nothing to draw attention to himself. An unknown diner among a lot of unknown diners. Noticed by nobody, forgotten by everybody.
At about twelve, when the place was at its busiest, some of the customers tried to take the seat opposite him at the little table, but he turned them away. Explained politely that unfortunately it was reserved, he was waiting for a friend.
Later, during the critical moments around a quarter to one, he became tense. That was inevitable. When he saw the first of the newly alighted passengers, he moved his chair closer to the window and ignored everything else. It was essential to concentrate hard: Identifying him might well be the weakest link in the whole chain. A long time had passed, and who could tell how much he might have changed during all those years? Obviously, in no circumstances must he miss him.
He must not let him pass unnoticed.
When he did eventually see him, he was emerging from the cafe on the other side of the square an hour and a half later. It was obvious there was no need to have worried.
Of course, it was him. That was immediately clear when he was still thirty yards away-the same energetic, wiry little figure; slightly hunched, perhaps, but not much. His hair thinner and paler in color. Receding at the temples. Movements a bit stiffer.
A bit grayer, a bit older.
But definitely him.
He left his table and went out into the street. The man was standing at the taxi rank. Just as expected. Number three in the line, searching for something in his pockets. Cigarettes, money, could be anything.
Nothing to do but wait, then. Wait, go and sit in the car, then follow him. There was no hurry. He knew where the cab would take him.
Knew that everything was going to happen according to plan.
For one brief moment he felt slightly dizzy as blood rushed to his head, but he soon regained control of himself.
The taxi pulled away. Drove round the square, and as it passed him outside the cafe, he could see the familiar profile through the back window less than six feet away, and he knew at that moment that there would be no problem.