The Darkroom of Damocles Read Online Free PDF Page B

exhausted?’
    â€˜Red light, did you say? That was how they did it in your grandfather’s day. Modern films are sensitive to all kinds of light, including red.’
    â€˜So what happens if you develop them in red light?’
    â€˜They go black, of course. They’re ruined.’
    â€˜Is there no chance of getting them to turn out right after that?’
    â€˜None at all. Why do you ask?’
    â€˜Just wondering. What with everything they can do nowadays. What I mean is—’
    Evert Turlings squeezed his arm. He was almost a head and a half taller than Osewoudt.
    â€˜We’re living in great age, in every respect. You’ll see. I was saying so to Ria only yesterday. How is she, anyway? Still in bed?’
    â€˜Her temperature was down this morning.’
    â€˜I’ll just pop in and say hello.’
    Evert Turlings squeezed past the stepladder into the shop.

Tuesday, 23 July was a sweltering day.
    At 1 p.m. Osewoudt locked up. He changed into a white shirt, white shorts and tennis shoes.
    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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜The address we’re going to,’ Zéwüster said, ‘is KleineHoutstraat 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.
    â€˜The public