The Darkroom of Damocles Read Online Free Page B

think
– that’s the watchword these days!’
    The door opened, setting off the electric bell. Evert Turlings left and the bell tinkled again.
    Just as Osewoudt turned back towards the counter, the bell tinkled for a third time.
    There stood Dorbeck. He wore a pale grey summer suit that looked brand new. He did not give the impression of being as short as Osewoudt. He came in, leaving the door open. He deposited a large parcel wrapped in brown paper on the counter.
    â€˜Morning, Osewoudt, I’ve brought your suit back.’
    â€˜Dorbeck! Do you know they’re looking for you? There’s a bit about you in the paper.’
    â€˜They can look wherever they like. If I don’t want them to find me, they won’t.’
    â€˜Do you want the uniform back?’
    â€˜No, never mind about that.’
    â€˜That’s easy for you to say, but I don’t know what to dowith it either,’ muttered Osewoudt, heading for the sliding doors.
    But when he returned with the uniform over his arm, Dorbeck had gone. The door was still open.
    Osewoudt dumped the uniform on the counter and went out into the street. Just then the blue tram slowly came past, blocking his view. He didn’t see Dorbeck in the tram either, but that didn’t mean to say he wasn’t on.
    The sun shone. It was a fine day. There were people walking about, including some unarmed German soldiers. It was almost as if nothing had changed, as if things would stay the same for ever. Maybe Evert Turlings had a point. And maybe even now Dorbeck was on his way to give himself up. Osewoudt took the uniform, put the shop door on the latch, and went out into the back garden. He used the coal shovel to dig a hole in the ground, wrapped the uniform in newspaper and buried it.
    Not until evening did he get to open the parcel Dorbeck had left behind. It turned out to contain more than his Sunday suit. There were also two metal canisters, a ten-guilder note, and a typed message:
Osewoudt, develop these films asap. No need for prints. Cut them into strips, put in an envelope and send to: E. Jagtman, Legmeerplein 25, Amsterdam. Post them tomorrow night at the latest
.
    Osewoudt examined the canisters and saw they were not ordinary films but so-called Leica films. Not that he was an expert.
    That same evening he went to The Hague, to see the man who had given him the cardboard sign about developing and printing for his shop. But when he arrived at the address there was another name on the door, and nobody answered when he rang. Try a different photographer? He didn’t know any, and besides they would be closed by now. In Voorschoten therewas only Turlings the chemist who knew anything about photography. Ask him to do it? But what about his son?
    And so Osewoudt decided to have a go himself. He’d developed the odd film or two back at school. In the cellar he found a red lamp that had belonged to Uncle Bart, and a couple of bowls in a crate. All he needed now was the chemicals. He didn’t dare buy them from the chemist. So the following morning he cycled over to Leiden, having asked his mother to look after the shop as Ria was in bed with flu.
    When he returned half an hour later, the shop was closed. Even the blinds over the window and the door had been lowered, which he never did in the old days. Since the invasion, though, he had been obliged to lower them after dark because of the blackout. His mind went back to that Ascension Day when, aged fifteen, he had come to scout around Voorschoten for clues to his father’s murder, and had seen the shop looking exactly as it did now. He was overcome by a sense of all being lost – what he had lost he couldn’t tell – as he put the key in the lock. His mother opened the door, saying she had heard him coming. In a rage, he fell to raising the blinds, but the cord of the blind over the door snapped, so it stayed down.
    His mother declared that she had let the blinds down