And the instrument of this decision was in his pocket, a cold revolver, icy cold. It was not an empty idea. He’d been turning it over in his mind the best part of a year, and now he really meant business.

  All around him was a blanket of snow, except for the dark patches of the canals, which were mostly unused. Some way off a tiny light, a solitary light, coming from Schutter’s cottage.

  So he was there! Everything was moving smoothly and rapidly to the fatal conclusion.

  The train had gathered speed, belching sparks into the night. Kuperus walked toward the cottage, treading cautiously as he approached. The snow was much thicker here than in Amsterdam.

  So cold was it that he suddenly wondered whether his finger might not be too numb to press the trigger.

  In the distance was a glow of light hanging over the town.

  It was Schutter’s boast that no woman could resist him, and Alice was no different from the others. She, too, came to the cottage.

  And there wasn’t any doubt about what she came for! Counting on the isolation of the place, they didn’t even bother to close the shutters.

  Looking in through the window, Kuperus saw his wife, in her underwear, drinking something, while Schutter was tying his tie.

  It was a nice room. Not a bedroom; more like a studio. On the walls were photographs of Schutter in every country of the world, Schutter dressed for winter sports, Schutter as a yachtsman. On the table was a bottle of liqueur and some glasses.

  Alice went on dressing in a leisurely way, as though she’d dressed and undressed in that cottage for years. At the same time, she talked, but Kuperus couldn’t hear a sound through the window. He merely saw the two figures moving about, the man now lighting a cigarette, one of those cigarettes he ordered specially from Egypt, but which were no better than what anyone could buy in Holland.

  Kuperus wished he didn’t have his briefcase. It was in his way. On the other hand, nothing would have induced him to throw it aside. It was going to be of no further use to him, but in a confused way he felt he must not let go of anything. The briefcase was somehow part of him, and he must keep himself intact.

  What would they be talking about? They chatted casually, like old lovers. After a moment, however, the conversation seemed to get more animated. It looked as though Alice was reproaching him. Perhaps he had given her grounds for jealousy. Certainly there was a sour look on her face, while on his was a stupid, conceited smile.

  He stuck his pearl tiepin into his tie. He was never seen without that tiepin, which had been given to him by a maharaja. At least that’s what he told them at the Billiard Club.

  The moment was approaching. Alice would be going. A minute or two later the front door opened. Kuperus was cold. He had taken the glove off his right hand and that hand was absolutely freezing.

  Sudden darkness. Schutter had switched off the lights inside. Carefully he locked the door behind him, like any prudent householder, while Alice stood waiting.

  Was this the moment?

  The doctor had his finger on the trigger, but he didn’t shoot.

  The couple went toward the towpath that hadn’t been used as such for years, since the canal was silted up and choked with rushes.

  Arm in arm they walked along, and Kuperus followed. The sky had cleared a bit, and the moon shone intermittently.

  He was within easy range, but still he didn’t shoot. Had he perhaps thought it over for too long, worked it out too carefully?

  He had pictured himself bursting into the cottage, and even making a speech…

  Alice and Schutter walked in front of him, no more than ten yards away… It was she who brought matters to a head. She suddenly stopped and looked around anxiously. Schutter stopped, too.

  Then at last Kuperus fired… Once…

  Twice…A third time, because Schutter had only fallen to one knee. He fired the remaining three rounds to put him out of his suffering.

  His heart was beating wildly. And there it was, that discomfort in the chest he always feared, an intense discomfort, which gripped him like a vise. For two or three minutes he stood absolutely still, with his left hand to his heart.

  To shoot himself, he would have to reload his revolver.

  One thought predominated: Schutter was dead.

  Then another thought wormed its way into that one: If Schutter was dead, was it really necessary for him to disappear, too?

  Kuperus took several deep breaths. Then he threw his revolver into the canal. He had no sooner done so than he regretted it. It was much too near the spot.

  Never mind! It was done now!

  He looked at his watch. There was still time to stop in at the Billiard Club.

  All he had to do was push the two bodies into the water. Alice was no longer breathing. She seemed to have shut her eyes, unless it was some curious effect of the moonlight.

  He set to work, anxious to get it over as soon as possible. When he thought of the Billiard Club, his lips curled into a contemptuous smile… Before pushing Schutter in, he took his wallet.

  He was intoxicated, not only with what he had drunk, but still more with what he had done. His intoxication, however, instead of making him lose his head, made him extraordinarily self-possessed.

  For instance, as he walked along, he considered the disposal of the wallet. After careful thought, he threw it into another canal, even older and more overgrown than the first, and he didn’t forget to weight it with a stone.

  One idea obsessed him: to join the four or five billiard players who would be at the Onder den Linden. He’d have a drink there. He was thirsty, fearfully thirsty, and the idea of a tall glass of foaming beer…

  It didn’t take him long to get through the outskirts of the little town. He made no plans for the future, not even for the following day.

  He remembered his train ticket. Would they notice at the station that he hadn’t handed it in? Hardly. But it mustn’t be found on him.

  In the street there was no suitable place to throw it away. After a moment’s hesitation, he put it into his mouth, chewed it up, and swallowed it.

  Yes, he was completely intoxicated. He could have rolled on the ground. He could have shouted for joy. Or he could equally well have burst into tears.

  What sobered him was the sight of the Town Hall and Schutter’s house next to it. On the far side of the square were the lights of the Onder den Linden.

  Once again he looked at his watch. He was barely more than twenty minutes later than if he’d come straight from the station in the ordinary way.

  He stood under a lamppost and examined his hands. They were quite clean, thanks to the snow.

  He went in. He knew in advance the glow of warmth and comfort that would welcome him there. And the waiter, Old Willem, who had been there for thirty years and who would greet him with a cheerful:

  “Good evening, Doctor!”

  “Good evening, Willem. Any billiard players here tonight?”

  It was a well-established convention. He could hear the clack of the billiard balls, but that made no difference. He would still have to ask:

  “Any billiard players here tonight?”

  And Old Willem had to ask:

  “Have a nice trip to Amsterdam?”

  To which the proper answer, consecrated by long usage, was:

  “Glad to be back again.”

  And it all went off just as usual. Every bit of the ritual was performed, even to the doctor’s going into the room on tiptoe because somebody was just taking aim.

  Discreet handshakes in silence with the other players. The player made his shot, and tongues were unloosed.

  “How’s Amsterdam?”

  “Same as ever. Precious little ice on the canals there…”

  He noticed the two referees standing near the table.

  “Oh, this is a match, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think I’ll enter next year.”

  They had a club tournament every year, but Dr. Kuperus had never entered. He’d never liked the idea of playing in matches, but now, all at once… And for want of anything else to say, he added:

  “I’m going to have another shot at being president, and I’ll make a real campaign of it this time.”

  It was no doubt the photograph that had put the idea into his head. It hung in front of him on one of the fumed-oak pillars of the café, a photograph of all the members, with Schutter’s name in red and everybody else’s in black.

  It was comfortable there, and he sat down in one of the luxurious armchairs.

  Old Willem brought him a tall glass of foaming beer, exactly what he’d been longing for a few minutes earlier. He drank it down all at once.

  “Bring me another…”

  Then, turning to his neighbor:

  “Anything been happening?”

  “Nothing.”

  He had put his briefcase down on one of the tables. As a rule he stayed there about a quarter of an hour and then went home. He lived just around the corner, near the old canal.

  They could hear a muffled sound of music from the movie house next door. There had even been complaints about it, because some of the players said it put them off their stroke.

  Suddenly Kuperus laughed to himself. It had just occurred to him that not one of the five people in the room, or Old Willem either, had noticed that it was a Tuesday instead of a Wednesday.

  Just a matter of suggestion. He always came back from Amsterdam on a Wednesday, so a Wednesday it must be!

  He drank his second glass of beer, then ordered a gin.

  “I’ve got a touch of neuralgia,” he explained.

  It was strange to think he would shortly be going home and his wife wouldn’t be there. It would be Neel, the maid, who would open the door to him.

  In her nightgown. She always went to bed early on the nights he spent in Amsterdam. He had already seen her in her nightgown. But he had never so much as made a pass at her on account of all the complications that might ensue.

  Now, however?

  They might come to arrest him tomorrow or the next day. In any case, it would be one day or another. So what did it matter now?

  We may as well start tonight, he decided.

  And with such vehemence did he make the decision that he feared he’d spoken the words out loud.

  “Kuperus!”

  He was being called upon to give his opinion on a shot that was the subject of dispute, the referees disagreeing. Under the tables were buckets of hot cinders to prevent the wood from warping.

  “Kees swears the balls touched…”

  Kuperus hadn’t seen the shot, but that didn’t stop him from giving his opinion. Particularly since Kees was a friend of Schutter’s!

  “No, no!… Kees is mistaken…”

  And with the doctor’s backing, the point was decided against the unhappy Kees, who thereby lost the match. He was crestfallen.

  Hans Kuperus was just the opposite. This decision against Schutter’s friend was a first taste of victory!

  “Good night!…My wife must be wondering what’s become of me,” he managed to say.

  And they’d all been so thoroughly taken in that they’d probably go on thinking it was a Wednesday and that his wife really was waiting for him.

  As he went home, Dr. Kuperus thought of Neel, who was going to open the door to him in her nightgown, with her coat thrown hastily over her shoulders.

  * * *

  TWO

  « ^ »

  Waking up on board ship had always had a peculiar significance for Kuperus, as it had, for instance, when he had been on a cruise to Spitzbergen. To open one’s eyes and realize that one was out at sea, many miles from land — there was something fascinating about that.

  Something of the same sort took hold of him now. It must have been after seven, because it was already getting light and there were scraping sounds from the street, where the unemployed were clearing away the snow. Kuperus didn’t open his eyes wide, only just enough to be aware of the twilight in the room.

  It was his bedroom, and someone was breathing close to him. Someone was sleeping at his side, and it wasn’t Alice Kuperus, but Neel, the servant, and it was Neel’s warm leg that touched his own.

  What had happened to the world? Henceforward, every day, every night, Kuperus could share his bed with Neel, or with anyone else, for that matter.

  He wondered what effect it would have on her. Would she take advantage of it to lie in bed all morning? Or would she go about her work as usual?

  Her breathing changed. She sighed, stretched an arm, then snuggled down under the bedclothes again. A moment later, however, she thrust one leg out of the bed, then the other.

  Her movements were no doubt just the same as on other mornings, when she woke up in her attic. For half a minute she sat on the edge of the bed, only half awake, her eyes dull, her limbs heavy. She turned around to look at Kuperus, who pretended to be asleep, then started putting on her stockings.

  She went downstairs without washing, and he heard her lighting the kitchen fire, then making the coffee.

  As for Alice Kuperus, she was dead and done with! So was Schutter!

  Had Neel been aware of their liaison? When he had returned home the previous evening, he had asked:

  “Is my wife in bed?”

  And he was surprised to hear himself act the part so convincingly.

  “Madame is not here,” Neel had answered.

  “What? Where is she then?”

  “She got a telegram from Leeuwarden to say her aunt was ill…”

  “When do you expect her back?”

  “Madame said she’d return tomorrow.”

  But he knew better! She wasn’t coming back tomorrow, or the next day, or the next… Did Neel guess what was going to happen? She murmured:

  “Can I go back to bed?”

  “Make me a cup of tea first. Bring it to my room.”

  To think that she’d been in the house for three years, and that every time she’d passed him he’d wanted to lay hands on her but had never dared! He’d felt sure she was an innocent girl, probably ignorant.

  “Don’t hurry away,” he said when she brought the tea. “Come over here… You needn’t be afraid.”

  “I’m not!” she answered.

  Indeed she wasn’t! And it wasn’t the first time that sort of thing had happened to her! Kuperus was nervous, not because of her, but because of everything. After all, he had plenty of reason to be. But his nervousness was translated into an amorous frenzy, which provoked Neel to remark:

  “You’re pretty hot stuff!”

  At last the door opened and Neel came in with his breakfast on a tray. She put it down beside him, then went over and drew back the curtains, revealing the black branches of a tree against a leaden, snowy sky.

  She had had time to wash and dress. Her hair was neatly done, and she had put on a clean apron. Her arms were pink and smelled of soap.

  Dr. Kuperus would have been at a loss for an answer if he’d been asked whether she was pretty. She had the prominent cheekbones of a peasant, and her features were not well drawn. Certainly she was not a classic beauty, but in her sturdy, buxom way she was desirable, and his eye ran over her figure greedily.

  “What time is it, Neel?”

  “Eight o’clock, Doctor.”

  She answered exactly as she would have on any other day, and that was reassuring.

  “What’s the weather like?”

  “It looks as though we’re in for some more snow… Which suit will you be wearing?”

  “The black one… Look here, Neel…”

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Didn’t it seem funny to you to be sleeping in my bed?”

  “Why should it?”

  “Have you had many men before?… Listen, Neel… I’d like to know something: at what age did you start?“

  “At fifteen. I was a nursemaid then, looking after some children in Amsterdam.”

  “And since then?”

  “Since…”

  She shrugged her shoulders, as though she regarded it as a matter of small importance.

  He got up, shaved, and dressed. And all the time Neel ran through his thoughts. He looked at himself in the mirror more critically than usual and decided that his face was rather puny. It was inclined to be at times, and it always worried him.

  What was going to happen now? He stood staring out the window at the canal and the bare trees along its banks. Downstairs, the doorbell rang, and by the sounds that followed he knew that his first patient had been shown into the waiting room.

  The most important thing was for him to go on being surprised by his wife’s absence, and after a reasonable time — a day or two — to report it to the police. It wasn’t going to be difficult. He could tell that from the way he’d succeeded with Neel. He felt himself playing his part to perfection. And the funny thing was that never in his life before had he been a good liar!

  What was there that could give him away? Nobody had seen him. Nobody could guess that he had got out of the train between stations.

  Downstairs, he went into the living room. The sight of it almost made him smile, because it had its place in the story. It was just over a year ago that Alice’s complaints about her old-fashioned living-room furniture had reached their height. At first he had turned a deaf ear to them. The room was really in excellent condition, and he didn’t see why he should go to such needless expense.

  Then suddenly one day he had changed his mind.

  “All right, you can have your new furniture.”

  It was exactly three days later that the anonymous letter arrived. Just when Alice was up to her ears in fabric samples, in catalogues, wallpapers, velvets…

  In his office, his first act was to change into a white coat. He glanced into the waiting room, where there were already five people. Later on there would be more like twenty, since he was a popular doctor and charged only one guilder for a consultation.

  He was pleased with himself. There he was, cool and dignified, just as if nothing had happened.

  A woman brought in a small boy whose face was covered with scabs. The doctor had picked up his pad to write out a prescription when a sudden pang darted through his breast.

  Someone knew! At least there was someone who was bound to know sooner or later. He had thought of everything except that. How could he have overlooked it?

 

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