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embarrassment. The boy looked about as though trapped, and said finally, ‘Er – oh hell – sorry, it’s a bit of a mess, but come on in anyhow.’
    The usual narrow room, where there is nowhere to put anything. The bed that contrives to sag and be a plank, the cretonne curtain behind which to hang one’s clothes, the window sill holding an iron and a packet of detergent, the rickety basketwork table and chair, the suitcase holding clean shirts, the camping gas ring with the dirty saucepan and the jar of Nescafé, the tin ashtray and the transistor radio. The boy wearing the cotton track-suit which is the uniform of students indoors, his good suit taken off and put on a hanger, the shirt anxiously inspected to see whether it will last a day more. The dim twenty-five-watt bulb, the antiquated and threadbare narrowness that will bend the stoutest heart, a smell of socks, and an old towel kept to masturbate on. Van der Valk had seen so many. He sat on the creaky chair, crossed his legs, lit a cigarette, and said, ‘I’m not butting in?’ mildly.
    â€˜No, no – I only just got back and hadn’t time to tidy up yet.’
    â€˜Doesn’t bother me.’
    â€˜Something the matter? I mean – you coming specially like that.’
    â€˜No. I was in the quarter; just occurred to me you’d be home, thought I’d pass to see if you were o.k. Job all right?’
    â€˜Oh yes.’
    â€˜No trouble with that watch of yours?’
    â€˜Oh no.’
    â€˜Mean you put it back?’
    â€˜That’s right – well, actually – there was no need – I mean, I made a bit of a mistake, got in a bit of a panic, I don’t know why. I mean, I shouldn’t ever have bothered you, mean to say, you’re busy, and an important kind of person, there wasn’t any real need, I mean I don’t know how I got the idea in my head, it wasn’t anything at all really. Really there’s no need to worry, I wouldn’t want you to make a fuss, I mean there’s no sense in that, it’d just be wasting your time and – ’
    â€˜That’s all right,’ peaceably.
    â€˜No, I mean I don’t want any more fuss,’ in agony.
    Van der Valk took pity.
    â€˜That’s o.k., I won’t make any.’
    â€˜I mean I’m sorry you’re putting yourself out, but really, there’s nothing to do any more.’
    â€˜Of course,’ blandly. ‘I’m glad to hear that. Putting it back was sensible,’ looking at his watch. ‘Good, I’ll be off to my train, rush hour’ll be quietened down by now. Bye bye then, Richard, glad to hear you’re all right.’
    And he took himself off, bumping on the stairs but knowing the landlady would recognize the strange step and that her antennae would relax. He was happy: he hadn’t wasted his time!
    He walked as far as the café on the corner of the Noorder-markt, decided he was in no hurry, ordered blackcurrant gin and phoned Arlette to say he’d be a little late. The phonebook told him Louis Prins lived in a frumpy street over by the Jacob van Lennep where – he knew those streets – the flats were full of nineteenth-century furniture with plush and mahogany-carved scrollwork.
    â€˜Oh, Mr Prins. So sorry to trouble you. Fact is I was trying to find Mr Saint but he doesn’t seem to be in the book, aunt of mine – yes, recommended by a friend, little matter of business, thought I’d give him a ring, oh I see, thank you so much, awfully sorry to have troubled you.’ How nice! Mr Saint lived just next door – well, very close by, in the Leliegracht; obliging of him. Mm, the neighbourhood was what you called picturesque but there, these old houses were often flats where pleasant people lived at pleasantly low rents, having been ensconced therein for numerous years. He had no pretext, or even a reason, for calling on Mr Saint. But