Read Online One Damn Thing After Another by Nicolas Freeling - Free Book Online Page A

either there’s nothing one could do even if I wanted, which I don’t. Piet used to have a good phrase, typically Dutch, about waiting for the cat to come out of the tree. Down to earth, you know. Let’s have dinner: the pot’s in the oven,”
    During dinner the telephone rang. This was Arthur’s telephone, but since he refused to answer phones at meals, she got up patiently. Arthur was one of those people anyhow who chew each mouthful thirty times, was indistinct and elliptical at the best of times: even if he did answer nobody would understand what he said. The woman just swallows and says “Yes, this is Mrs Davidson.”
    â€œAh,” said a man’s voice, cheerful and ingratiating, “you got our letter, then?”
    â€œWho is ‘our’?”
    â€œYou’re still pretending, you see.”
    â€œIf you’re the anonymous author, I can’t congratulate you. It’s meaningless.”
    â€œAch, you don’t want it to be made public: that’s understandable. We don’t want to make things difficult for you. We’ll be right around, now you’re at home.”
    â€œGive me your name, please.” A chuckle.
    â€œOne doesn’t forget a name that easily. Be with you in a few minutes.”
    â€œYou aren’t going to be let in, you know.” But the phone had been put down. Arlette walked heavily back to the table, where Arthur, having taken another mouthful, said nothing. People who insist on believing that you’re staying in the tree and playing cute, while the plain truth is that you haven’t the remotest what they’re talking about, are tiresome.
    Outside the livingroom window was another Dutch invention. Known as a ‘spionnetje’ and one saw them on all the old Amsterdam houses. Simply a mirror on a flexible bracket: a rear-viewer from a car will do. All the old biddies had one fixed to the windowframe, so as to see what is happening in thestreet without getting up from your chair and your knitting. Not only cheaper than closed-circuit television; much more efficient.
    When the doorbell went, Arthur strolled over with his hands in his pockets.
    â€œYoungish man, considerably overweight, with a large bushy beard – not a success in the circumstances. Youngish, thin woman, nervous, abrupt movements. Faded middle-aged woman, leather raincoat, knitted woolly hat. This is weird, Further observation discloses grey Mercedes car, rather dirty, looking fairly old. German numberplate, but even with my glasses I can’t read it.” He wasn’t worried about them getting in. Since last year, when an unpleasant person had got in, all the tenants in the house were on the qui-vive.
    â€œTactical withdrawal to the car, for consultations.” He lost interest and walked away. If Arlette wasn’t worried, and plainly her mind was on other things, he certainly wasn’t.
    When Arthur went back to work, which he did on foot, or by bicycle since it was only a question of crossing the boulevard and crossing the university ‘campus’, Arlette heard sounds of altercation, but by the time she reached the window the adversary, it would appear, had been put to flight. His public persona was mild and indeed diffident, but he had an English talent for shockingly direct speech in a loud voice: invective rather than insult. She observed his walk down to the end of the street; rather fast and a bit pigeon-toed; one arm swinging broadly and the other carried still by his side, with the shoulder tucked in as though afflicted by a slight paralysis; every few steps a small, but perceptible, toss of the head. This walk, much imitated by facetious students, bespoke a passage of arms with ‘some jackanapes’. Victory was apparently complete, since while she watched, the grey Mercedes trundled off, turning up towards the town centre. Assembly of loose screws in disarray? – or simply going off to get something