Peter Van Houten’s white row house was just around the corner from the hotel, on the Vondelstraat, facing the park. Number 158.
Augustus took me by one arm and grabbed the oxygen cart with the other, and we walked up the three steps to the lacquered blue-black front door.
My heart pounded. One closed door away from the answers I’d dreamed of ever since I first read that last unfinished page.
Inside, I could hear a bass beat thumping loud enough to rattle the windowsills. I wondered whether Peter Van Houten had a kid who liked rap music.
I grabbed the lion’s-head door knocker and knocked tentatively. The beat continued.
“Maybe he can’t hear over the music?” Augustus asked. He grabbed the lion’s head and knocked much louder.
The music disappeared, replaced by shuffled footsteps. A dead bolt slid. Another. The door creaked open.
A potbellied man with thin hair, sagging jowls, and a week-old beard squinted into the sunlight.
He wore baby-blue man pajamas like guys in old movies. His face and belly were so round,
and his arms so skinny, that he looked like a dough ball with four sticks stuck into it.
“Mr. Van Houten?” Augustus asked, his voice squeaking a bit. The door slammed shut.
Behind it, I heard a stammering, reedy voice shout, “LEEE- DUH-VIGH!” (Until then, I’d pronounced his assistant’s name like lid-uh-widge.)
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