Chapter 3: A Wall of Choices

Rain fell on Amsterdam all night. De Jong's coat hem still dripped when he pushed open the apartment door. The hinge groaned low; the streetlamp at the corridor's end dragged a wet, long shadow across the floor through the rain. He shut the door behind him. The flat was silent—only the rain outside and the fridge compressor's dull hum. He reached for the light cord; his fingers found a damp sheet of paper on the table corner—Hester's clipping. Ink blurred at one edge, but the print date was clear: seven years ago, Amsterdam Evening News, local section. Three-line headline: "Unexplained Tomb Unearthed Beneath Canal Embankment, Excavation Halted by Municipality." In the photo, behind a muddy embankment cross-section, a row of pits was faintly visible.

De Jong spread the clipping under the lamp. The light was dim, the paper damp and curling at the corners. Matthis's name appeared under the contractor column. He crouched, scanning the small print: "Excavation led by Matthis Verhagen; site revealed suspected 17th-century timber remains." He remembered the last letter Matthis wrote him from prison—never mailed; De Jong had smuggled it out during a visit. One line only: "What they dug up isn't the dead—it's the contract." He recalled how Matthis's handwriting shook on that line, as if the hand holding the pen trembled.

Clipping in hand, De Jong walked to the window. Through the rain, the canal lay black as ink, pocked by countless ripples, swallowed by the night. He remembered William Van der Berg once saying Amsterdam's embankments were the city's veins. He lit a cigarette; the flame reflected his face in the glass—thinner than three years ago, cheekbones sharp, eyes sunken. He knew: if the clipping was true, the tomb Matthis dug almost certainly tied to the society "Free Light." He'd once heard Judith Smit mention it at a dinner party—they claimed to guard Amsterdam's secrets. That night, she'd said it holding a wine glass, smile faint, as if offhand. Now he saw something else in that smile.

De Jong stubbed out the cigarette. The ember died in the ashtray; a wisp of smoke rose. He picked up the phone, then set it down. Inside the police, someone might be in league with the society. He remembered a customs official investigating Matthis's case three years ago, suddenly transferred to Brussels—left so fast he never finished his handover. Decision made: no police, investigate alone. He folded the clipping, tucked it into his coat's inner pocket, grabbed a flashlight, and stepped out. He was heading to the Maritime Museum, to find William Van der Berg.

Rain hadn't let up. Streetlamps smeared into yellow haze in the moisture. De Jong walked along the canal, boots splashing small sprays on wet cobblestones. Wind off the water carried the smell of river mud and rust.

He reached the Maritime Museum deep in the night. Fog rose from the canal, wrapping the stone walls in a gray-white veil. The door stood ajar; he pushed in. The hall's light was dim; old ship models sat silent in glass cases, sails dusted thin. The air smelled of old wood and varnish. William Van der Berg stood in the center, holding an antique oil lamp. Seeing De Jong, he gave a slight nod: "Mr. De Jong, a late visit—must be urgent."

De Jong set the clipping on the table: "William, Matthis's tomb—what do you know?" William didn't answer at once. He set the lamp down; the flame swayed, stretching both their shadows. Slowly he spoke: "You've come this late, meaning you already know things you shouldn't. Are you sure you want the answer?"

De Jong nodded: "I'm sure." William sighed, gaze dropping to the clipping, silent a moment: "What Matthis dug up wasn't a tomb. It was the underground vault of the 'Free Light' society. During that embankment project, they found a 17th-century stone coffin. Inside: a parchment letter, and a box of old ledgers." He paused: "That parchment letter—it's what Matthis later held in his hands."

De Jong frowned: "Where's the letter now?" William looked at him: "After Matthis died, it fell to Judith Smit. The society used it to blackmail many." De Jong recalled Hester's words: that letter spoke of another blood pact, beneath the canal, at Old Dock No. 7. He asked William: "William, do you know Old Dock No. 7?"

William paused, then nodded: "Yes. Where Matthis worked before his death. He hid the second blood pact there." De Jong pressed: "That letter—can it indict the commissioner for the dockworkers' massacre?" William didn't answer directly. He said: "De Jong, you're a forensic pathologist. You've seen plenty of corpses. But some secrets are more dangerous than bodies. Are you sure you want to keep going?"

De Jong stared at him: "In the letter Matthis wrote me from prison, he said what they dug up wasn't the dead—it's the contract. I need to know what that contract is." William sighed, turned, and walked toward an iron door at the hall's end: "Come. In the basement archive, there are Matthis's original dock work logs. Unaltered." He pushed the door open, revealing a narrow stone stairway. The steps were tight, walls damp and beaded with water; the dim light only reached a few steps down.

De Jong followed William down the stone steps. The air was damp, musty, with a faint trace of paper and ink. Inside the archive room, the light was pale and cold, rows of metal cabinets standing in neat order, their doors gleaming under the lamps. William opened one of them and took out a journal bound in cowhide. “These are Matthis’s records from when he worked at the dockyard. Every time he finished a task, he wrote it down here.” De Jong took the journal and opened it. The handwriting was neat at first, noting routine maintenance at the dockyard, ships coming and going. But toward the last pages, the writing grew hurried, the strokes sharp and frantic, in places tearing through the paper.

“Dock No. 7, fourth level underwater, an iron door discovered. Space beyond the door. I heard water. They told me to stop. I did not stop.” De Jong read, his hand trembling slightly. He looked up at William. “What’s behind that iron door?” William did not answer. He stared into the depths of the archive room. There, a woman sat at a desk, head bent over her work. She wore a white lab coat and thin gloves, holding a fine brush, applying something to a sheet of parchment. Several bottles of reagents lay open on the table, and a faint acidic smell drifted through the air.

De Jong approached. The woman looked up. It was Anna Bark, the archive restorer. Seeing De Jong, she showed no surprise. “Mr. De Jong, Director William said you would come.” She set down the brush and pointed to the parchment on the table. “This is a fragment Matthis brought out of the dockyard back then. I’m using a reagent to lift the ink from it.” De Jong looked down. On the parchment, several lines of ancient writing were faintly emerging, Dutch, it seemed, but mixed with Latin. Under the light, the ink glowed a dark brown, like dried blood.

Anna said, “What Matthis dug up wasn’t a tomb. It was the entrance to a seventeenth-century vault. That vault is hidden inside a layer of the dike.” De Jong was stunned. “A vault?” Anna nodded. “Yes. The vault was built by the ancestors of the Society of the Light of Freedom. They used it to hide wealth, and also ledgers recording the secrets of Amsterdam’s historic families.” She paused. “The Society tried to use those ledgers to smear certain historic families. But Matthis found evidence proving the ledgers were forged.”

De Jong asked, “Does Matthis have that evidence?” Anna looked at him. “He hid a testimony in Dock No. 7. But that place is under the Society’s close surveillance.” De Jong fell silent. He knew that if he went to the dockyard, the Society’s people would find him. But if he did not go, Matthis’s injustice would never be cleared. He asked Anna, “Anna, what should I do?”

Anna shook her head. “I don’t know. I only know that behind those ledgers are many people. Including the Director.” De Jong nodded. He looked at William. “William, what do you think?” William said, “De Jong, you’re a smart man. You know that if you hand over the evidence, the Society may let you go. But if you enter the dockyard alone, you may not live until dawn.” De Jong smiled. “I never intended to live until dawn.”

He picked up a copy of the parchment from the table and tucked it inside his coat. The edges were rough, pressing against his chest. Then he turned and walked toward the archive room door. Anna called after him, “Mr. De Jong, have you considered your safety?” De Jong did not look back. “I have. But I fear more living without knowing anything.” He pushed the door open. Cold wind rushed in, carrying the raw smell of rain. Just then, the bell tower outside the museum began to toll. One stroke, two strokes… twelve. In the rainy night, the bells sounded vast and hollow, each one striking the wet stone walls. By the sound of the bells, De Jong vanished into the night.