Jack came wandering down the alleyway around five minutes earlier than agreed and walked past the house with the red door, right over to the place where Barbie had killed the man with the moustache, Dale Bierhals. It was rare for Jack to arrive early. He was notorious for being late. Bill checked his watch again.
Jack sauntered casually into the little enclosed garden square and then spun around towards the alleyway, almost with his back towards Bill.
Bill drew his revolver and took shallow breaths as quietly as he could.
A few minutes had passed. Jack was standing as still as a statue. Bill wondered if this was the reason that most men choose to smoke. It gives your hands something to do while you wait around for people. Bill suddenly wished he could have his pipe out and lit. He could, at least, feel the vodka coursing through his veins. He had considered asking Igor for his help but decided against it; it was bad enough he was risking too many lives already, especially as he only really needed to end one.
Bill carefully slid out of the doorway into the open. As he did so, he looked around the square at the overlooking windows. He couldn’t see any movement or prying eyes. In Berlin, people tended to look the other way, anyway. The far side of the square, beyond Jack, was maybe two hundred yards away. With the little alleyway entering in the middle of the left side, that made it approximately one hundred yards Bill needed to cover, remaining largely out of sight.
Bill could hear footsteps coming along the alleyway. He had run out of time. He squatted and half-ran until he was about fifteen yards from Jack. He carefully pulled back the hammer of his revolver and winced to a click that sounded louder than if he had just closed the breech of a fifteen-inch naval gun.
Jack remained still. Bill raised his arm and aimed the little snub-nosed Colt, then gently rested his fingertip onto the front inside of the trigger guard.