He watched Danilov arrive with his young sergeant. The man never seemed to age. He was still as tall, lean and badly dressed as always.
They were greeted by the bumbling figure of the manager, as obsequious as ever. What a fool the man was, with his love of rules and regulations, and his petty adherence to them. The words of Eliot came to him. ‘These fragments I have shored against my ruins.’
Shame about Eliot. A terrible man, an awful publisher, and an even worse poet.
He followed the inspector and his sergeant as they walked round the side of the building and vanished from view. Strolling quickly through the club to the back terrace, he saw them appear on the path leading to the lawn. On his way, he had almost bumped into that pompous fool Langlands. The last person he wanted to meet right now.
Moving to the side of the casement, hidden from view by a heavy curtain, he watched Danilov cross the lawn heading towards his little surprise. The manager dropped back, refusing to go any further. The young sergeant took the old gardener by the arm and began to speak to him. Danilov strode on, vanishing behind the rocky outcrop.
What he wouldn’t give to see Danilov’s face right now. Would it be a look of shock? One of horror? Or would it be one of realisation?
A pity he would never be able to see it for himself. Alas, he had to forgo some pleasures in order to achieve his final goal.
Such was life. And death.
His final pleasure would be staring into Danilov’s eyes as the man placed the noose around his neck. He would savour the anticipation, enjoy the fear, relish the vision of dangling legs and strangled cries.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. Not now.
He let the curtain fall back into place, obscuring his view.
Let the game begin.