19

Friday night, June 11, to Sunday, June 13

Herman stood vigil outside Margaret’s old apartment building, certain she hadn’t passed him since he took his post near the entrance. The rifle’s case had not caused a second glance as he made his way to her residence; nor did anyone take notice of it now, as he sat on the steps of a nearby bakery. He quietly smoked a pipe while he tried not to pick at the newly formed scabs on the back of his left hand, a reminder of the publisher’s cat’s displeasure at being placed at the scene of the crime.

Herman rarely smoked but knew that pipe smokers were generally perceived as harmless, and the smoke helped obscure his face. He had another to kill, once the woman was dead, so no need to risk capture yet. If he succeeded in killing the two of them, a hangman’s noose would mean little except an end to his pain.

Finally, as nearby church bells tolled midnight, he gave up. She wasn’t here. Tomorrow was another day. He’d found her once, he could do so again.

“How may I help you?” The middle-aged woman behind the counter seemed sincere, and Herman smiled despite himself. The British are polite, if nothing else.

“I have a package to deliver, but the woman who lives at the address I was given appears to have moved. Could you direct me?”

“Do you wish to mail the package, sir?”

“No, thank you. I was paid to deliver it personally.”

The woman clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Then I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m not allowed to give out personal addresses.”

Herman knew better than to argue. He nodded and went outside to consider his next move. It appeared he needed a package. Anything large enough not to fit in a mail slot. He went into an adjacent bookstore and, on a whim, purchased a book of poetry. One poem in particular caught his eyes, John Donne’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls.” He was tempted to underline the final line: “Therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee.”

No. Best she thinks the book a gift from an adoring fan so as not to scare her into moving again. With great difficulty, he wrote a brief note inside.

Dear Miss Harkness,

On behalf of a devoted reader. May these words bring you as much joy as your words have brought me.

H

His face slowly grew a tight smile. Inspired.

He had the bookstore clerk wrap it for him, then he returned to the post office, the book under his arm.

The same woman greeted him as before. “Changed your mind?”

“Yes, Madam, I have. If you can’t trust the Royal Mail, the world is in worse condition than I care to imagine.”

After Herman paid the required postage, she wrote in large block letters on the wrapper while Herman pretended to count his change while noting the new address.

He turned and as he began his journey to Soho, started humming a tune without thinking. A passing Frenchman smiled however, when he recognized an old favorite, “Le Temps des Cerises.”

Soho never truly sleeps, and that evening Herman could find no dark corner within sight of the entrance to the new address. This would be difficult. The rifle was accurate and quiet but clumsy to handle. He would not be able to fire off a snap shot with any degree of accuracy, and the sensitive trigger made it likely it would discharge before he was ready. He would need time to get an accurate bead on his target and sufficient cover to prevent someone from noticing. Also, his funds were running low. He needed to make more lamps to buy food.

He smelled sausages from a nearby pushcart, and as he lathered mustard on his food, an idea came to him. The fat vendor looked to be about fifty, with a prominent handlebar mustache favored by Bavarians. Herman asked in German, “Are you from Munich?”

“Ja, ich bin. Why?”

“Could you do a countryman from Berlin a favor? I’d make it worth your while.”

After ten pounds (half of Herman’s remaining funds) exchanged hands, Herman found himself the proud proprietor of the food cart for the rest of that day and the day to follow. Herman had also been required to hand over his father’s pocket watch as security, and he was careful to remove the picture of Astrid holding little Immanuel before doing so, placing the photo carefully in his vest pocket.

The Bavarian walked away happy for the unexpected paid holiday. They’d agreed Herman was to surrender the cart and half the proceeds on the evening of the following day. I should make enough money to pay for my meals for the next two days, or eat sausages, Herman thought.

Business was brisk until eight, and it was difficult to keep watch on the entrance at times. Finally, as the late spring evening arrived, passersby thinned out and the few remaining were intent on getting home. He was packing the cart up and preparing to take it to the pub where it would be stored overnight, when he saw a slender woman leave the building. Herman took a deep breath and mentally compared her to the image in the books he’d studied at the bookstore. His shoulders tensed as he confirmed it was her.

She seemed carefree, despite Astrid’s blood on her hands. Herman had to restrain himself from rushing forward and grasping her throat with his large and furious hands.

This was the first time Herman had seen Miss Harkness in daylight, and he was surprised to see a man and young woman with her. Staying with friends? he asked himself. That meant something had alarmed her. I must have been observed. He shook his head. That wouldn’t stop him.

Befreier was stowed underneath the cart, just a case holding any number of possible items. It was getting dark, and the young lady with them meant they would not be out late. Herman pulled the cart into an alley across the street, and carefully cleaned and recleaned the grill, waiting for his chance. As the shadows deepened, he drew the rifle out and assembled it on the ground behind the cart. Satisfied it was as ready as he could make it, he covered it over with a tarpaulin and left it at his feet, ready to seize when the moment arrived.

His patience was soon rewarded as the trio walked back, each holding an ice cream cone and laughing at some comment the young girl had made. There was a streetlight ten feet to the right of the entrance to the apartment building, which was fortunate. It would light up the space where they would halt for keys, while casting him in shadow.

Herman lowered the top of the grill. The fire had been out some time now, so it was cool enough to serve as a rest for the rifle. As the three of them passed him on the far side of the street about forty feet away, Herman laid Befreier on top of the grill and assumed the proper position. The telescopic scope drew in the dim light, making it easier to see his target in the evening shadows. The three stopped when the man reached for his keys. Herman let his breath out slowly and let the crosshairs drift down until Margaret’s head filled the sights. A life, for a life, he thought. He put the slightest pressure on the trigger, and the rifle coughed.