Then he had seen the von Bishop woman and, in the interests of safety, had lain low in his tiny room at the top of the Kaiserhof for three days. During this period of inactivity he concentrated on sustaining the mood of hatred and desire for retribution which he’d felt so fiercely all these months.
But, somehow, now he was almost in sight of his quarry he felt his resolve wavering. He decided to let von Bishop speak for himself, to see if he had any defence to offer.
Those few moments when a voice in his head asked him if it was worth persevering were easily overcome. He simply had to conjure up the images of that dreadful day on the plateau. The only trouble was that they brought a train of associated but unwanted memories. Memories of Gabriel and Charis on their wedding day, of Charis’s appallingly misleading reassurances on the train between Aylesbury and London, of her own frightful death. Soon he would be shaky with guilt and unhappiness again, fully aware of his own problematic motives, and yet above all conscious of the overwhelming imbalance, the dreadful unfairness of everything. He was lucky, he reminded himself. He had it in his power to do some squaring up, knot a few of the dangling loose ends. At these times when he was most low he would try to imagine von Bishop’s face, try to visualize the features of the man who had killed his brother. Temple had said it was thin, shaven-headed with a large, sharp nose. It was not much to go on but in his imagination it readily acquired the lineaments of despicable cruelty. He felt instinctively that he would recognize von Bishop anywhere.
He weighed the gun in his hand. It was time to go. Keeping as much as he could to the shadows Felix moved towards the von Bishop house. Not far off a dog began to bark, but it soon fell silent. As he crept towards the bungalow, the gun held in readiness by his side, he felt suddenly possessed of an avenging strength and confidence. There was, he decided, an irrefutable rightness in the doctrine of an eye for an eye. It had a logic that brooked no backsliding: it allowed man some say in his fate; some little control of the order events took upon his planet.
He saw the shadow of a figure against the lighted square of window. He wondered if it were von Bishop. He crept up to the house. He could hear no conversation. He thought suddenly of von Bishop’s wife, and the fact that she might be a witness. He paused. It would be necessary to mask himself somehow. Felix felt through his pockets. He had no handkerchief with him. It was paramount that he disguise his face.
Cursing under his breath, he took off his linen jacket and wrapped and knotted it awkwardly under his chin. Simply by pulling up one fold his face was effectively masked. But somehow this ad hoc pragmatic operation had deprived him of his mood of vengeful omnipotence as swiftly as it had arisen. He felt foolish and vulnerable and, try as he might, he couldn’t help wondering what he must look like with his jacket wrapped around his head. Already he was bathed in perspiration, sweat running uncomfortably down his muffled neck.
He looked again at the gun, hoping that the sight of the agent of destruction would inspire him once again, but it only brought another unwelcome thought to mind. When he fired, when he pulled the trigger, the noise in an enclosed space would be deafening. Without doubt it would bring back his partial blindness again, his fractured vision. What would he do then? How would he get away? He threw back his head in desperation and looked at the vague stars in the sky. Why now, at the eleventh hour, were all these obstacles massing in his path? Don’t think, he told himself angrily, just do.
He eased round to the dark end of the house. Here the shutters, to what he assumed was the bedroom, were flung wide to cool the room as much as possible prior to the occupants retiring. Reaching up he grabbed the sill. The gun in his hand clanged noisily against the corrugated iron. He dropped immediately into a crouch. But there was no reaction from inside. Ordering his leaping heart to still itself, Felix stuffed the gun back in the waistband of his trousers, stood up and, with some effort, clambered into the empty bedroom. He stood by the window listening for any suspicious noises from the sitting room. All was quiet.
Slowly his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness of the bedroom. A wooden chest against one wall. The tall shape of a cupboard. A stand with a basin on it by a bed. The two beds themselves with tall crude cast-iron bedsteads, rumpled sheets on one of them—
He felt a silent scream of shock echo through his head. One of the beds was occupied. He tried to swallow but his Adam’s apple seemed to have swelled to block his throat. As silently as he knew how he drew the gun from his waistband and took a tentative step nearer the bed. The person lay on its back, sound asleep, its large sharp nose silhouetted against the pale wall.
Felix felt his stomach churn with nausea as he realized that the sleeper was von Bishop. He took another small step nearer the bed. Miraculously there was no squeak from the wooden floorboards. He had him now. He aimed the gun. It trembled wildly in his grasp. But he was so close he couldn’t miss.
“Von Bishop,” he hissed. “Wake up.”
There was no movement from the bed.
“Wake up,” he croaked. “Wake up.”
Von Bishop slept on peacefully.
Felix lowered the gun. What now? He took a step closer. He stood almost above him. Felix could hardly hear the sound of his breathing. Hand wobbling, he levelled the gun at von Bishop’s shadowed face.
“Wake. Up.” He reached forward to shake him by the shoulder. This was absurd, he thought, it was going to be impossible to shoot the man now.
Behind him the door swung open.
“He’s dead,” Liesl von Bishop said in a calm voice. “Leave him alone.”
Felix reeled round in horror and aghast surprise, frantically hauling the folds of his jacket up over his face. He lost his balance and staggered, a hand slamming down on the bed for support, thwacking von Bishop’s immobile leg.
The light from the oil lamp she carried illuminated von Bishop’s face. His eyes were shut, his mouth slightly open, his skin looked stretched tight.
“Oh my God,” Felix exclaimed tremulously, bending over, gasping for air. “Oh God, Jesus!” He felt as if he were about to fall apart, so critical was the shock he’d received.
“He died this evening,” Liesl said dully. “About three hours ago. Influenza. Spanish influenza, the doctor said.”
Felix felt his rioting body come under minimal control.
“What’s wrong with your face?” she said.
“What?” Felix touched the masking folds of his jacket.
“Your face, why is it covered? And a gun,” she said with more alarm. “Why have you got a gun?”
“In case,” Felix improvised, tearing away his jacket, hoping he wouldn’t have to try and explain that. “Self-protection,” he concluded lamely.
“I saw you outside,” she said. “Standing under the tree. I was waiting for you to come to the door.” She gave him a weary, tolerant smile, as if he were an idiotic child who kept getting into trouble. She moved to one side to let him pass, and Felix walked out of the bedroom into the narrow hall. He put on his jacket and tucked his gun away with some embarrassment.
“You wanted to ask Erich about Gabriel?” she said.
“Yes.” It was odd hearing the sound of his brother’s name on her lips, she used it so familiarly.
Her face went serious. “I must tell you. You know that he’s dead?”
Felix nodded. “I know. I found him.” He looked again at this perplexing woman. He remembered that she had known Gabriel for what amounted to the last two years of his life.
“Did your husband…did he tell you what happened? About Gabriel?”
“Oh yes.” Liesl said.