Death and the Devil

By now the rain was coming down in torrents. All activity in Berlich had come to a halt. Here and there lights could be seen through the shutters.

Urquhart waited.

Suddenly the whorehouse door opened and a man shot out and up the street toward the city wall. With his head hunched between his shoulders in the downpour, he was nothing but a coat and floppy hat on legs. But Urquhart had made careful note of his quarry’s clothing.

It was time to put an end to this tiresome affair. Unhurriedly, he set off after the scampering figure.

Given that he was stumbling over his own feet at every second step, he was showing an astonishing turn of speed. Urquhart decided to follow him until he stopped. He couldn’t keep that speed up forever; he’d have to take a rest at some point.

It was less effort to kill him when he wasn’t moving so much.

Coat-and-hat crossed the Duck Ponds and headed down a narrow path between the orchards and vineyards. It was so dark you could hardly see your hand in front of your face. But Urquhart could. He could see in the pitch dark. He had the senses of a beast of prey that registered every movement of the man running along the path. With a grunt of satisfaction, he noted that he was getting slower and slower. Good. It would soon be over.

He wondered how many people the redhead had already told. There was the man he had dragged along to the brothel with him, clearly a friend. No problem tracking him down. Urquhart had memorized his features while he was trailing them to Berlich, and he could always get more information out of the whores. Though really it wasn’t necessary to bother with him. It was only the witness himself who was a danger. He could almost forget about a beggar with an unlikely story he had from someone else.

But better safe than sorry.

By now they were in Plackgasse. Although it ran along inside the city wall, it was lined with trees and fences and half a dozen scattered farm buildings. It was no more than a country lane, and the rain had turned its surface into a slippery film of mud and pebbles.

The redhead must enjoy the “privilege of the Wall.”

Now he was starting to drag his feet. His progress in the lashing, soaking wind was laborious in the extreme. Urquhart was surprised; his assessment of the man’s physical capacity had been wrong. The willows bent beneath the black clouds streaming across the sky. Still no house in sight. Not long now and the man would be at the end of his tether.

A moment later he had slipped and was stuck in the mire. Urquhart stood still. The man was so enveloped in the floppy hat and coat, he could have been taken for a rock. Then he moved, tried to stand up.

He almost made it.

He coughed.

With a few steps Urquhart was behind him, aimed his crossbow at the back of his neck, and squeezed the trigger. The force of the bolt threw the body forward onto its knees so that it ended up in a grotesque kneeling position, as if giving thanks to the Lord.

Urquhart looked down at him.

He felt nothing. He was neither proud of his deed nor sorry to have killed a man. He could not understand why others who carried out similar acts had to bemoan them or brag about them afterward. Death was final. This man’s life story was over and done with, and that was that. Not worth a further thought.

He turned around and headed back toward Berlich.

The dead man merged into the darkness behind him, a shapeless thing without name or meaning.

BERLICH

Maria calmed down somewhat after Tilman had left, but the atmosphere was still strained. Jacob stared at the candle. For a long time no one spoke.

“What was the point of that?” Maria asked querulously.

“Of what?”

“Giving him your hat and coat and your place under the Wall?”

“It’s just for the night, Maria.”

She rumpled her nose and wrapped her arms around herself as if she was cold.

“I’m not heartless,” she said after a while.

Jacob sighed. “No one says you are.”

“Oh, yes, they do!” There was an angry glint in her eyes. “You say it and your horrible friend Tilman says it. Can’t you imagine what it’s like when you’ve just about managed to get a roof over your head and then you’re expected to share it with any Tom, Dick, or Harry?”

“What do you mean, any Tom, Dick, or Harry?” Jacob spoke sharply. “I look after you as best I can. Sorry I’m not a patrician eating deviled pork with raisins every day and drinking the best wine.”

“I wasn’t talking about you.”

“It sounded very much like it.”

“You could have asked who I was talking about. Anyway, what do I do? Lie on my back for God knows who. And why do I do it? So I don’t have to sleep in some stinking ditch. You’ve got to look after yourself. Still I let you come here whenever I’m free. But you don’t know when you’re onto a good thing. As soon as someone gives you something, you can’t wait to give it away. Someone gives you shelter and you drag that riffraff along.”

“I’m part of that riffraff, too.”

“But it’s my room! And it’s my business who I let in and who not!”