Last Man to Die by Michael Dobbs Page A

a butter knife, but she was taking no chances.
    He managed a smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’m not going to argue with a loaded shotgun.’
    ‘And who might you be? Some sort of foreigner by your accent.’ She stepped from the bottom stair into the kitchen, chin up, prominent nose moving aheadlike a ship’s prow, waving the shotgun with menace. He raised his hands.
    ‘My name is Peter Hencke. And I am sorry for the mess. I meant no harm.’
    ‘We’ll let the police decide that.’ She took another step into the room but was reluctant to come any closer. Her eyes kept darting from Hencke’s face to the wall behind him where he knew was the telephone. She needed it, but could take her time, working her way step by step round the room, keeping the barrels fixed firmly on him, until she had reached the telephone. One call and he was done for. One sharp move and he was dead. He had to gamble, to rattle her, throw her off balance, and quickly. Who knew how long it would be before a husband, postman, friend or farmhand appeared? Time was not on his side.
    ‘It is a special day for you. I am German. An escaped prisoner of war. I think you will find the police very happy to receive your call. Perhaps there will even be a reward.’
    He could see her eyes grow wild from the mixture of fear and excitement, and he could sense her finger tightening on the twin triggers.
    ‘I’m not a fool; I’ll cause no trouble.’ Hencke raised his hands still higher above his head and with great caution stood up from the table, stepping back out of her direct line to the telephone. ‘Your wretched English weather is enough to defeat anyone.’
    The attempt at humour was lost on her. Instead she waggled the shotgun with new fervour. ‘Back! Step back! Right away from the telephone.’
    Hencke took three deliberate steps backward, the shotgun waved and he took another. He was a clearfive yards away from the phone and she began her advance across the room – but he was on his feet, not pinned against a solid oak table.
    ‘Keep staring at these barrels,’ she snapped. ‘So much as breathe heavily and I’ll use them, don’t think I won’t. An escaping Boche, dead or alive – I’ll maybe get a medal as well as a reward.’
    Hencke remained silent and motionless until she had reached the telephone. She was there, had offered no chance of surprise, was reaching for the phone, now was dialling. Yet in order to use it she had to take one hand off the gun and both eyes off Hencke. Her solitary, ageing arm found the gun too heavy and, as the dial clattered round, the barrels began to droop towards the floor. It was the moment he had been waiting for. Hencke sprang.
    Even so she had time to see him coming. ‘Why you …!’ She leaned backwards, trying to force up the gun barrels and pulling the trigger as she did so. No, she was not bluffing, but in her weak grip the shot went wild and Hencke was upon her. She screamed and they both fell to the floor, ripping the phone from the wall as they did so, with Hencke landing heavily on top of the old woman and the shotgun wedged between them. She was still fighting and spitting, scrabbling once more to find the trigger for the second barrel, when Hencke wrenched it out of her grasp. The solid wooden butt flew away from her scratching fingers and caught her on the temple just above the left eye. Her head fell back sharply against the flagstones, hitting them with a loud crack. She lay still, breathing heavily.
    Unsteadily Hencke pushed himself away and gazed down upon the unconscious woman. Eyes shut, mouth open, gasping – snoring, just as heremembered his sleeping aunt. The adrenalin which had revived him had as quickly evaporated, leaving him weak and trembling once more. He slumped back into the chair, the shotgun on the table in front of him, leaning on it as he stared into the battered face of the old woman. He had hit his aunt, too, that last time. Not for what she had said, it had been no worse