She waved the pamphlet in his face, her pinched finger pointing to the Third Man’s photo.
“Look. It’s hard to recognize him until you imagine him without eyes,” she said. Her comment was aimed at the detective, but her gaze stayed locked on Christoph.
“Alter Schwede,” said Andreas. He ripped the playbill from her hand, then waved it at Christoph. “Care to explain why your leading man was found dead in Sterling’s storage compartment?”
Christoph stammered, searching for an answer. “It’s, uh, complicated?”
Andreas marched forward. “Well, this isn’t. You’re under arrest.”
Christoph sucked a breath through clenched teeth, shaking his head. “No, Detective, I don’t think I am.”
He signaled to the tech booth, then reached into his breast pocket, and grasped something that glinted in the spotlight. He paused for dramatic effect, sneered, then withdrew a snub-nosed revolver and aimed behind Sterling.
At Fernando.
She leapt between them just as the lights cut out, washing everything in darkness.
Broken by the flash of the gun.
— 55 —Fünfundfünfzig
The shot echoed.
“No!” shouted Sterling, leaping towards Fernando, tearing her pencil skirt as she flew, arms outstretched, and tackled him to the stage. They hit the floor with a thud.
She scrambled atop him in a clumsy but effective tactical maneuver best described asdefensive snuggling. “Are you hit?”
“Not… shot,” he croaked.
She relaxed, letting her weight fall on him.
“But… can’t… breathe,” he said.
Oh, right.She rolled off him and sat up, shielding him. Her bare thighs pressed the dusty stage. If they got the lights on, her ripped skirt would give everyone a show.
A glowing rectangle appeared at the rear of the auditorium as a man darted out the back door. The tech guy, aka the late-night deliveryman.
“Drop the gun, Christoph. We have you outnumbered,” shouted Andreas.
But they didn’t have weapons. Beate neared the stage, Harry behind her.
Mr. K was in the center aisle, too enormous to hide and too furious to bother. He cried out, a growl worthy of a grizzly, and lumbered towards the stage.
The shiny outline of Christoph’s bald head shone green from the exit signs. He scampered, attempting to exit stage left, pursued by a bear-size hotelier.
Sterling clambered to her feet. Fernando joined her.
“Don’t youdarerun. Not without explaining,” she warned Christoph, her rage more lethal than his revolver.
Christoph’s toe landed on a taped stage marker as he faced her. Ever the consummate performer. “It’s not what you think.”
“I think you’re the real leader of Nightingale.”
“Okay, you have me there, but—”
“And you killed Hedy, and David, and the Third Man. Then tried to kill Fernando.”
He gave her an admonishing look. “Dearie. I realize only a man with a death wish dares tell a woman this, butyou need to calm down. You have it all wrong. No one was meant to get hurt.”
