Free Boys from Brazil by Ira Levin

teacher? He jumped me in the street tonight—I can’t imagine why—and I killed him.’” He clutched his cheeks delightedly and whistled. “My God, it’ll kill her too! ”
    â€œCome on, let’s do it!” Reichmeider urged. “Before they lose their nerve and run away!”
    They hurried down Kirchengasse’s dark decline. Bright headlights swept up and raced past them.
    â€œWho says there’s no justice, eh?”
    â€œâ€˜Fat prick’? Oh, you shitty little faggot, I’m going to get you right through the heart!”
    They crossed deserted Lindenstrasse; walked slowly now and quietly, close against shuttered storefronts. And came to four stories of stonework building, dark and broken-topped against moonlit sky, footed at front and side with rough-built passages of lumber and painted doors. Reichmeider drew Döring into the side passage’s blackness. “You stay here,” he whispered; “I’ll go through and make sure he didn’t have ten others joining them.”
    â€œYes, you’d better!” Döring got out the gun.
    â€œI know the way now and I have a penlight; I won’t be long. Stay right here.”
    â€œDon’t let them see you!”
    Away already, Reichmeider whispered, “Don’t worry.” The passage appeared, plank-roofed and door-walled in bobbing dim light. Reichmeider’s tall thin silhouette strode into it, and turned to the inner wall and was gone, leaving blackness.
    Alert and excited—and needing to pee—Döring held the wonderfully weighty Mauser, so many years carried and now to be used! He brought it closer to the passage’s opening and inspected it in faint light from Lindenstrasse; caressed a hand along its smooth barrel, carefully pushed its safety catch down into the ready position.
    He moved back against the wall where Reichmeider had put him. What a friend! What a real man! He would take him to dinner tomorrow night, at the Kaiserhof. And buy him something too, something gold. Cuff links maybe.
    He stood in the now-growing-visible passage with the gun big in his hand; thought about shooting its death-bullets into Wilhelm Springer.
    And—after police business—going home and telling Klara. Die, bitch.
    There would even be stories in the papers! Retired Transport Commission Administrator Slays Attackers . A picture of him too. Television interviews?
    He really had to pee. The beer. He pushed the safety catch back up and returned the gun to its neatly receiving holster. He turned to the wall, unzipped his fly, drew himself out; spread his feet wide and let go. What relief!
    â€œAre you there, Döring?” Reichmeider called softly from above.
    â€œYes!” he answered, looking up at planks. “What are you doing up there? ”
    â€œIt’s easier to get across on this level. There’s all kinds of crap down below. I’ll be with you in a minute. Stay there. The light’s gone out and I won’t be able to find you if you move around.”
    â€œDid you see them?”
    No answer. He peed on, looking at a crack between pale doors. Would Reichmeider be able to get down all right without the light? And had he seen Springer and the other, or was he still on the way? Hurry, Reichmeider!
    A pattering above; he looked up again. Gravel or something falling on the planks. They burst in at him with thunder behind them; and wondering, hurting, he died quickly.
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    The last time he had spoken at Heidelberg—in 1970, that was—the auditorium had been a splendid old cathedral of blackened oak, crowded even beyond its thousand-seat capacity. This time it was a new sand-colored oyster shell for five hundred, very modern and well designed, with the last two rows empty. The speaking was much easier, of course, like talking in someone’s large living room. Real eye-to-eye contact with all these bright young kids. But still…
    Well. It