last time, and I shall not miss this time. And this time, I shall make sure I get the letter.”
The great man snorted. “Oh, no. This time there will be nothing to trace this back to us. We know who has the letter, no thanks to you. By a stroke of luck, he talked to one of the officers in the hospital. The patient wanted to know what had happened to a wounded man who had given him a letter for his father. The officer asked around and, by another lucky chance, I overheard him.” He paused to let his heavy sarcasm register. “Fortunately, the man has no idea what he carries. You will get the letter, and this time without using violence and without making him suspicious. But under no circumstances will you approach him here in Mannheim.”
“N-not approach him?”
“He will be leaving shortly. His name is Franz von Langsdorff. He will travel by post to Lindau Tuesday next. You will follow or join him and get the letter in such a way that he doesn’t realize its importance.”
The assassin bit his lip. How much good luck did they hope for? “What if he delivers the letter before he leaves Mannheim?”
“He won’t. No one by that name lives here.”
Apparently luck was still with them, but the assassin did not trust it for a minute. “Might he not throw it away then? Or open it to get more information?”
The great man stamped his foot. “Curse you for an incompetent knave! You will make sure he doesn’t or suffer the consequences. Don’t contact me until you have it.” He did not trouble with farewell courtesies as he opened the door.
The assassin meekly descended into the rainy night and watched the coach drive away.
It was a difficult assignment. A shot from a distance was simpler and safer, but his livelihood depended on the people he served and he was obliged to play it their way. They had given him a second chance when he had no right to expect one.
4
The Journey Home
“Do you think,” said Martin, “that sparrow-hawks have always eaten the pigeons they came across?”
“Yes, of course,” said Candide.
“Well,” said Martin, “if sparrow-hawks have always possessed the same character, why should you expect men to change theirs?”
Voltaire, Candide
R egardless of how much he wished to delay facing his family, Franz had to leave the hospital in Mannheim. By April, he had protracted his departure past all tolerance. He was the last of the wounded officers from the recent war, and the doctors had declared him fit and washed their hand of him. So he shaved off his mustache and put on his old uniform again, dressing with some difficulty because his breeches would not buckle around the deformed right knee and his boot pinched the barely healed leg.
With the uniform and boots gone, the trunk was nearly empty. He decided to abandon it in favor of a light satchel for a clean shirt, shaving kit, letters, and decoration. The undeliverable letter from the dead captain he tossed away at first. But after a moment, he picked it up again and shoved it into his right boot where the leather bit into his crippled leg. Then he took up his crutches, flung the satchel over his shoulder, and made his slow way to the post station inn Der Goldene Pflug where he paid for his coach fare to Stuttgart.
He hated the pitying looks and questions from the passengers and reacted by glowering and ignoring their questions and offers of help. After a while, they left him alone.
The coach traveled south along the Neckar River, through Heidelberg and Heilbronn. Whenever they approached a station, the postilion blew his horn, and people came to welcome passengers and mail. In Heidelberg, the old capital of the Kurpfalz, the blackened ruins of the castle loomed large above the city where Franz had spent carefree student years. The castle had been sacked and burned by the French in another war, but the swaggering university students he saw from the coach window were innocent of ugly thoughts of battles and casualties.
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