After the Fine Weather by Michael Gilbert Page B

few yards to the end of the path, and started to shoulder his way through the crowd.
    She found herself running after him, shouting “Stop him! Murderer!” Faces turned and looked blankly at her. Then she was herself in the crowd. A man grabbed her. She shook herself loose, hitting him in the face as she did so. Behind her someone growled out something. The boy was well ahead of her now, working his way through the crowd. As she tried to push after him a foot came out and tripped her. She went down on her knees. Two hands came down, grabbed her arms, and hauled her to her feet.
    “Better get out of here before they start getting rough,” said the voice of Helmut.
    He kept hold of her wrists and started to back out, pulling her after him in a series of jerks. People were shouting. A face looked down at her, stupid with fear and excitement. A hand grabbed her dress near the shoulder, and she heard the tearing noise as the stuff went. The next moment they were clear.
    “No need to run,” said Helmut. “They won’t chase you. They just didn’t like you treading on their toes. They’re a bit worked up.”
    They walked down one of the passages at the rear of the theatre and came out into a street of shops. Behind them they could hear the roar of the crowd, dominated by the booming of the loudspeaker.
    She said, “Would you mind stopping for a moment? I can’t–”
    She was trembling so violently that she couldn’t speak.
    Helmut put an arm under hers and steered her through a doorway. She found herself seated at a table.
    “What you need is a drink.” He shouted, and the solitary waiter, who was out in the street listening to the uproar, came reluctantly back to take the order.
    Laura took a mouthful from the glass that was put in front of her, and spluttered. It was neat schnapps. It tasted like incandescent hair oil.
    “Finish it,” said Helmut. “You won’t like it, but it will do you good.”
    “I’m all right now.”
    “What were you crashing about in the crowd for? They were beginning to get angry about it.”
    “It was the man,” said Laura.
    “Which man?”
    “He was quite young. He had fair hair, and a – rather pretty face. You know – sort of weak, but pretty. He was coming out of the theatre.”
    “And you suddenly felt an overmastering desire to chase this – what would you say? – an actor or perhaps a pop singer.”
    “It’s not a joke.”
    “It would have been no joke for him if you had caught him, I can see.”
    Laura said angrily, “Will you stop making fun of me? The man was a murderer.”
    Helmut stared at her.
    “I told you. He was slipping out of the theatre by a side door. And I recognized him.”
    “You recognized him?”
    “You remember my telling you, at dinner last night, about that gang of bullies that was beating up an Italian. Well, he was the leader of them.”
    Helmut signalled to the waiter and ordered more schnapps.
    “I’d rather have coffee,” said Laura.
    “And coffee. Now see if I can set this straight. Because you recognized this man as someone you had seen assaulting an Italian the night before, you came to the conclusion that he had had a hand in shooting the Bishop.”
    “I saw him do it.”
    “You–?”
    “No, that’s not quite right. I saw a gun being pointed at the Bishop through a gap in one of the circular windows in the turret beside the porch.”
    “Then what – a flash – smoke.”
    What had she seen? She shut her eyes. Had the gun barrel jumped just a little, as the shots rang out? When she opened her eyes again Helmut was looking at her, his head cocked, the eighth of a smile on his lips.
    “You don’t believe it, do you?” she said. “You don’t believe a single word of it.”
    “The idea in my part of the crowd,” said Helmut, “was that the shooting was done by an Italian. I didn’t see him myself, but lots of people seem to have seen him. A big man, with black hair. He was shouting and waving while the Bishop was