‘Back inside,’ said the man with the pistol. I retreated, raising my hands instinctively.

He wore a Bavarian-cut sports coat of light-blue linen, and a canary-yellow tie. There was a scar on his pale young face, but it was neat and clean-looking, and probably self-inflicted with a razor in the hope that it might be mistaken for a student’s duelling scar. Accompanied by a strong smell of beer, he advanced into my hallway, closing the door behind him.

‘Anything you say, sonny,’ I said, relieved to see that he looked less than comfortable with the Parabellum. ‘You had me fooled there with that story about Fraulein Rudel. I shouldn’t have fallen for it.’

‘You bastard,’ he snarled.

‘Mind if I put my hands down? Only my circulation isn’t what it used to be.’ I dropped my hands to my sides. ‘What’s this all about?’

‘Don’t deny it.’

‘Deny what?’

‘That you raped her.’ He adjusted his grip on the gun, and swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple tossing around like a honeymoon couple under a thin pink sheet. ‘She told me what you did to her. So you needn’t try and deny it.’

I shrugged. ‘What would be the point? In your shoes I know who I would believe. But listen, are you sure you know what you’re doing? Your breath was waving a red flag when you tiptoed in here. The Nazis may seem a bit liberal in some things, but they haven’t done away with capital punishment, you know. Even if you’re hardly old enough to be expected to hold your drink.’

‘I’m going to kill you,’ he said, licking his dry lips.

‘Well, that’s all right, but do you mind not shooting me in the belly?’ I pointed at his pistol. ‘It’s by no means certain that you’d kill me, and I’d hate to spend the rest of my life drinking milk. No, if I were you I’d go for a head shot. Between the eyes if you can manage it. A difficult shot, but it would kill me for sure. Frankly, the way I feel right now, you’d be doing me a favour. It must be something I’ve eaten, but my insides feel like the wave machine at Luna Park.’ I farted a great, meaty trombone of a fart in confirmation.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ I said, waving my hand in front of my face. ‘See what I mean?’

‘Shut up, you animal,’ said the young man. But I saw him raise the barrel and level it at my head. I remembered the Parabellum from my army days, when it had been the standard service pistol. The Pistol .08 relies on the recoil to fire the striker, but with the first shot the firing mechanism is always comparatively stiff. My head made a smaller target than my stomach, and I hoped that I’d have enough time to duck.