Even though a few windows showed signs of occupancy, most were dark. Indeed, since leaving the coffeehouse Liebermann had not encountered another human being. It was unnaturally quiet, suggesting abandonment and dereliction. He glanced at his watch—and discovered that it was much later than he had thought.
Liebermann halted to consider his position. If he had been going toward the canal, then he would be able to follow its course into town. If, on the other hand, he had been traveling in the opposite direction, he was sure to come across a train line—which would serve the same purpose.
As he contemplated his options, the oppressive silence was broken by a scream—a woman's voice, crying for help. The volume and shrillness of the sound startled Liebermann, who spun around, trying to determine where it was coming from. He then sprinted toward the source, his footsteps sounding loud on the cobbled street. But he had not gone very far when the cries faded. His pace slackened.
An upstairs window flickered into life, its luminescent rectangle inhabited by the silhouette of a man in his nightshirt. The dog began to bark. Ahead, the road curved into darkness.
Where is she?
Liebermann was breathing hard.
The screams had sounded very close. Yet the arc of doors that lay ahead revealed nothing more than the reflected glimmer of a second streetlamp.
Liebermann had no choice but to continue. He quickened his pace and almost missed an opening between two houses—a narrow alleyway. Skidding to a halt, he wheeled around. He could hear scuffling—movements and a whimper. Treading softly he ventured into the passage. His foot made contact with something soft and yielding. Reaching down, he discovered a woman's bag.
Suddenly, voices. Rough-edged voices, speaking in a harsh working-class dialect.
Liebermann edged forward, taking great care not to make a sound. The alleyway led to a walled yard, dimly lit by a streetlamp located on the other side of the enclosure. The yard was strewn with crates, bottles, and other detritus. A woman was struggling to free herself from a broad-shouldered man who, standing behind her, had clamped a hand over her mouth and wrapped an arm around her waist. Another two men stood in front of the captive, jeering and making obscene remarks. It was obvious what they intended to do.
Liebermann stepped out of his tenebrous hiding place and called out: “Let her go.”
The leering duo turned. It was impossible to see their faces in the half-light.
“Let her go,” Liebermann repeated.
One of the men laughed.
“What are you gonna do about it?”
“I must insist that you let her go.”
A stream of profanities ended in humorless guffaws.
“Leave us alone,” the other man said. “Leave us alone, all right? Or you're gonna get hurt. Badly.”
“Yeah, run along—college boy.” This came from the man who was restraining the woman. She began to wriggle. “Keep still, you Gypsy bitch,” he hissed. The woman groaned as the villain tightened his grip.
Liebermann stood firm.
“Right,” said the nearest man. Liebermann saw him make a swift movement—and the glint of a blade flashed in the man's hand. He began to move forward. “Let's see if I can change your mind.”
“As you wish,” Liebermann replied.
The young doctor had been holding his sabre under his arm. Grabbing the hilt, he pulled it from the scabbard—producing as he did a satisfying ring of resonant steel—and held the sword aloft. Its appearance was greeted with a gasp and another stream of profanities. However, the man with the razor continued his approach, and his companion followed.
Liebermann could now see his adversary's features. He was bald, with swollen ears, a snout nose, and a scar that crossed his lips, disfiguring his mouth. It was a brutish countenance, suggesting the haphazard adhesion of lumps of clay. Liebermann searched the eyes for signs of intelligence but found only savage stupidity and an appetite for mindless violence.
The man jumped forward with surprising speed, swiping his razor close to Liebermann s face. But Liebermann had the superior weapon. Before the man could retreat, the young doctor's sabre had slashed through his forearm. The thug cried out, dropping the razor and falling to his knees. His companion, however, had armed himself with a large plank of wood, from which projected several nails. He was taller than the bald man, and more agile. Dodging Liebermann s first lunge, he swung the plank hard against the doctor's side. It was not a painful blow, but had sufficient force to make Liebermann stumble.
While Liebermann was trying to right himself, the tall man landed a second blow on his shoulder. This time it was extremely painful—sharp and searing. A nail had penetrated his skin, and as he pulled away, he heard the sound of ripping.
“Again,” the bald man shouted.
His companion raised his makeshift club, but on this third occasion he lifted it too high, exposing his torso and conceding the vital second that Liebermann required. The young doctor swung his sabre horizontally, creating a glimmering semicircle, the edge of which, if it had been displaced by another two inches, might well have proved fatal. The tall man buckled over—a torrent of blood gushing from his abdomen.
Liebermann waited until the tall man's rapidly weakening legs gave way, and then marched over to the woman and her captor.
“Release her,” he ordered.
The broad-shouldered man looked over in the direction of his accomplices, both of
