The box itself was plain, almost deliberately so. Dark wood, unpolished, with a simple latch. It drew no attention to itself, and that, I have found, is the most effective form of concealment. I opened it. Inside, wrapped in dark cloth, were three bullets and a letter. They were precisely as I had expected. To a casual observer, they would have appeared entirely ordinary, indistinguishable from any others of similar make. Yet there is a quality to well crafted objects that reveals itself immediately to those accustomed to handling them. The balance was exact. The weight consistent. Each casing bore a faint engraving at its base, so slight that it might easily have been overlooked.
Master craftsmanship.
I lifted one and held it between my fingers. It was cool, perfectly formed, without flaw or irregularity. .There is something particular about holding a thing that has not yet done what it was made to do I replaced it carefully. There was no need for further examination. I had no doubt of their quality and the German does not concern himself with imperfection. I closed the box and set it aside. The days that followed were devoted to refinement. Preparation, if it is to be effective, must extend beyond the obvious. It is not enough to identify a vantage point or acquire the necessary instruments. One must inhabit the pattern of the place, become part of its rhythm until one’s presence ceases to be perceived as separate from it. To that end, I had altered my habits slightly, though not in any way that would attract attention. I took my midday meal at a small establishment not far from Pembroke’s residence, informing the Anglo-Indian clubs steward that I was dining at a visiting friends club for a few days. It was the sort of place frequented by clerks and tradesmen, where a man might sit without being observed too closely. The proprietor, after two or three visits, came to recognize me. We exchanged the usual pleasantries. Weather. Trade. Nothing of consequence. From my vantage point, I read a newspaper watching the streets in the vicinity at varying hours, noting the flow of traffic, the patterns of movement. There are rhythms to a city that reveal themselves only through repetition. A cart that arrives each day at the same time. A servant who lingers at the door a moment longer than necessary. A constable whose route is predictable in its circuit. These details, insignificant in isolation, form a structure when considered together. From the empty house, Pembroke himself I observed more closely. On two occasions, he paused at his door upon returning home, his gaze moving briefly along the street. It was not suspicion. There was no tension in it. Rather, it suggested the habitual awareness of a man accustomed to being observed in some capacity. He looked, saw nothing of note, and proceeded inside. Yet the gesture remained. Some men sense imbalance without understanding its source.
In the morning itself, I woke up at the usual hour. There was no alteration in my routine. To change it would have been to introduce unnecessary variation. I shaved, dressed, and had breakfast as I always did. The walk that followed was longer than usual, though it appeared otherwise. I traced the route I would later take, confirming that nothing had altered. A man who relies upon assumptions invites error. It is better to confirm even what seems certain. The weather was overcast, a thin mist hanging in the air. It softened the outlines of buildings and muted sound. Such conditions are advantageous. They obscure without concealing entirely. At noon, I returned to my rooms. The rifle was prepared. It required little attention, but habit demands thoroughness. I cleaned it, examined each component, assembled and disassembled it until the motion required no thought. The bullets were handled with equal care. Each was placed, then removed, then placed again. The sequence repeated until it was as natural as breathing. There must be no hesitation. At three in the afternoon, I left my rooms. The journey to the house was uneventful. The city moved as it always does. Men and women engaged in their own concerns, unaware of the part they play in the designs of others. I entered the house as before. Inside, the air was unchanged. The dust lay where I had last seen it, save for the small disturbances I had introduced. The path to the upper floor was known to me now. I ascended without sound. The room awaited. Everything was as I had left it. I took my position. The waiting is the worst of it for most men. I have never found it so. There is nothing to do but observe, and observation has never troubled me. The angle of the shot. The distance. The slight movement of the mist beyond the glass. The rhythm of the street below. I observed. At intervals, I adjusted my posture slightly, ensuring that no stiffness would interfere with the act when it came. The rifle rested where it should. My hands were steady. At half past four, the carriage arrived.