by David Evans
He sounded as though he resented Brian’s presence as an intrusion. Yet he was secretly pleased to have the expertise of this Assistant Superintendent Brian Moore on this case. A particularly sticky one, as he saw it. And the way MI-5 was poking around a couple of days back, it could be the dead girl was some sort of spy. A regular Mata Hari, he thought. So let the Yard get their fingers burnt. Better them than him.
“Sergeant Telford, is it? Right. I would very much like to get a look at the crime scene.”
Telford raised an eyebrow. “Y’mean now? Why, it’s time for the regular mid-morning tea cart to be around. They’ve got some cream buns I’m particular’ fond of.”
Brian eyed the broad expanse of Telford’s middle. “Yes, I’m sure you are. And, yes, now. You can snag something on the way out.”
Grumbling under his breath, Sgt. Telford got up from behind his desk to follow Brian out.
Time: 1340, CET, July 7, 1940
Place: Ruperle Home, Diessen am Ammersee,
Bavaria, Germany
Colonel Werner Ruperle sat on the porch in a hand-carved wooden chair, propped back against the wall of his house. He had been in Diessen am Ammersee for two days now and enjoyed it thoroughly. Though Bruno still seemed a bit withdrawn. He would find out about that this evening.
Hilda brought him a bottle of Spaaten Lager, his favorite beer, the ceramic stopper hinged back out of the way. She poured for him and sat beside her husband on a bench. “Werner, I am so happy that the war will end now that France has fallen. Surely, the Führer will rethink this invasion of England.”
“I’m not so sure, dear. The question is, if we do suspend hostilities, will the British do likewise? I am not inclined to think so, and neither is Hitler.” He lifted the heavy stein and took a long pull.
“I worry so about you. I know you could not write me about it, so it came as quite a shock. To be flying over England nearly every day. What a terrible risk that is.”
Werner patted her dress-covered knee. “Not as much as you might think. The RAF has only a finite number of aircraft. We’re whittling them down steadily. And the Americans are not sending nearly so many as Churchill would like everyone to think.”
“Will America get into the war?”
“I doubt it. Particularly if you have your way and the fighting ends now, with the surrender of France.”
Hilda cocked her blond head. “Somehow I don’t find that funny.”
“I really hoped you would. Now, enough about the war. It is what’s going on here that interests me. Bruno seemed ...” He shrugged. “Reluctant, I suppose I could say. He acted as though I were a stranger. Not only when I first arrived, but ever since.”
“I don’t know what to say. Talk to him, Werner. See if you can find out what is on his mind.”
Ruperle nodded. “I shall. Have him come out here now.”
Bruno came at his father’s summons, and his mother tactfully withdrew. Werner Ruperle examined his son with care, and growing interest. The boy took after his mother, had her flax-white hair and cobalt eyes. Always small for his age, he looked more to be nine, Werner thought again, than the twelve years he could claim to. Werner knew him to be a sensitive child. One given to daydreams and stargazing. The last in a most literal and tangible manner.
For his last Christmas, Werner had purchased a telescope for the boy. Bruno had spent hours since, peering at the southern sky out the dormer window in the high, peaked roof over his bedroom. He had made star charts of the heavens, some of which had been meticulously copied and shyly sent along in letters to a proud father in a far-off air base near Dresden. Now that summer had come, Bruno set up on the postage-stamp front lawn and worked the northeastern quadrant. He cut furtive glances at his equipment while standing before his father.
Col. Ruperle took a long puff on his pipe and exhaled. “Do you want to tell me about it, Bruno?”
“Sir?”
“What is it that’s bothering you?”
Internal anguish crumpled Bruno’s face. “It’s the other boys. At the Gymnasium, sir.”
“I thought you liked your school.”
“I do. I am second in my class. And the teachers are nice. Except for Herr Wittenauer. He keeps after me about joining the Jugend. All of the other boys who have turned twelve have joined.”
“What does your principal say?” Werner prompted.
“Father Gerhart attends their meetings,” Bruno said miserably. “Many boys who have just come from Grammatik Schul, some as young as ten, have joined, too. They hear Wittenauer going on at me and they pick on me too. They call me Jew-lover,” Bruno went on, lowering his eyes in embarrassment.
Ruperle read his son’s emotions clearly. “Do you think it is proper, then, to hate the Jews?”
A startled expression illuminated the face of Bruno Ruperle. “Oh, no, sir. You taught me…”
The colonel halted his son with an upraised hand. “l thought I also taught you to hold your tongue around that kind.”
“And I have, sir. I never speak out in defense of a Jew. But I don’t engage in hate talk about them, either. And I don’t participate in the Jew-baiting the others enjoy so much.”
“You don’t regret what you are doing?”
“Oh, no, sir. It’s only…” Tears sprang to life in Bruno’s deep blue eyes and began to spill over. “These boys are my friends—used to be my friends, I guess. I want to have friends, like anyone else. It’s only… only that I don’t want to join the Hitler Jugend.”
“What made that so difficult to talk about with me?”
Bruno mopped at one eye, his thin-lipped mouth twisted into a grimace of mental anguish. “It seems like you’ve been gone forever. And I’m a little afraid of you because you are a soldier, a hero of the Fatherland, an officer. You have to be a party member to be an officer, they teach us in school.”
“That’s true.” Ruperle reached out, drew his son close to him. He rested one big hand on a slim shoulder. “You need not be afraid of me, son. I am a member of the National Socialist German Workers’ Party, but that does not make me a Nazi. Nor a Jew-hater. Not in here.” He thumped his chest. “Or here.” Another tap of a finger to his head. “It’s what is in your heart and mind that makes you a National Socialist, or any other person for that matter. I have told you this before. Why is it troubling you now?”
“Because… I want… want you to find some way to keep me from having to join. I need your help, Father.”
Pain burned in the chest and eyes of Werner Ruperle. He sighed heavily and embraced his son. “I am afraid that, given our Germany today, I have very little to encourage you, son. It may well be that you will have no choice. That, like me, to survive, you will have to join. And God have mercy on us for it.”
Time: 1025, GMT, July 21, 1940
Place: The Quay, Coventry,
Warwickshire, England
Two weeks in the future for Colonel Ruperle, Brian Moore examined the crime scene. The place where the body had lain had been cordoned off, and additional barriers placed around the entire lot. It took Brian only seconds to reach the same conclusion as Sgt. Telford.
“It’s obvious she was not killed or tortured here, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir, that’s what I put in me notes, sir.”
“She also wasn’t brought here in plain sight of anyone who might happen along.”
“Hummm. Hadn’t considered that, sir. Why do you say so?”
“Simple logic. Since no one has reported anyone carting a corpse around, no one saw anything of the sort.”
“Could have done it in the middle of the night,” Telford suggested.
“The weather’s been good here of late?”
“Yes, sir. Right seasonably mild.”
“And when do the brooks and browns surface to feed?”
Surprise and confusi
on lighted Telford’s face. “What’s fish got to do with it?”
“Everything, my good Sergeant Telford. Just tell me when they feed.”
“Why, late at night, by moonlight.”
Brian pointed to some Y-shaped stakes driven into the riverbank nearby. “If I’m not mistaken, those are fishing rod rests. Put there recently, I’d say. Very likely last night. If the body had been here it would have been found by the fishermen. Those boys did it easy enough coming down at daylight.
“She may have been dead three days, but she was kept somewhere else. Then brought here early this morning and dumped, after the fishermen left.”
“Whatever for?”
“We may never know, Sergeant. Anything else unusual about the body?”
“No, sir. Wait! We collected some fibers off the palms of her hands. Seemed to be dyed wool. There was more under the fingernails and toenails.”
“What did you do with it?”
“Took it to the lab to be analyzed. Answer should be back by noon.”
Brian checked his wristwatch. “Let’s go see if it is.”
Back at the police station, Brian soon learned that the report on the fibers had indeed come in. He read it carefully while Sgt. Telford glanced meaningfully and often at the large clock over the desk sergeant’s dais.
“’Fibers in question are consistent with fibers found in the manufacture of certain Oriental rugs. Among those submitted,’” the dry language of the report droned as Brian read it aloud, “’were found seven strands identical to rugs known as Kirmans. Five were identical to strands from Isfahans. Nine came from Adanas, made in the city of the same name in Turkey. Matching fibers were found in the samples of hair taken from the scalp and pubic region of the corpse.’ Odd. What’s that tell us, Sergeant?”
“That it’s time to get us a bite of lunch, wot?” Telford offered suggestively.
“No. I think it says she was carried there in one or more Oriental rugs. And that she had lain on those or some others for quite a while before being abandoned in the lot. Now, who might you know among the rough element in Coventry with a taste for Oriental rugs?”
“Ain’t none, as I could say, Inspector. But there is an Oriental carpet shop on Dryden Way, along the river quay. Not two blocks from where the body got found.”
Brian brightened. “Have you the address?” When he had that in hand, he became briskly efficient. “Now, Sergeant Telford, I suggest that it is time indeed for you to have that spot of lunch. First start an inquiry for information on those who run the shop. Then round up a squad and go there to make the arrests.”
“Very well, sir. You’ll not be…” Telford asked hopefully, surprised that the Scotland Yard sod would not want to hog all the credit.
Brian shook his head. “No. I have other matters to attend to that will make certain a conviction when you’ve made the arrests.”
Making all good time back to the grove of beech trees on the outskirts of Coventry, Brian activated his “phone booth” PTTD and made his final hop, back to his present and the London Time Station.
Time: 2320, GMT, July 7, 1940
Place: Time Station London, Thameside,
London, England
Vito Alberdi looked up as both Brian Moores materialized in the usual place. “Find what you were looking for?”
Brian could not suppress the grin. “Sure did. Exactly where they have her.”
“Have who?”
The Brians dismissed it. “Oh, never mind.”
“C’mon, no secrets from a partner in Time.”
Real-time Brian answered. “We’re off to rescue a damsel in distress. She’s not one of us, but she does work for me at MI-5.”
“The good-looking one from out of town you’ve been squiring around?”
“You’ve been snooping?”
“Nothing more than your Trac Link can reveal. Go on, my friend. This one’s worth saving. You need some help?”
“We’ll take Frank. You, I need monitoring things here.”
With Frank Matsumoto barely awake in the left seat, Brian I sped off in the MG roadster toward Coventry. Brian II followed in the Morris Minor sedan. Their destination: the Oriental rug shop at 23 Dryden Way Road.
Time: 0150, GMT, July 8, 1940
Place: Oriental Rug Shop, Dryden Way,
Coventry, Warwickshire, England
Brian Moore, I and II, and Frank Matsumoto cruised slowly past the carpet store. It was ten to two in the morning. At the end of the block, Brian I parked the MG and they walked back to join Brian II. Together the trio headed for the silent, blacked-out store. Brian’s vibrating lock-pick, another product of the future, quickly gave them access. Frank found a blond, square-jawed SS type asleep at a desk in the rear.
With the blackjack from his hip pocket, Frank put the German into a deeper sleep. Brian came up to him. “Just like you, Frank,” he whispered.
“What do you mean? I never sleep on duty.”
“What were you doing when I came in earlier tonight?”
Frank pulled a straight face. “Resting my eyes.”
“You always make that sawing wood noise when you rest your eyes?”
“Get stuffed, bucko.”
“You’ve been hanging out with the Irish again,” Brian teased. Then he motioned to search the shop.
Their scrutiny produced nothing except a closed door that led to the basement. Brian removed his shoes and went soundlessly down the stone stairs. Frank followed. A penlight flicked on and swept the black pit before them. Wooden frames stood in ranks, filled with rolled carpets. It looked as though they filled the entire area.
Brian walked the length of the central aisle and found it did not correspond to the street floor. It seemed to be some three paces short. “Brian,”—talking to himself seemed odd—“Frank, take that other aisle and the far end and pace it off. Tell me what you think.”
He then took the third and last. They met in the cross-passage at the blank wall. “Too short,” Frank announced. Brian II agreed.
“That’s what I come up with. There’s another room back there. What we need is to find a way in.”
It took Brian ten minutes to locate a thin seam which he traced to form a rectangle. A little careful study showed him the way to open it. He pushed a large brass nail head and a soft click sounded. Soundlessly, the panel swung inward.
Glaring actinic light shot out from beyond. It revealed three men in shirtsleeves bent over a chair. With a curse of surprise and alarm, the one with his back to Brian jumped aside. The occupant of that chair, Brian quickly saw, was Samantha Trillby. Through pain-teared eyes, she focused on her rescuers.
“Brian! You took long enough to find me,” she croaked throatily, still game for all her torment.
One of the three men reached behind his back, and produced a Luger pistol. Brian I had already filled his hand with the heavy .45 Webley revolver. It cracked with ear-punishing loudness in the confined area. A black-rimmed hole appeared in the center of the German’s chest. The Luger left the Nazi’s hand to slam off the floorboards overhead.
His face twisted into a grimace of pain, the German agent slammed backward into a table and overturned it. He left a long, wide swatch of crimson on the top surface as he slid to a sitting position. A small, wet stain spread on his shirtfront while his heart pumped out the last of his life. With a roar, an agent with a mustache leaped at Brian II, arms extended, fingers clawed.
Before the Temporal Warden could react, the revolver was wrested from his hand. A fist crashed solidly into the chest of Brian II, momentarily winding him. When he staggered back, his opponent swung again. This time, Brian II moved his head only a slight bit to the side and let the fist whistle past. Then his foot came up in a front kick that smashed into the sternum of his attacker.
Brian II did a turkey-hop maneuver and
his left foot lashed out, heel leading, to smack into the same place. The Nazi went flying. Brian II followed. A knife glinted in the harsh light. Brian sidestepped, pivoted, and delivered a side kick. The keen-edged blade put a burning slash on his calf. Enough of this, Brian decided.
With lightning speed, his arms and hands described a hypnotic design in the air before the baffled eyes of the German thug. When he saw the first stupefied flicker of his adversary’s eyes, Brian II struck. Folded knuckles cracked into a vulnerable forehead, then a blade hand hacked at the base of the Nazi’s neck. With a short, sharp jab, Brian II drove a palm heel into the point of his attacker’s chin.
The thick-shouldered spy went up and over, and his head landed on the concrete floor with a loud crack. With only a slight hesitation to draw a deep breath, Brian II turned to look at Brian I as he knelt at Samantha’s side, freeing her bonds, then he switched his gaze to the third man in the room.
He found that one competently covered by Frank, who menaced the astonished man with his American .45 Colt automatic. Brian II relaxed and looked closely at the only upright member of the group who had administered those grisly injuries described in that coroner’s report he remembered, that would now never be written.
“He’s the one I was following,” Samantha said, still plucky despite her ordeal.
Brian I put a name to the face for the first time. “Marvin Burroughs.”
“Yes, you said he was high on the list.”
Brian I released Samantha’s last fetter. “Frank, take Mr. Burroughs upstairs and sit with him in the MG. I’ll be along shortly. There will be some people coming soon. Whatever you do, don’t let them see you. We want this scum back in London to question at our leisure.”
