Deal with the Devil

by J. Gunnar Grey

  Fighting his stupid little grin was useless. He heard his heart beating high and clear over the rattling of the Austin, and couldn’t believe the two Englishmen didn’t hear it, too.

  “Mr. Ashleigh was an Army chaplain,” Norris said. “He stepped on a German mine in France.”

  “Bumf.”

  Tanyon grunted. “I wouldn’t tell him that.”

  “But it’s nonsense. There haven’t been any German mines laid in France since 1918.”

  Norris opened his mouth but Faust pressed his attack right through him.

  “I know we just overran the place, but we didn’t take the time to plant mines. We were moving too fast to need them. Right, sergeant?”

  In the sudden spellbound quiet, Tanyon’s ragged breathing was clear even above the Austin’s pitiful engine. Faust listened, his pulse accelerating.

  “You son of a biscuit eater. You wait until I stop this car.”

  As if on cue, the engine quit. Tanyon swore for the fourth time and shifted to neutral. He leaned close to the dash, ear cocked and eyes narrowed, and pressed the starter.

  Faust lashed across his body with his left fist and caught Norris unsuspecting on the cheek. The kid hit the side window and ricocheted, but Faust didn’t wait to see it. He smashed the rear door open, scrambled across the verge, and rolled over the wall.

  The chickens nearest his landing spot squawked and flapped. He grabbed a handful of pebbles from the base of the wall and threw them over the runs. More fowlish outbursts erupted deeper within the property. Then he scuttled forward, crouching beneath the wall’s cover, listening hard — and if he didn’t know better, he’d swear he heard half of Bach’s Double Violin Concerto beneath the birds — but he forced himself to concentrate. He couldn’t afford to lose another opportunity against the capable sergeant.

  They’d stopped on a rise, so Tanyon would have to set the brake before jumping out. And the Austin’s doors opened to the rear, so he’d cross behind the car.

  Norris he discounted without a second thought.

  There — the metallic rattle of the driver’s door opening, grating beneath the squawking and the high clear notes of the violin. Faust rolled back over the wall and re-crossed the road ahead of the car in a crouching scramble which kept his head below the bonnet. He caught a glimpse of Tanyon’s beefy frame as it hefted over the chicken-side wall behind the car, and heard the birds react to Tanyon’s arrival. He laughed noiselessly, exultation outstripping the blood in his veins, and rolled over the other wall on the far side of the road.

  Keeping his head down, he followed the wall’s line toward the distant forest. Maybe he should head back the way they’d come, to further fool Tanyon. No, then he’d have to contend with Patchley Abbey, and he couldn’t hope to slip through or around the village with any speed. Too bad the field was planted with turnips instead of something tall a man could hide in.

  It was official. He’d escaped.

  At the top of the first rise he paused and peered over the wall. The forlorn Austin stood in the lane, three doors hanging open. Tanyon was clearly visible scrambling deeper into the chicken runs, head swiveling like a hunting hound’s and dust puffing about his boots. He looked as if he’d be distracted for awhile.

  For a moment Faust didn’t see Norris, then movement caught his eye. A lone figure trotted, head down, along the road parallel to his own path and getting closer fast. Faust ducked back behind the wall.

  Tanyon was sending Norris to Margeaux Hall to sound the alarm, so much was obvious. Faust had to crawl along the base of the wall to stay hidden; he couldn’t hope to keep ahead of a man running on an open road; so Norris would win this particular race. Tanyon’s help would be coming.

  But it wouldn’t be coming fast. The lorry was buried beneath the hospital wall in Patchbourne, the car he’d never seen was out of commission at the Hall, and there didn’t seem to be any other form of transport available, except perhaps the chestnut hunter, so the help which was coming would be on foot. They might report to Tanyon’s position and start the search at the chicken runs, or they might fan out at the Hall and work their way to him. Judging by the terrain, the latter was the better choice; they’d hope to sweep him before their line to Tanyon or into the village.

  Bruckmann, being physically more able than Stoner, would be in charge of the manhunt; would he have the sense to extend the search south of the road? He was green as spring growth but he wasn’t stupid. Faust would have to assume the search would cover the entire area and he’d meet the searchers head-on. And because he still didn’t know how many men were in Stoner’s crew, he couldn’t assume the searchers would be so widely spaced he could slip between them.

  There was only one option. He’d let Norris get ahead, then break cover and run for the woods, trusting to the lay of the land to hide him from Tanyon. That way, he’d get past Margeaux Hall before the search line formed. If Norris happened to turn around, well, there was nothing he could do about it. It was just the chance he’d have to take.

  So he crouched in the lee of the dry stone wall and listened to Norris’ loping footsteps as they passed his hiding place and galloped down the other side of the rise. He waited for ten more seconds, then peered over the wall. Yes, Norris was well away and Tanyon still scrambled among the chickens. For a moment longer he hesitated. But he could see no other option. He broke cover and raced across the turnips, slanting away from the wall and road, aiming for the shelter of the forest.

  The first few strides hurt enough to change his mind. They jolted his arm, and the shock of each step ripped through his body and converged on his injured side as if drawn by a magnet. But then he found his pace and got the hang of leaping over the mounded vegetable rows. Running settled into a rhythm, like a tank barrage or sweet hard thrusting, and it was suddenly so easy it was good through the pain and he laughed for the sheer joy of using his body again. He accelerated down the slope, glancing once or twice at Norris slogging along the road, and forced his own pace up the following rise.

  Near the top but before silhouette point he paused, crouching down among the plants and turning for a glance. With a shock he saw Tanyon staring beyond the chicken runs, past the Austin forlorn on the road, and right at him. Faust remembered his foreboding over the rifles and was again grateful both had been lost — particularly as he could practically see the steam blowing from the sergeant’s ears. But the Webley didn’t have the range for such a shot, and even in that infuriated moment, Tanyon didn’t bother to draw it.

  Faust rose and resumed running, crossing the second rise and descending the next slope. He hadn’t expected his only advantage to vanish so rapidly and disappointment made a bitter taste in his mouth. For a moment he considered giving himself up and saving his major effort for a future and hopefully better chance. But he couldn’t bring himself to quit so easily. Instead he put his head down and charged up the final rise. At least Tanyon didn’t have a radio with him; he couldn’t communicate with Margeaux Hall and give the expected search party Faust’s new position.

  Unless…

  He paused at the top of the last rise, the forest dark ahead of him, and turned once again.

  Tanyon had not followed him across the field. The sergeant stood at the doorway of the farmhouse, speaking to a shadowy someone within. Behind the cottage, Faust clearly saw telephone lines stretching into the distance. And there was a switchboard on the front desk at Margeaux Hall and instruments at each duty station.

  Including Stoner’s.

  He lowered his head and galloped into the forest.

  Chapter Twenty

  the same morning

  Woodrow and Margeaux Hall

  Stoner had not slept well. Months ago, Jennifer and he had transformed Woodrow’s vegetable cellar into an air raid shelter, and while it was snug and secure enough, it seemed empty with only two of them present and the long hours were a wearisome time indeed. That night, they lit a lonely lantern and he read Thomas Gray’s odes and elegies aloud.
But the background droning of aircraft engines and flak bursts accented each pentameter and Harriet’s ghost never interrupted to request Housman’s livelier strains. So Jennifer blew out the lamp and they stretched onto their cots. Stoner breathed as quietly as he could until her sobs dwindled into gentle snores. Only then had he relaxed enough for sleep, and every fresh wave of bombers overhead awakened him. Each time he awoke, he checked on Jennifer and looked for Harriet, then remembered she was dead and silently raged anew. The all-clear at dawn found him more exhausted than when he’d settled for sleep.

  Even his longing for Harriet couldn’t entirely distract him from his concern over Faust and Tanyon in the Patchbourne hospital’s air raid shelter. Not because of the villagers; they were a practical bunch with good sense and humor to match, and would tolerate a German officer in their midst with patience if not aplomb. No, it was Faust who kept Stoner’s eyes fluttering open at odd, quiet moments through the night — that winsome devil with his expressive face and alert eyes, who would surely seize the first chance offered to misbehave. Tanyon was a good man, experienced and attentive, but Stoner could not suppress a suspicion his sergeant was outclassed. And as for Peckham and Norris — well, even with rifles they barely entered the equation.

  That morning at Margeaux Hall, the Wildflower work flew thick and fast. A fat dispatch case arrived from Brigadier Marone, containing the requisite disinformation to be transmitted via three of their captive agents, including Bläser’s engineering analysis of the mythical “super-Spitfire” supposedly rolling off British factory floors. Stoner and Bruckmann drafted the messages, paying particular attention to the “voice” of each agent, then polished and coded them, double and triple checked their work, and scheduled the transmissions on the Wildflower calendar. The telephone message from Norris, informing them of their delayed return, was like an unexpected if brief holiday.

  “You know, I think we’re getting faster at this,” Bruckmann said. “A month ago — ”

  And on the beat, Stoner’s resistance gave out. He yawned hugely. Bruckmann froze in mid-word, so surprised he didn’t even close his mouth.

  “Oh, Jack, do forgive me, there’s a lad. Those bombing raids are playing havoc with my schedule.” He glanced at the phone on his desk. “Perhaps I should ring Mrs. Alcock for a spot of tea.”

  “Sir, I think we’re done for now.” Bruckmann gathered the papers into a pile, placing his notes atop the stack. “I’ll put these in the safe, then Jennifer and I can type your notes. Why don’t you catch a few winks? There’s nothing further you can do until Tanyon returns with Faust,” he hesitated, “or the police arrive.”

  The sudden memory of how Harriet had died renewed the ache in his heart. If he knew the details, perhaps the ache wouldn’t be so bone-shaking. It couldn’t possibly be worse.

  “Perhaps you’re right. Call me in an hour, otherwise,” he let his voice twist into irony, “I won’t sleep tonight.”

  This time his old soldiering instincts won the day and he dropped off immediately, waking at a touch with the drugged feeling of having slept deeply but not for long. Bruckmann stood beside his cot, lips compressed and tension lines about his mouth.

  Stoner sat up. “All right, tell me the worst.”

  “I just took a call from Pamela Alcock.” Bruckmann hauled in a deep breath. “She relayed a message from Sergeant Tanyon. Faust is loose.”

  He’d known the news was sour as soon as he’d seen Bruckmann’s expression. But still, it was bad. He kept his voice calm but couldn’t prevent his temper from showing. “I believe I specifically said I did not want this to happen.” He rubbed his eyes. “Did she say how he managed it?”

  “It seems to be a somewhat involved story, but I did gather Mr. Ashleigh’s car was stalled out on the road before her house.”

  “Oh, lovely.”

  “Perhaps it’s not as bad as all that. She also said Sergeant Tanyon had spotted Faust and was taking steps.”

  Stoner threw back the covers and rolled out of bed, reaching for his shoes. “Well, you’d better get going, hadn’t you? And kindly inform our good sergeant I await his report with bated breath.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  the same morning

  at large in the Dark

  The sheltering shadows of the forest closed over him like a blanket. Faust hesitated again. Which way? He’d instinctively headed for cover, which was fine as far as it went. But now the chase was seriously on and he needed a direction, at least for the short term. After all, finding the coast was the easy part; England was an island; just walk in any direction and sooner or later he’d get wet.

  Going straight ahead, deeper into the forest, seemed attractive on first thought. But that was the direction of the expected searchers, and if he wasn’t careful he’d run right into them. Doubling back toward Patchley Abbey still wasn’t much of a choice; heading south for the Thames would land him in the middle of shipping traffic and populated areas. He could go north into farm country, then east for the coast; or southwest for the upper reaches of the Isis, then south and east beyond the river; or maybe southeast for the Chilterns and go to ground along the escarpment.

  But he couldn’t hide for long, not in a German uniform. One thing for certain — changing into stolen civilian clothing was not an option. He couldn’t chance it. If Stoner wasn’t lying, he was in enough trouble as it was.

  North seemed best, but that meant he had to cross the road and get beyond Bruckmann’s expected search line, preferably before it formed. But Tanyon was likely to be in his path. All he had to do was wait atop the last rise and he’d see if Faust broke cover this side of the forest. He’d developed a grudging respect for Tanyon as a straight military man, but he couldn’t forget how the sergeant had let him get too close in the corridor at Margeaux Hall. He was good, but it was worth a look. Faust turned north within the shelter of the trees and slipped through the underbrush back to the road.

  But Tanyon was there, on the pavement astride the rise, and the route was blocked. Faust crouched in the brush, eyeing Tanyon’s beefy build, the khaki of his battledress outlining him against the dark of the forest, and wondered if he could go through the man. No, the odds just weren’t in his favor. With Norris, he’d had the advantage of surprise. But Tanyon would see him coming as soon as he broke cover. And the sergeant had the Webley again, one hand resting on the unsnapped holster.

  Perhaps he could lure Tanyon into the forest — break a branch, make some noise, tease him off his sentinel position and then get past him. Doubtful; Tanyon had been duped once; it wasn’t likely to happen again soon.

  The forest it would have to be, which meant he didn’t have much chance of staying out for long. He resigned himself to a quick capture and again considered giving himself up to protect his injuries. But then he remembered how good it had felt to run across the turnip field and his resolve hardened. Okay, so he wouldn’t get far. Just being out of his cage for a while and irritating the English would be reward enough. And he’d give them a run for their money while he was at it.

  Faust eased back from the road through the brush, feeling each step before he took it, until he was well away. Then he sprinted toward the southeast and the Chilterns. Perhaps he could put enough distance between himself and Margeaux Hall so the expected search party missed him. After all, how many men could Stoner and Bruckmann possibly command?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  the same morning

  Margeaux Hall and Mrs. Pamela Alcock’s chicken farm

  Bruckmann roused out the seven men, including Norris, who could be spared for the manhunt, leaving Carmichael as secondary radioman in the guardroom, moving Sloane from the garage to the front gate, and freeing Glover from the switchboard by wheedling Mrs. Wainwright into covering it, which was quite possibly the most distasteful job he’d done since flattering the dragon lady of Brighton. Corporal Pym issued rifles to the detailed soldiers as they shrugged into their gear. Bruckmann, strapping a holstered Webley ont
o his Sam Browne belt, telephoned RAF Patchbourne and the Army encampment outside Oxford, convincing the duty officers their lives would not be complete unless they committed their reserves to his manhunt. The Army, of course, weren’t flying combat missions around the clock and were vastly more sympathetic. Bruckmann received the cheering promise of two engineering companies, about 140 men.

  “Send them directly to the site.” He gave directions to Pamela Alcock’s chicken farm. “You can’t miss it; there’s a car abandoned in the middle of the road and our sergeant is already there. His name’s Tanyon.”

  “Right-o,” the duty officer said. “We’ll use it as a field exercise and sharpen these lads up, shall we? Do you want the chap in one piece?”

  Bruckmann had no trouble imagining Stoner’s response to such a question, and quailed. “Absolutely. He’s important.”

  “Makes it more difficult but we’ll manage. Shall I see you there?”

  “On my way now.” Bruckmann cradled the receiver and rose. “Oh, we needed this.”

  “I hate that man.” Jennifer slammed over the carriage of her typewriter. “I absolutely hate him.”

  He checked the cylinder of the Webley. It was fully loaded and he returned it to the holster. “I tend to agree.”

  Steven Wainwright raised his head from his usual bottomless stack of invoices. “Could I be of service?”

  Bruckmann paused. The Wainwrights were refugees from the London bombing, advertising agency clerks who seemed perfectly at home in an office. But Steven had shown himself inept with a rifle during Home Guard training. “Someone has to hold the fort here. You two are elected.” His glance included Jennifer, then he joined his little command outside — all seven of them.