The sandwich won. Hackney picked it back up. Before he took a bite, he asked, “And when the air raid alarm went off?”
“That’s when I missed her. I looked about, but Uncle Homer made me go into the shelter, down in the basement, and she wasn’t there.”
Arnussen set down his spoon and took over while Hackney chewed. “Now, think carefully, Sally. Can you recall who all was in the shelter?”
“It’s hard to say, because people were coming and going. At first everyone went down and it was so crowded, it was hard to breathe. But later Uncle Owen took a call from the airfield, saying one of the German planes had been shot down and the Home Guard was called out, so all the men left. Even Mr. Ashleigh, the vicar — he’s crippled, but he runs the radio and telephone, relaying messages for the Home Guard.”
“And the soldiers from Margeaux Hall?”
“They left with the Home Guard and Mr. Ashleigh.”
“All together?”
She shrugged. “I suppose.”
“So after the parachute was sighted, there were no men left in the shelter?”
“That’s right.” She paused. “I mean, until they all got back from the search. But I don’t know what time that was.”
Hackney sat back and sighed. He’d hoped some of the villagers, at least, had stayed in the air raid shelter and could be written off the suspect list. But it didn’t seem that would be. Arnussen picked up his spoon, so he resumed the questioning.
“And after the all-clear sounded? What happened then?”
“I looked everywhere. I supposed she went home when the alarm sounded and was in Woodrow’s shelter with Jennifer and the major. But when I got back to the Hall, Jennifer met me on the road and asked where she was. That’s when I got scared. She ran into Woodrow and I went to the Hall and looked there, but we couldn’t find her.” She heaved another breath, her jacket shuddering. “So as soon as the major was free, he called Constable Mercer.”
He glanced at Arnussen, who folded his napkin, finished his note, and nodded. Hackney gave Sally his best smile. “I believe that’s it, love. If I think of anything else, can I find you at the Hall?”
She nodded and rose, gathering plates and bowls back onto the tray. “It was the German, wasn’t it?”
He froze with his tankard at his lips. His sideways glance ran into Arnussen’s warning sideways stare. He’d forgotten all about the background rumble of pub chatter, but suddenly it was there again, forcing its way into his awareness, and the red-haired Land Girl was still watching them over her tankard.
“Everyone’s saying it had to be him.” Sally hefted the tray and straightened. For the first time in the conversation, she seemed uncertain. “Harriet chopped up the moment he arrived, and Grace when he escaped. They’re saying we should just go to the Hall and string him up, like they do in those Western movies.”
With an effort, Hackney smiled again. “So why don’t they?”
She balanced the tray and shrugged. “At the Hall, they’re real Army and they’ve got better weapons than those American guns. And Major Stoner’s a nice man, but I think he’d do his duty as he saw it.”
The only weapon he’d seen in Margeaux Hall was the Webley service revolver strapped on Tanyon’s hip. No matter how good the sergeant was, a handgun wouldn’t be a match for one of those American rifles nobody seemed to respect, much less a pub full of them. If a lynch mob called on Stoner, there’d be a blood bath. But it wouldn’t be the one the villagers anticipated. Hackney searched for something quelling to say.
“I think he would, too.” He nodded about the room. “Make sure you tell them. Don’t want anyone hurt, you know.”
She nodded. “I have. But I will again.”
“And we’ve got a lot of evidence — good, solid stuff — to sort through before we know who killed those girls.”
“Then you don’t think it was him?” Her eyebrows contracted.
There had to be something he could say to open the village’s eyes. “Tell me, Sally, you cleaned the German’s uniform, right? Was there any blood on it?”
Her eyes widened. She jerked her head in a nod. “His jacket’s torn across the back, on the right side, and it’s all stained.”
“Yes, well, that’s where he was wounded.” Hackney cupped his hand about his wrist. “Down here on his sleeve, love — was there any blood down here?”
“No.” She shook her head. “I mean, there are stains on the lining, inside the sleeve, but that’s from his wound again. Right?”
Hackney nodded to Arnussen, as if he’d made an important point. The sergeant dutifully noted it down.
“Thanks again, Sally.” He leaned over the table and turned to Arnussen. “What do you think?”
Arnussen cocked an eyebrow. Hackney peered aside. Sally, her forehead drawn into a pucker, paused at the bar, her arms wrapped about the tray of dirty dishes. She glanced about at the somber roomful of chattering neighbors before she vanished through the door to the kitchen.
“I think,” Arnussen said, “we already decided the killer probably stripped, too, and therefore wouldn’t have blood on his sleeve for Sally or any other laundress to find.”
“No need to tell the whole village that little bit. Major Stoner’s got enough to worry over as it is.” Hackney drained his second pint. “So where do we go from here?”
“We pool our evidence.” Arnussen set his empty tankard beside Hackney’s. “I’ll set up an incidents room, make a list of the men, military or civilian, who were out Saturday night or Tuesday afternoon, then cross off as many as we can based on blood type, alibi, hair color, boot soles, scratches on his body, and handkerchiefs, in that order.” He leaned back in his chair, eyebrows up.
Hackney sighed and shoved the empties aside. Arnussen’s plan was sound. But just considering the amount of paper to be sorted through, the cross-referencing to be done, the number of people to be questioned before they could start making sense of the evidence — it all weighed on him like some paper version of Chinese water torture. And besides, gathering the evidence for Arnussen to cross-reference would take time. He had a nagging suspicion this killer was impatient. Two victims within three days, and only while Major Faust was loose…there was something there, some nebulous clue, but he wasn’t certain yet what it was.
“It’s all we’ve got, isn’t it? Right, then. We’ll start first thing in the morning.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
midnight
Margeaux Hall
It was five to midnight before Bruckmann finished assisting Stoner — outlining the new battle plan against Faust, drafting and typing the next report for Brigadier Marone, finishing the Médoc — and his head sang a merry tune when he dragged himself into the guardroom. Murky shadows lined the walls and camouflaged the room’s depths. The only soldier still on duty, Pym, slouched at the radio table over an open book, propped beneath the table lamp. He glanced up as Bruckmann entered.
“Break time, corporal,” Bruckmann said. “I’ve got to work on the manuals for a while.”
Pym slid a red ribbon into place as a marker and closed his book. “I know where Mrs. Alcock keeps the kettle, sir.”
“Not for me, thanks. Just take care of yourself for an hour or so.” Bruckmann cocked an eyebrow. “If you take a nap, don’t oversleep.”
“Thanks, lieutenant. See you in a bit.”
The shelf above the radio table was crammed with manuals for radio procedures, call signs, maintenance and repair, and, because there was no other convenient place for them, the regulations binders. In a wire basket at the end of the line hulked a pile of battered and unopened manila envelopes, all stamped with the lion, crown, and crossed sabers of the Ministry of Defense.
Bruckmann allowed himself a sigh. Stoner was right; there were at least a dozen envelopes piled there, probably more. But why had the old man insisted this be done tonight? It wasn’t anywhere near a priority item; to his certain knowledge, no one had consulted the manuals in the three m
onths he and the squad had been attached to the Wildflower operation. These were the regulations covering uniforms, the proper method of saluting, the minimum amounts of meat and vegetables to be served — and Stoner simply didn’t run such a tight ship for anyone to bother consulting the bally things.
He sighed again and switched on the large floor lamp, driving the shadows from the Lee Enfields, then threw the envelopes and binders into a pile on the worktable.
Someone behind him struck a match.
Bruckmann started and spun about. In the uncertain wavering light, he saw Faust, sitting cross-legged on the cot in the deepest dark behind the bars of the cell, a blanket draped over his shoulders, touching the tiny flame to the business end of a cigarette. When it glowed, he shook out the match. The shadows surged in and swallowed him up. All Bruckmann could see was a dark silhouette, the smolder of gleaming eyes, and the burning end of the fag.
“Sorry,” Faust said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Bruckmann turned back to the worktable. Otherwise Faust would see his growing excitement. After all, he was near the lamp and much more visible.
“You’ll understand,” Stoner had said.
He hoped he did.
“I’d forgotten you were in here.”
“After today’s show?” There was a hard edge to Faust’s concise sibilants. “How could you forget?”
“There’s been rather a lot going on today.” He dragged out a chair and settled behind the manuals. “Are you still angry?”
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the eyes and cigarette tip glow momentarily brighter.
“Would you be?”
“Well.” Bruckmann picked up the top envelope, dug his index finger under the flap, and ripped it open. Inside was a small sheaf of replacement sheets, three-hold punched and ready for insertion. “Well, yes, I believe I would.”
“Well, then, yes, I suppose I am,” Faust said.
He pulled out the pages, balled up the envelope, and tossed it toward the wastebasket. “Look, sometimes this is the only time I have to get my own work done. Will the light bother you? I mean, did I wake you?”
“No. I’m too keyed up to sleep.”
Bruckmann glanced back, surprised. It required a huge serving of self-confidence to frankly admit a weakness to a known enemy. This was honesty, and deeper than he’d expected. Stoner, of course, was wiser; he must have counted on loneliness and tension, the shame of capture and exposure, to lead Faust to seek company, to want to talk.
He ripped open another envelope. It was time to test the water. “Do you mind if I ask a question?”
The eyes and cigarette glowed again. “I can’t promise I’ll answer.”
“Fair enough.” Another envelope. None of them were thick; none contained enough sheets to keep him busy any length of time. But if he worked too slow, Faust might catch on. “Well, look — I was conscripted.”
His own eyes were growing accustomed to the shadows crowding the cell. He knew he didn’t mistake the shrug that shifted the blanket’s silhouette. “I joined before conscription started; otherwise it would be the same here.”
“In many ways, I still think like a civilian. Do you know what I mean?”
The cigarette tip glowed. “I’ve been in the army for five years now. For the first six months, I was beyond useless.”
“Then how did you learn map reading, using the lay of the land, tactics, and all that stuff?” He ripped open the last envelope, feeling his face redden. He was working on the assumption Stoner wanted him to measure Faust’s emotional temperature and build a relationship, in which case it didn’t matter what they discussed. But admitting his weaknesses wasn’t as easy as listening to Faust admitting his, and perhaps such a question would have been best kept for Kettering or some other English officer. But it was too late to unsay it and he plowed on. “I’ve been in the army for nine months now and I still don’t get any of it.”
But Faust didn’t laugh. “You’re asking how I learned my trade.”
Surprised, Bruckmann paused with the papers half out of the envelope. He hadn’t even known how to ask the question; Faust was instructing him in semantics, as well. “Well, how did you?”
“I read some of it. Not long after I joined up, several of our younger senior officers published their memoirs and treatises from the first war — Rommel, Guderian, that young-Turk crowd. I studied what they wrote.”
He tossed the last empty envelope at the wastebasket and started shuffling the papers into order. In officer’s school, he’d tried to read Rommel’s book in translation, but hadn’t gotten far before treating it rather like these envelopes. “Yes, but did you understand any of it?”
“Not at first. Guderian I had to read three or four times. Rommel was hard to get into, but toward the end of his book he describes mountain warfare in the Carpathians, and it was great reading.”
A glance showed teeth gleaming now, as well as eyes. Bruckmann set the papers aside — hopefully they were in the proper order, not that it mattered — and reached for the first binder. Perhaps he’d given up on Rommel’s work too soon. “So you learned by reading.”
“Some of it. I also badgered the older men, field officers and non-coms, and asked a lot of fool questions.”
He couldn’t stop a sigh as he flipped through the binder to the first page to be replaced, pulled out the old one, and inserted the new. “I hate doing that.”
“I had to get used to it,” Faust said. “I didn’t like it at first. A couple of real jerks made fun of me in front of the unit and it wasn’t pleasant. I learned who to avoid and who was willing to be a mentor. Several of the officers were born teachers, especially my first battalion commander and then my regimental commander in Poland. I learned a lot from them.”
Open the binder rings. Old page out. New page in. Flip over a few sheets. Do it again. But smoke rankled the air of the guardroom and he wanted to cough. “I don’t mean to pry, but aren’t you smoking rather a lot? I mean, cigarettes are rationed.”
The tip glowed as if in response. “Yes, I am, and yes, I believe you. But it doesn’t matter. See, I’m going to quit.”
He froze, then swiveled about for a good long stare. Faust sat unmoving on the cot, legs akimbo like a statue of some ancient god with jeweled eyes glowing in the dark. The blanket bulked about his shoulders, accentuating his outline and the resemblance. The shadowy figure waved its left hand, and the glowing tip of the cigarette swirled through the dark.
“Do you use these things?”
He shook his head.
“I hadn’t realized before how vulnerable they make me.” Faust took another drag and then extinguished the cigarette. The glow vanished and only his looming outline remained. “Stoner’s using them to jerk me around. I can’t allow it any more. So I’m quitting.”
Bruckmann returned to the binder. Without checking to see where he was, he flipped open the rings and removed whatever page was before him. “I thought quitting was difficult.”
“I’ve heard that, too, but it doesn’t matter. When I’m out of cigarettes, I’m out, and nothing’s going to change it.”
He inserted a page and closed the binder rings. This sort of determined initiative on the part of the prisoner wasn’t in their plan.
“That was your idea, wasn’t it.” The quiet voice was level, making a statement, not asking a question.
He froze but couldn’t stop his gaze from darting aside. Faust hadn’t moved. The stare directed his way was analytical, not angry, but there wasn’t a trace of amusement in the dark liquid eyes.
“Good move.” Faust nodded. “Using my weaknesses against me. Low,” he added, “but brilliant. You’re good at psychology; why worry about map reading?”
“Look — ”
“Don’t apologize for doing your job.” Faust finally moved, shifting on the cot and pulling the blanket more snugly about his shoulders. His sigh was audible across the guardroom.
Bruckmann forced himse
lf to relax his clenched jaw. “I wasn’t going to.”
The responding glance was frankly disbelieving and a bit derisive.
He turned his shoulder and thumbed through the pages. There weren’t many left. Considering the way the conversation was going, perhaps it was for the best. Let the bugger stew in silence again, until he was ready to be more civil. Bruckmann flipped over a few more pages.
“Now it’s my turn to ask a question,” Faust said. “What’s Mr. Stoner’s rank?”
The question caught Bruckmann by surprise and he glanced over before he could stop himself. The level stare, this time fully derisive, told him it was too late to back out.
“What makes you think — ”
“This is a military installation. He’s the commanding officer, not some civilian overseer. I should have caught on sooner.” Faust redraped the blanket. “See, I’m still not good at some of this stuff.”
He was caught, fair and square. “He’s a major. They reinstated him at his reserve rank.”
“And he assumed a young major wouldn’t be impressed by an old one,” Faust said. “He’s wrong there.”
Again Faust’s words surprised him and Bruckmann smiled. So the German had noticed Stoner’s innate charm and courteous competence, even through their verbal warfare. “I know what you mean. He’s — ”
“For as long as he lasts.”
It cut through his smile like an electrical shock. Bruckmann froze, his fingertips tingling as he stared at the discarded page in his hand. He crumpled it and threw it atop the stack. It fluttered off the table. “What do you mean? I know he’s getting on — ”
Faust shook his head. “Twice now I’ve seen his lips turn blue and his hands shake. Those are classical symptoms of an incipient heart attack.”
He ripped the next page out without bothering to open the rings. “You’re not a doctor. You can’t know.”
“I’ve seen it before. The father superior at the orphanage where I grew up was an old man, the creaky frail kind, and he used to turn blue all the time. Finally one day, when I was about ten, he keeled over with a heart attack at prayers and died. A new man came to take his place, a younger man.” Faust paused. “And rougher.”
Deal with the Devil Page 27
