Deal with the Devil

by J. Gunnar Grey

  The stallion planted his feet at the wall and thrust into space. Faust crouched over the saddle as he’d practiced all those years ago at Neukuhren. His heart tried to explode from his chest. The wall flashed beneath them and he yelled for sheer triumph. The stallion landed on the other side, bucked once as if in sympathy with his yell, and galloped on into the mist, leaving the mares and the farm behind.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  dawn, Thursday, 29 August 1940

  Wynant Dairy

  The rain softened to a drizzle. Hackney opened the car door before Arnussen killed the engine. To the north, across the road and halfway up the rise, loomed Margeaux Hall. Its imposing mortared wall stretched into the distance, out of view in the day’s first lightening. South of the road, a dry stone wall edged the dairy’s fields, mist floating over the invisible grass as if tethered. One young sentry, his face pale in the pre-dawn greyness, stood a lonely guard at the roadside. A tall slender figure leaned on the wall near him, face in hands. Even in the murky light, Bruckmann’s white-blond hair gleamed like a searchlight beneath the peaked cap.

  Hackney squelched through the sodden grass of the verge, Arnussen behind him.

  “Lieutenant Bruckmann.”

  “Sir.” Bruckmann straightened, resting his palms on the flint blocks. From this closer vantage point, Hackney could see the young officer’s greatcoat was rumpled, clammy, and soiled. Mud smeared one cheek and his eyes were bloodshot. “She’s over here.”

  They clambered over the wall, leaving the sentry to his lonely vigil. Hackney spotted the motionless lump huddled at the base of the wall, several yards to the right. He dragged his flashlight from his pocket and flicked it on.

  It was like a repeating nightmare — the naked body and battered face, splayed legs, the smashed wreckage that had once been her chest. Pooled rain mixed with the blood and kept it red. He stared down at Sally for long seconds, Arnussen’s flash bolstering his own and bringing the details into shameless clarity. Then, forlorn, he crouched down beside her. Dark hair wrapped about her face into the edge of her mouth and fell into her uncaring eyes. He wanted to brush it back, not that it would do her any good now.

  “Has Dr. Harris been sent for?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “I don’t know, sir. I’ll find out.” Bruckmann turned to the sentry.

  “Ask him to bring his photography gear.” Hackney touched her hair, wet and stringy, careful not to disarrange it. He lowered his voice. “It’s my fault, Axel.”

  “Don’t see how you arrive at that.” Arnussen dropped his voice to match.

  He started the detailed examination of her body. “When I called Major Stoner last night, I told him to keep an eye on that clerk of his so’s to clear one more suspect from our list. What I should have said was to keep an eye on any potential victims so’s to protect them. I had my instructions turned turkey-end over, and for that Sally’s dead.”

  “Surely he understood the situation.”

  “That doesn’t let me off the hook. I’ve been at this job too long not to know what’s important.” He crouched lower and shone the light onto her fingernails. They were clean beneath their pale pink polish. “There’s got to be a way of drawing this monster into the open, Axel. There’s got to be, that’s all.”

  “I’m not turning up any evidence here.” Arnussen glanced at the sky. “Rain’s letting up, but it’s been pouring for hours. Dr. Harris will have the devil’s own time determining time of death on this one.”

  He grunted. “Exactly my point.”

  They rose together and clicked off their flashes. Hackney glanced at the encroaching mist, motionless above the grass, so thick he’d have to swim through it. Somewhere, a cow lowed. The rain had almost stopped, and only a gentle drizzle caressed his hands and face. Outside the wall, Bruckmann leaned on his elbows, a discreet distance away.

  “Think that lad’s had any sleep this night past?”

  Arnussen shook his head. “Not likely, is it.”

  Clattering footsteps heralded the return of the sentry, the skirts of his greatcoat flapping about his legs and his rifle bouncing across his back as he galloped across the road. His thin face was pinched and tight, eyebrows drawn together as if in concentration. He crashed to attention before Bruckmann and presented arms. Bruckmann returned the salute.

  Arnussen chuckled. “Someone’s put the fear of heaven into him recently.”

  Bruckmann approached and rested his palms atop the wall. But he didn’t look down. “We’ve sent for Dr. Harris and he knows to bring his gear.”

  “Good.” Hackney lowered his voice to a growling mumble. “What’s that soldier’s name?”

  Arnussen shot him a look. He ignored it.

  “Reynolds.” Bruckmann, he noticed, caught Arnussen’s glance, too. One wrinkle appeared between the lieutenant’s eyebrows.

  Hackney nodded toward the two sentries, one at each of the residential and military wings’ separate gates. “And who are those two?”

  Bruckmann glanced about. “Norris and Sloane.”

  “I have nothing against Reynolds personally,” Hackney said, lowering his voice to barely a whisper, “and I’m not casting aspersions or suspicions toward anyone. But we haven’t been able to scientifically eliminate him from our suspect list based upon the evidence we currently have.”

  “So it would be inappropriate to leave him guarding the remains.” Bruckmann nodded. “Should I trade him off with Norris, do you think?”

  “Same for Norris,” Arnussen said. “Better make it Sloane.”

  Bruckmann started to move off, then paused. “Sir, may I ask how many of our soldiers are still on your suspect list?”

  Hackney hesitated. “Best not ask, lieutenant.”

  Bruckmann paused again as if he wanted to argue the point, the wrinkle reappearing and deepening between his eyebrows. But he said nothing, merely stared for an unhappy moment then stalked back to where Reynolds waited.

  “So what now?” Arnussen stood at his elbow, also watching Bruckmann.

  Hackney turned from the living and the dead, feeling unaccountably heavy. Pearly nacre tinged the sky overhead and dusted the mist with powdered opal. More cows bawled in the distance. He breathed deeply of wet earth, crushed grass, old manure, and blood, and shivered in Homer Owen’s still-damp greatcoat.

  “He reminds me of Arthur, the way he asks the darnedest questions.” Sally’s face, once worth coming home to, was now swollen and marbled, the nose smashed, eyes staring off into nowhere. “Did you say something, Axel?”

  “We should start taking statements, don’t you think?”

  He sighed. “We have to. But I don’t think it’s going to do any good.”

  “Don’t start. We’ll solve this one yet — ”

  “Yes, but when?” He flicked on his flashlight and swept the beam over Sally’s huddled mass, the vibrant young woman they’d met only two days ago. “Any new evidence has been washed away by the rain. The grass won’t give us any footprints, there’s nothing beneath her fingernails, and we already know what will show up at autopsy.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “The blazes we don’t.” He clicked off the flash and thrust it back into his pocket. “Yes, we’ll get there with the long, detailed investigation. But we don’t have the manpower to work it fast, there’s no one we can call for help, and we’re losing girls, three a week. We’ve wasted enough time.” He took a deep breath, letting the dank air and the stench of blood permeate his lungs. “No, I’m wrong. We’ve wasted too much time and Sally is dead because of it.”

  Arnussen stared at him, the edges of his mouth lifting in something not quite a smile. “You do have a thought, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question, either.

  The plan had exploded fully grown from his head like some neo-modern version of Athena the previous night, while he’d stared at his fat naked self in the mirror. At the time, he’d wondered if he was, after all, too old and used up to make a difference. His self-
indulgent hesitation had given the murderer time to destroy another victim. Sally had been sacrificed on the altar of his vanity and self-confidence.

  “Just a thought, Axel, old lad. You wait here for Dr. Harris and keep your detailed investigation going. I’m heading to Margeaux Hall for a word with Major Stoner.”

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  dawn

  northwest of Oxford

  The rain stopped at dawn. Faust and the stallion paused for breath within the shelter of a stand of trees. The rise overlooked a field where a distant group of women cultivated some low-growing vegetable crop, bending and straightening in the sloppy mud until his own back ached. He tied the reins to a branch, keeping several trees between the horse and the workers, and sat nearby on a rocky outcrop. Grey mist still tinted the day, the same shade as his uniform, but sunlight pierced the clouds and his spirits lifted to meet it.

  His clothes, although still wet, had been getting drier for several hours. It was time for the great experiment. Fingers trembling, he reached into his inner breast pocket, pulled out the crumpled Players pack, and extracted his last cigarette. It and the matches were damp, but he stuck it between his lips, convinced a match to strike, then held it to the business end of the cigarette until it caught.

  The first lungful was sheer ecstasy, something beyond orgasm. He lay back across the top of the rock and stared up at the still-dripping leaves overhead, letting the smoke drift from his nostrils and feeling the nicotine surge through his system. For a moment the leaves spun about him, and he closed his eyes on the dizziness. Then the world settled back down, once more orderly and wonderful — even in the wet, even on the run in England — and he laughed, remembering to keep it quiet so the women wouldn’t hear him. The stallion whuffled, just as quietly, as if in answer.

  He’d have to wait here until the women were far enough away not to identify his uniform when he rode from the shelter of the trees. Might as well enjoy it while he could.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  early morning

  Margeaux Hall

  Stoner wore uniform.

  Bruckmann’s flying fingers paused over the typewriter. Glover stood behind the front desk while Stoner, in dapper khaki, wrote something into the logbook and said a few words. Whatever he said caused Glover to sit hurriedly and tuck himself behind the switchboard, eyes wider than ever.

  Then Stoner turned and strode up the corridor into the grand ballroom, and the cold in the pit of Bruckmann’s stomach solidified into a cannonball at the old man’s squared shoulders and stiffer expression.

  Stoner never wore uniform unless he visited another military installation. Not because it made him uncomfortable — far from it — but of his two personas, he preferred dressing and being the Oxford don rather than the major commanding Margeaux Hall. Bruckmann considered Stoner’s affability, the amused blind eye he turned to military strictures, and knew within the wellspring of his soul that last night, the situation had gone too far for even the old man to tolerate.

  He bent over the keyboard and looked busy.

  “Jack.”

  He glanced up as if surprised and rose from behind the desk. “Sir?”

  Not a flicker of amusement lit Stoner’s icy blue eyes. “While you’re working on that report — ”

  Heat climbed Bruckmann’s face. He should have known he wouldn’t fool the old man for a second.

  “ — please have Carmichael report to my office.” Stoner glanced at his watch. “Afterward, let’s call a staff meeting for eight. Report with Sergeant Tanyon at that time.” He strode on.

  “Yes, sir,” Bruckmann said to his departing back. “Good morning, sir.”

  The office door closed.

  Bruckmann released his held breath in a whoosh. Thankfully neither the Wainwrights nor Jennifer had yet reported for work. It didn’t take an Oxford don to figure out what Stoner’s so-called staff meeting would entail. He reached for the telephone.

  Chapter Seventy

  early morning

  Margeaux Hall

  Clarke entered the glass-walled vestibule, peaked cap beneath his elbow. A young soldier sat behind the switchboard, plugging a jack into a socket. The kid’s face, angular and good-natured, puckered with confusion, and his guileless green eyes were clouded. How long ago had he been conscripted? Four months, maybe five? Long enough to learn how to handle a rifle and a switchboard, and probably nothing else.

  “Good morning, soldier.”

  “Yes, sir?” The young soldier started to stand, then sat again. “Can I help you?”

  Not even four months; three at the most, if he didn’t know to remain at his duty post no matter who came through the door. “My name’s Clarke. I have orders to report here this morning.”

  If possible, the kid’s face puckered further. “Here?”

  Of course, it would be expecting too much for this rear-echelon outpost on the backside of beyond, a good seventy miles from the coast and nowhere near the expected invasion zone, to remember he was coming at all or even have a clue as to why he’d been ordered to report there in the first place. Clarke held his temper but promised himself it wouldn’t be for long. If the Germans started invading without him, he’d find the man behind this visit and heave him face-first into his breakfast, which was probably a sight better than anything the front-line troops, his own troops, were receiving.

  He opened his mouth to speak a modified version of his mind but paused as a lanky second lieutenant entered from the ballroom, a dispatch key in one hand and papers in the other.

  “Right on time today.” The lieutenant, still with the awkward arms and legs of youth, didn’t glance at Clarke. He crossed to the filing cabinet, pulled a dispatch case from the top drawer, unlocked it, stashed the papers inside, then relocked it. Only then did he look up. And pause. “I’m sorry, I thought you were the dispatch courier.”

  “Not today.” Clarke kept his voice carefully gentle.

  The lieutenant’s pale face reddened. With his white-blond hair and blue eyes, he looked like the national flag on two legs. “May I help you?”

  Second time might be lucky. “My name is Clarke. I have orders to report here this morning.”

  Not a flicker rearranged the lieutenant’s searching expression.

  Clarke sighed rather than scream. “This is Margeaux Hall?”

  Light finally dawned. “Clarke,” the lieutenant said, “Captain Clarke. Of course, I’m sorry.” He replaced the dispatch case and circled the desk. “You’re a bit earlier than we expected. My name’s Bruckmann.”

  From this closer vantage point, Bruckmann’s face seemed paler than even it had a right to. Raw red lines crept in from the edges of his eyes to surround his blue irises. He’d taken the time to shave and change his shirt, but he hadn’t slept last night. Clarke reined in his impatience and temper; there was a story here, after all.

  “This way, Captain Clarke.”

  Clarke followed Bruckmann into the ballroom, past the empty desks to the sitting area. The old-fashioned console radio was closed and silent. Playing cards, leather-bound books, and dirty ashtrays littered the tables. The swags drawn from the line of floor-to-ceiling windows admitted the summer morning’s sunlight in all its splendor, and lighted the notepad and handlebar mustache of an overweight civil servant sitting on one sofa, using a briefcase across his knees as a desk while he wrote.

  Bruckmann paused. “I must ask you to wait here with Chief Inspector Hackney. The major is busy at the moment and we have a staff meeting at eight, but as soon as he’s available I know he’s anxious to meet you.”

  Clarke made no move to sit. “Lieutenant, why am I here?”

  The writer scratched away without seeming to notice them. But Clarke didn’t believe that for a moment.

  Bruckmann paused again. “You’re here to see Major Stoner. Otherwise I can’t say.”

  The name was familiar. “There was a don at Magdalen named Cedric Stoner. Any relation?”

  “The same.�
�

  Perhaps this wasn’t going to be a complete waste of time, after all. Clarke gazed out the window at the serene lawn crisscrossed with slanting early morning rays. “Deucedly clever man, he was reputed to be.”

  “I assure you, he still is,” Bruckmann said, unruffled. “Would it ease the wait if I called for a spot of tea or coffee for you gentlemen?”

  The pencil halted.

  “Sounds like a yes to me. Thank you, lieutenant, tea would be a kindness.” Clarke sat on the other end of the sofa as Bruckmann returned to the work area and lifted the telephone receiver at one desk.

  So he had to wait through a staff meeting. Clarke picked up the nearest book and glanced at its spine. Dr. Faustus, by Christopher Marlowe. The title jolted him. Before he could rouse any resistance, his wrenching memory of the Aa Canal flooded into the forefront of his mind, reached down his gullet, grabbed his unprepared innards, and twisted them.

  He didn’t bother to open the book. Even Marlowe’s best was a non-starter; the image of Faust in Clarke’s imagination had dark hair the color of cocoa, an expressive wedge-shaped face with a high forehead and lively dark eyes, narrowing to a determined chin, and wore a field-grey uniform with the ribbon for the Iron Cross First Class. The best poetry couldn’t compete with the still-raw memory of a slender hand shaking out a fag and offering the pack. “Do you use these things?”

  Clarke tossed the book onto the table, atop Treasure Island and Twelfth Night. No use fighting. The memory had been triggered and would dominate his thoughts until it, and he, were spent.

  The details of that rencontre were etched into his soul with acid. The memory had obtained a life of its own within him and at the slightest provocation would spill across the screen of his mind like a newsreel. Without any effort at all, he tasted the acrid smoke of Faust’s strong cigarettes, hefted the gentle weight of the P-38 pistol thrust into his hand, cringed anew at the shame of not even recognizing him.