Eva (7 page)

“There is a number painted in white along the hood of the truck,” he said. “Did you see it?”

The girl nodded. “Yes.”

“Do you remember it?”

She shook her head. “Only the white star,” she said.

“Did you see anything else?”

“No.” She stopped. “Only . . .”

“Only what?”

“Only some boxes. Stacked in the back of the truck. I saw them when they took the—the bundle out of there.”

“What kind of boxes?”

The girl described them to him. He felt bleak. From her description the boxes could well have been US Class I supplies. Ration cartons. Dammit! It looked more and more as if this were not a CIC case at all but a case for the CID, the Criminal Investigation Detachment. Not his ball park at all.

Fossano sauntered back into the room. Woody turned to him.

“Nothin’,” the corporal shrugged. “I didn’t see nothin’.”

“Go out to the jeep,” Woody told him. “Raise somebody— anybody in Vohenstrauss—on the radio. Have them send an ambulance. We’ll meet them at the clearing.”

“Sure. Why not?” Fossano left. Woody looked at the girl sitting quietly, apprehensively watching him. He’d asked her the jackpot question and come out with one big fat lemon. Some “glamor” case. Shit, he could kiss that five points good-by for sure. He had a good idea what had happened. Three horny guys and two willing
Fräuleins.
A fight—that turned out a little too violent—and a frantic attempt to conceal it by destroying the identity of the victim and putting the blame on the Krauts. If that wasn’t the exact scenario, it would do till a better one came along. But it sure as hell wouldn’t earn him his cluster, even if he did solve the damned case. He might as well chuck it and look for greener pastures.

He contemplated the girl sitting tensely before him. He felt uneasy about her. That crazy hunch that every CIC agent developed. That feeling at the edge of the mind that something was being missed. What else did she know? He swore to himself. Hell, he couldn’t just drop the case. He was involved. He was there. And, dammit, he’d asked for it. He might as well follow through. It
was
his job. Of course, he could turn the case over to the CID. Ultimately he’d probably have to. Should he do it now? Bail out? Or, once started, follow through? What the hell, he’d take it a little further. Reluctantly, somewhat cynically, he admitted to himself that he was hooked. What the hell
had
happened? What
was
the bottom line? He looked at the girl.

“What happened after the men . . . ?” He couldn’t get himself to say Americans. Not yet. “. . . after the men put the body in the clearing?” he asked.

“They drove away.”

“With the girls?”

“No. The girls walked. Back the way they had all come.”

Figured, Woody thought. Trouble—drop the broads.

“How did you know the bundle contained a body,” he asked.

“I—we did not know,” the girl said. She glanced at the farmer. “My father went to take a look. He told us.”

Woody nodded. Fossano came back into the
Bauernstube.
“They’re sending a wagon,” he announced. “Be there in about twenty minutes.”

Woody nodded. “What do you know about all the trash in the clearing?” he asked the girl.

It was her father who answered. “The
Amis”
—he used the derogatory German expression for Americans—“the
Amis
threw it there. When they first came to Albersdorf. More than a week ago.”

So much for the Sherlock Holmes clues, Woody thought wryly. He glanced at Fossano and caught the smug look on the corporal’s face. Screw him! It had still been the right thing to do.

“And the cross?” he asked. “The white cross. Who put that up?”

The Germans shook their heads. Woody watched the girl. She looked apprehensive. Guilty. Was she hiding something? What?

He looked at his watch. The ambulance would be at the clearing any minute. He turned to the Germans. “You stay here,” he ordered. “I’m not through with you yet. You wait right here. Understood?”

The farmer glared at him. “We have chores to do,” he grumbled sullenly. “A farm does not run without work.”

“Do your chores,” Woody snapped. “But don’t leave the farm.”

He motioned to Fossano. Together they left the
Bauernstube.

The ambulance had left, taking with it the grisly bundle. Woody stood looking at the now strangely empty clearing. Knocked askew, the white wooden cross still stood in the trampled grass. Woody was bothered by it. Who had put it there? Why? He had a hunch that if he could find out, a big piece of the puzzle would drop into place. He had examined the road shoulder. He didn’t really know what he was looking for. Tire marks? Boot prints? Anything. He had found nothing.

He looked around at the surrounding woods. The undergrowth was quite dense except in a spot just opposite the road. Here a forest meadow about fifty feet away could be seen through the trees. A narrow path winding through the underbrush led from it to the clearing. Woody walked down toward the meadow. As he neared the open field he noticed animal tracks in the dirt. Hoofs. And little hard, brown pellets scattered about. Goats.

Fossano was rooting about in the trees close to the clearing. Suddenly he shouted to Woody. “Hey! Look at this.” He pointed toward the ground. “Pretty weird.”

Woody hurried back. A trail running parallel with the road crossed the path to the meadow. A few feet down the trail Fossano was squatting, looking at something on the ground. Woody looked down.

There, scratched in the dirt, was a bizarre, strangely disturbing design. It could be the head of a goat, grotesquely, repulsively distorted, or it could be the evil face of a devil with fangs and horns and tufted ears.

Woody crouched down beside Fossano. He looked toward the clearing. Although he, himself, was hidden by the brush he could see the little white cross clearly. He grinned at Fossano. “Bull’s-eye!” he said. “Give that man a cigar!”

“Yeah?” Fossano sounded suspicious. “What for?”

Woody pointed to the macabre design traced in the dirt. “That,” he said. “Mean anything to you?”

Fossano shrugged. “Nah,” he said. “Just some kooky scribble.” He squinted at the repugnant image. “Means nothin’ to me.”

“Means nothing to me either,” Woody said. “But that’s not the point. Who drew it, and more important
when,
that’s the point.”

“Okay. So—when?”

“The body has been lying in the clearing for three days,” Woody said. “We know that. Since Wednesday. Early morning, Wednesday. It rained Tuesday, well into the night, so this whatever-it-is must have been drawn since that time or it would have been washed away.” He looked at Fossano. “Whoever drew it must have seen the body.” He looked down at the ugly devils’ face scratched in the dirt. “I wonder what he was watching while he sat here drawing this thing,” he mused.

“Yeah. If anything.”

“If anything,” Woody repeated thoughtfully.

Fossano looked at Woody with grudging respect. He’d never had much use for the CIC boys—the Christ-I’m-Confused boys— living the life of Riley. But this guy could use his noodle. “Maybe he’s the joker who put up the cross,” he volunteered, surprised at himself.

“Could be,” Woody agreed. “I think we’ll have another little talk with friend Huber and his daughter.”

Once again the farmer, the girl, and the old farmhand were assembled in the
Bauernstube.
Woody had automatically looked the place over. All was as before. The three Germans had apparently not as yet had their meal, but a loaf of bread and two large sausages had been placed on an old newspaper on a small table.

“Once again,” Woody scowled at them. “Once again I ask you: Do you know who put up the cross in the clearing?”

The girl glanced apprehensively at her father, but no one answered.

“Who tends the goats around here?” Woody suddenly asked.

Involuntarily the girl drew in her breath. Her father gave her a quick, angry glance. He sat stony-faced on the bench. Woody fixed his eyes on the girl.

“Well?” he asked.

Suddenly the old farmhand, the man Huber had called Anton, spoke up. “That would be Szarvas,” he said.

Huber shot him a murderous glance. Woody was startled at the icy depth he saw in the man’s eyes. The farmer turned to him.

“Szarvas is a Hungarian,” he said contemptuously. “He does not speak German well.”

“What is his full name?” Woody asked. “Is Szarvas his given name or his family name?”

“It is not his name,” Huber said stonily. “It is the name we call him. It is the name of his hometown. Where he was born. He is always talking about it. We do not know his name.”

“Where is this Szarvas now?” Woody asked.

Huber did not answer.

“With the goats,” Anton said. “In the field.”

“Do you know where?”

Anton nodded. “Today it is the Ziegler field,” he said. “Not far from here.”

Woody turned to Fossano. “Go with the old man,” he said. “Bring this guy, Szarvas, back here.”

“Yes, Sir,” Fossano said.

“I will not have Szarvas in my house,” Huber said heatedly. “He is a Hungarian. He was in a KZ Lager—a concentration camp.”

Woody looked at the man, his eyes cold. “Too bad, Huber,” he said. “
I
want him here. And he
will
be here!” He nodded to Fossano. “Get going.”

“Come on, old man,” the corporal said to Anton. “Let’s go find the damned goats.”

They left. Huber glanced after them. “Szarvas,” he spat. “He is
damisch
—an imbecile!”

The girl turned to her father, her eyes suddenly ablaze. “No, Father, he is not!” she said with unexpected fervor. “Once he was a great artist. In Budapest.” She turned to Woody. “Things went bad for him,” she said. “He was sent to a—a camp. It made him— old. And it is—difficult for him to—to express himself. But he has not forgotten. He is not an imbecile. He still draws. Often. And sometimes beautifully.” She turned to her father. “You must not say Szarvas is an imbecile. He is a kind man.”

Woody stared at her. A goatherd. An artist making drawings. Often. Here was the creator of the devil in the dirt.

But why the obvious reluctance to reveal his existence?

Twenty minutes later Fossano came back with Anton and the enigmatic goatherd.

Szarvas was a middle-aged man, small of stature with graying hair, who looked years older than his age. His long, slender fingers toyed with a cigarette Woody had given him to win his confidence. He had taken it, but he did not light it. His German was halting and limited to words strung together without structure. But gradually Woody got his story.

Szarvas had indeed put up the cross for the dead American comrade. He had been dozing in the woods early in the morning, when he saw the American soldiers unload the bundle. After they left, curiosity had gotten the better of him and he had looked to see what was in the bundle. He had been sad—and he had made the cross.

Woody made him repeat his story. Over and over. In an attempt to catch the man in a contradiction. He made none. He was telling the truth. In dismay Woody pieced the whole story together. From what the girl had told him and from what Szarvas had seen . . .

Wednesday morning, April 26, at about 0645 hours an American ¾-ton truck, covered, had driven up to the clearing on the road to Albersdorf. Two soldiers in field jackets and without leggings, and two civilian girls had disembarked. All of them helped unload a large, tarpaulin-covered bundle from the rear of the truck. In the truck had been eight to ten large cardboard boxes fitting the description of ten-in-one US rations. As soon as they had dumped their burden the soldiers had driven off in the direction of the Schwarzenfeld-Vohenstrauss highway, and shortly thereafter the girls had walked away in the same direction. According to Szarvas’s description one of the soldiers had been a corporal. The other had no stripes.

Szarvas was perhaps not very bright, but like a true artist his power of observation was keen.

Gloomily Woody examined the case in his mind. It fit. There was no doubt about it. It was a case for the CID, not for him. Dammit to hell!

Oh well. Back to the lousy files.

He looked at the goatherd. Too bad. Here was an eyewitness, and a good one, who unerringly could pick out the murderers from any lineup. Hitch was—they had no lineup. They couldn’t very well parade the whole damn army before him.

Suddenly he sat bolt upright. Of course! They
did
have a lineup. An unusual one, but a lineup nevertheless.

Quickly he turned to the girl. “I need some paper,” he said urgently. “And a pencil. Can you get it for me?”

She nodded, puzzled. She hurried off. Presently she returned with paper and pencil.

For the next several minutes Woody was busy imitating Szarvas, the artist. When he was finished he had a series of twelve US Army shoulder patches—from the big A of Third Army and the windmill of XII Corps to the Second Cavalry Group—plus a couple of imaginary patches thrown in for good measure.

He looked at the Hungarian.

“Did the American soldiers wear patches?” he asked. He touched his left shoulder. “Here,” he said. “Shoulder patches?”

Szarvas looked puzzled. He touched his own shoulder, uncomprehendingly. Suddenly he grinned. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, yes, yes! Picture. Beautiful picture. Pretty colors.” His eyes sparkled.

Woody showed him the patches he’d drawn. “Pick it out,” he said tensely. “Which one?”

Szarvas’s eyes searched the line of amateurishly drawn insignia. Suddenly he jabbed a slender finger at one of them. “There!” he cried. He put his hand on his left shoulder. “I see,” he said.

It was the patch of a small unit stationed in the Corps area!

Woody was elated.

With the leads he could now give CID the case was solved. All they had to do was locate a corporal and a private in a certain known unit stationed near Vohenstrauss, who in the morning of 25 April, 1945, driving a ¾-ton truck, had been drawing rations for a small number of men. It would be a mere matter of looking it up in the Orderly Room Detail Report of the outfit!