Deal with the Devil

by J. Gunnar Grey

  Hackney paused, picturing the events in his mind. “How long do you think the German was in Mrs. Alcock’s farm?”

  “About five seconds, and no more.”

  Meaning those would be his bootprints out by the wall, near the road. Hackney pretended skepticism. “Had to be longer.”

  “No, sir.” Tanyon shook his head. “You’ve been to the chicken farm? You saw the big turnip field on the other side of the road? Well, I was among those birds for maybe a minute, then I saw him all the way on the other side of the field and running uphill toward the forest. He stopped just before he would have stood out against the horizon and turned around to look back at me, then he vanished into the Dark as I knocked on Mrs. Alcock’s door.”

  “He could have crossed back over.”

  But Tanyon shook his head again. “Soon as I knew Mrs. Alcock would relay the message, I ran up the road to the top of the big rise, where I could see both sides for a mile either way. It bottled him up south of me. If he’d crossed the road, I’d have seen him. He didn’t cross.”

  It was too early to scratch anyone from the suspect list. But if Tanyon spoke the truth, he and the German were sliding down the ranks fast.

  Hackney leaned forward. “Now, think carefully. Of all the men participating in the search today, which can you speak for? If you had to go under oath in court, which men could you swear never snuck off, even for a moment?”

  “To swear to?” Tanyon paused, his lower lip jutting. “I could swear to Lieutenant Bruckmann. Whenever I glanced left, I could see his blond hair shining in the sun. He’s got this trick of removing his cap and smoothing his hair back, and I could see him clear as anything. But I don’t think I could swear to anyone else. Our own soldiers were spread out among Major Kettering’s men, and I don’t know any of them to speak to.”

  Hackney sighed. Bruckmann had been able to swear to Tanyon, but Pym hadn’t known any of the engineering soldiers and shrugged at the question. “Right, sergeant, appreciate your help. I’ll see Mr. Wainwright next.”

  In contrast to Tanyon’s reassuring bulk, Wainwright seemed insubstantial, a slender wiry man in his late thirties with sandy hair curling in wisps above his ears and a mustache not worth cultivating. His eyes, a watery green in the dim light, glanced about as if he’d never seen the room before, not stopping on any object, including Hackney, for any length of time.

  “Tell me about Saturday night.” Hackney tried to keep his voice level despite the shivery pricking in his thumbs. There was something about this man putting him on guard. But he wasn’t certain what.

  Wainwright shrugged. “The air raid alarm went off about nine thirty and the wife and I went down into the shelter. Not long after ten, Sergeant Tanyon came in and said a German plane had been shot down. I guarded the main gate all night, even though it’s rusted shut and couldn’t be opened if it had to be.”

  “What were you doing before the alarm?”

  “Probably reading the paper.” Wainwright snapped his fingers. “No, I’m wrong. I was practicing field-stripping my rifle. I’ve been assigned a Browning through the Home Guard.” Pride and excitement rippled across his expression. “It’s just an American gun, of course, but I’m going to work at it until I’ve gotten it down, just as if it were a Lee Enfield.”

  Egads; armed with a rifle and fighting with his wife. “That American gun can do a lot of damage and I wouldn’t write it off so lightly. What were you and your wife arguing over?” When Wainwright looked away, scowling, Hackney added, “Word like this gets about, you know.”

  “Gossip, you mean.” Wainwright’s anger flashed but quickly vanished. “Yes, we fight. Maggie doesn’t like it out here and wants to go back to London, where all her friends are.”

  “Where all the bombs are, you mean.”

  “So I’ve been telling her. She says they have shelters in London, too, and it’s not so bad.” Wainwright leaned forward. “But I’ve lived in London all my life and I’m ready for a change. We can contribute something to the war effort out here, something real which will make a difference, and I can work with the Home Guard and become something besides a ruddy useless advertising clerk, hiding behind a desk.”

  Hackney measured the earnestness in Wainwright’s face. Too young for the first war, too old for this one, eager for glory and feeling his life pass without counting for anything. It was a dangerous combination, with or without a rifle. It could have spilled over.

  “So you guarded the front gate all night.”

  Wainwright rolled his eyes.

  “It’s the sort of thing soldiers do, you know.”

  “Well, I didn’t leave my post.” Wainwright rumpled then smoothed his hair, eyes on the trellis rug. “Sergeant Tanyon came by several times to check and I reported all clear each time. Then when the enemy did arrive, it was Miss Stoner who got him.” He sighed. “I’d have gotten him, I would.”

  “Now tell me about today.”

  He shrugged. “There’s not a lot to tell. When Lieutenant Bruckmann was leaving to search for the German officer, I volunteered to go with him, but he said someone had to stay here. So I stayed and signed off on invoices, as a ruddy useless clerk does.”

  “Miss Stoner said you walked to Patchley Abbey.”

  “That’s right.” Wainwright snapped his fingers again. “We were out of carbon paper and she had Major Stoner’s notes to type. So I walked to town and fetched some from the mercantile.”

  It seemed unlikely he’d actually forgotten. “What route did you take?”

  “There’s only one, along the road past the Dark and the chicken farm, unless you want to cut across fields and get your boots dirty.”

  Hackney wrote slowly. His nerves quivered at Wainwright’s casual knowledge of available back ways. “What time was this?”

  “Don’t quite remember. It’s a twenty, thirty minute walk to town and I left here about ten thirty, I think. But I’m not sure.”

  “And what did you see?” Time slowed around Hackney, the moments pressing upon his memory and etching themselves there in acid. His instincts, honed by decades of police work, sounded a warning klaxon in his subconscious. Sometimes it turned out to be this simple.

  But at the question, Wainwright met his gaze. “I saw a line of trucks, six of them, parked along the road in front of the chicken farm, with our lorry and the vicar’s old clunker. A couple of soldiers guarded the trucks and Pamela Alcock stood on her front porch, staring about as if she’d never seen such doings.” He grinned. “It was sort of funny, actually.”

  Raw anger surged. “Her daughter was inside, being butchered. I wouldn’t call it funny. Did either the soldiers or Mrs. Alcock see you pass by?”

  “I talked with the soldiers.” Wainwright’s words came in a rush, as if speed could overcome his faux pas. “I asked them where everyone was, and they said out searching for the German.”

  “And when you returned from town, were they still there?”

  He nodded. “The whole trip took about an hour, and the search lasted well into the afternoon.”

  “So you were back here about eleven thirty?”

  Wainwright shrugged. “Something like that.”

  The intensity of Hackney’s internal klaxon eased. But a low hum still vibrated in the back of his soul. Dr. Harris said Grace had died around noon or twelve thirty, but estimating time of death was notoriously chancy and even experienced forensic experts refused to cast such estimates in stone. If Dr. Harris was off by even half an hour and she died nearer eleven thirty, then Wainwright could have killed her, run through the Dark, and arrived back in time to believably claim the alibi. Unless Jennifer remembered the precise time he’d arrived back — and Arnussen, who’d spoken with her, said she hadn’t — no one could prove otherwise.

  Nothing, then, had changed. He still needed more evidence. But his instincts were trying to tell him something and he needed to figure out what.

  There was something about this insubstantial man he didn’t like.
Or trust.

  “Is there anything else you want to mention?” he asked as a final fishing expedition.

  To his surprise, Wainwright nodded. “I don’t know if this means anything, but when I reached the mercantile in Patchley Abbey, the grocer — that’s Tom Burbank — well, he wasn’t there. His wife Debbie was running the store and the switchboard both.”

  “Did she say where he was?”

  “Catching a nap.” Wainwright clearly didn’t believe it. He rose. “And Dr. Harris wanted a word with you when we were done.” He hesitated. “Are we done?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Hackney scribbled the last of his longhand notes. When he finished, Dr. Harris stood before him, a white smock over his rumpled grey suit, tie loosened and top button undone.

  He held out a manila file. “I wish I could offer service with a smile but I simply don’t have it in me tonight. Two autopsy reports and all the photos, both from the crime scene and points of contention — I won’t say interest — from the autopsies.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for your assistance, doctor.” Hackney accepted the file and waved him to a seat. “Do you have a moment?”

  “I can spare a few in exchange for a spot of rest.” Dr. Harris slumped back as if for a nap. “Please tell me this is only to ask questions and not a request for additional assistance.”

  “Actually — ”

  “Flak.”

  “ — it’s both.”

  Dr. Harris rubbed his high forehead. The skin beneath his eyes was red and puffy. Although Hackney couldn’t be certain in the dim light, the whites of his eyes seemed dark. “Better request first before I fall asleep.”

  “I need blood typing done for the German prisoner and for Mr. Wainwright. I assume you know your own blood type?”

  “O positive, secretor. I’m happy to give your lads a sample to prove it.”

  “I hope it won’t be necessary.” Hackney made a note. “The other two?”

  “My nurse will draw them tonight and the Patchbourne technicians can process them tomorrow.” Dr. Harris glanced up. “Will that serve?”

  “Perfectly. Now can you tell me your movements on Saturday night?”

  “I was at the dance, playing my horn along with the gramophone for the entertainment of our gallant troops, when the air raid alarm sounded. My service position is at the Patchbourne hospital so there I went, feeling my way through the dark of the night without a decent driving lamp, braving the dastardly German bombers overhead — ”

  “Doctor, are you drunk?”

  Dr. Harris rubbed his forehead again. “Slightly.” A tinge of color climbed his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I hate autopsies, especially on someone I knew and adored. In some ways Grace was the daughter I never had.”

  “You should have said something.” Dr. Harris had stroked Grace’s dark hair, volunteered any help he could give. “Someone else could have done the autopsy.”

  “Of course. But I have no means of knowing whether said someone would be as motivated and therefore as thorough.” Dr. Harris sat up straighter. “I reported for duty at the Patchbourne hospital at nine forty on Saturday night and was there, assisting with the bombing casualties, until seven the following morning, at which time I came here and stitched up one German prisoner of war. I then found an empty bed and collapsed thereon.”

  Hackney paused with his pencil poised. “Not therein?”

  Dr. Harris smiled wryly. “I didn’t bother. Next question?”

  “Same for today.”

  “And it was the same. My duty shift at the Patchbourne hospital officially starts at eight sharp and is supposedly over at five ditto, but in actuality it varies according to the needs of the day. If the clinic isn’t busy, I sometimes leave early and check on any patients I may have at the airfield, in the village, or here at Margeaux Hall. Because I carry a small transmitter-receiver in my sidecar, running off the motorcycle’s battery, I can gambol about in such an irresponsible manner and still be brought to heel should a patient require my services.

  “Today was such a day. The clinic was duller than boiled cabbage, even after Saturday night’s air raid, so about ten I left it in the care of my esteemed colleagues and performed the final autopsy on Harriet. I then came here to check on the abovementioned German prisoner, who underwent minor surgery yesterday evening and had no business running about the countryside putting himself at risk today. Therefore, I was here when the first reports arrived, although he was not, and I was able to meet you at the farm within minutes of the alarm being sounded.”

  Hackney wrote it all down. “Where were you at noon today?”

  “In the morgue.”

  He glanced up. A shadow haunted Dr. Harris’ eyes. “I assume this can be confirmed?”

  “By several people, including two lab technicians and my nurse. The session was also recorded for posterity.”

  If that were verified, Dr. Harris could be the first man removed from the suspect list. Hackney sighed with relief. The man’s grief was utterly believable, which meant one down, over two hundred to go. “Thank you, sir. You may now find some well-earned rest.”

  Dr. Harris promptly rose. “I think I’ll finish the bottle first. Should you wish to join me, I’ll be in the infirmary on the first floor. Anyone can direct you.”

  As Dr. Harris left, Hackney grabbed the roll of ordinance survey maps, obtained from Constable Mercer, from beside his chair. As he approached the desk, the two officers glanced up, Stoner flipping over the papers before him and Bruckmann placing his palm atop his notepad. Hackney stood before them, resting the end of the maps atop the desk and feeling the room’s quiet seep into his bones.

  “Your German prisoner sounds an interesting man.”

  Stoner’s lips curved. “I assure you, whatever you’ve heard tonight falls short of the truth.”

  Hackney nodded. “Perhaps it’s time I met him for myself.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  the same evening

  Margeaux Hall

  Supper was lukewarm watery bland vegetable soup, mostly cabbage, with dry bread. Faust forced it down without too much gagging, left the dirty dishes on the little table by the cell bars, and settled cross-legged on the cot. One-handed, he draped the blanket across his naked shoulders and lit a cigarette; it seemed a fitting symbol for his still smoldering temper. Besides, there was nothing else to do. Behind the radio, Carmichael sat with his back to him, reading a newspaper beneath the table lamp. Otherwise, the room was empty.

  Before he finished the fag, Tanyon returned, grey cloth folded neatly over one arm. He dropped Faust’s uniform through the bars onto the chair, rumpling it, and tossed the boots onto the floor.

  “Get dressed.”

  Yeah, right. He eyed Tanyon through the drifting smoke and took another drag.

  “Or I’ll haul you downstairs as you are. Miss Stoner’s gone home, but Mrs. Wainwright is still working. Of course, she’s married, so she might not care. But then, she and her man fight all the time, so she just might.”

  Carmichael had tugged the headphones off one ear again. He chortled. “Do it, sergeant. I dare you.”

  Night had fallen and the blackout drapes were tugged over the guardroom’s lone window. Only the small lamp atop the radio table was lit, throwing its circle across the lower part of Carmichael’s face and Tanyon’s torso. The larger floor lamp by the rifles was switched off and the remainder of the guardroom took cover behind the shadows lining the walls. Faust knew he was visible only as an outline with a glowing cigarette.

  He dragged again. He had one puff left and it was more important than Tanyon. “Mr. Stoner might not approve.”

  “Don’t bet on it.”

  So Stoner had authorized Tanyon to use whatever means he considered appropriate and wasn’t checking on him. Faust breathed smoke. The earlier tension had dissipated, the audience of young soldiers had vanished, and he knew he had some leeway.

  “Face it, mate,” Tanyon said. “You have to deal with me.”<
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  He took the last drag, held the smoke in as long as he could, stubbed the end out on the metal bedstead, and tossed the butt down the open end of the vertical pipe which supported the springs, the only ashtray available. “Trust me, Sergeant,” he said with the last of the smoke, “I’m going to.”

  But he rose before Tanyon actually reached for a rifle, shrugged from the sling, and slipped his mouse-grey shirt over his head. It was clammy, stuck to his skin, and caught on the stiff bandages, but it finally smelled clean. “Is this the pattern? I strip to get into the cell and dress to get out of it?”

  “Something like that.” Tanyon leaned back against the radio table and stared off into space. “It’s the detective from Scotland Yard. He’s talked with the rest of us. Now it’s your turn.”

  He buttoned the shirt in silence. Without looking at Tanyon, he asked, “What did you tell him?”

  He felt Tanyon’s glance like a bullet grazing his skin but pulled on his damp trousers without looking, wishing for his suspenders. Sooner or later their absence was going to cause a scene in the ballroom, whether Tanyon hauled him around in his shorts or not. He could live without that particular experience.

  “The truth,” Tanyon finally said. “Expect me to lie?”