Читать книгу The Sealed Verdict - Lionel Shapiro - Страница 5

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It was just after seven o’clock when Lashley left his office on the first floor of the courthouse.

The sentry in the rotunda was leaning against a bronze plaque bearing the names of Germans who died in the 1914-18 war. He looked up from his copy of the Stars and Stripes and saluted limply.

“I suppose that’s it, eh, Major?” he said. “No more late nights.”

Lashley said, “I hope so. Good night, Buckley.”

“Good night—sir.”

Gusts of wind muttering around the colonnades on the portico struck his face. He flipped away his cigarette and watched its glowing tip bounce from stair to stair like a performing firefly. Smoking in the crisp April air seemed somehow sacrilegious. He threw back his shoulders and breathed deeply.

The courthouse stood on the heights of Reschweiler and from its portico Lashley looked upon the sullen city falling away to the banks of the Auer River. Darkness hid the ruins and the dull street lights failed to reveal the pockmarks of bomb and shellfire. Night had its magic for Reschweiler; the city was invested with the illusion of wholeness. Only the irreverent autopsy of daybreak would betray the frightfulness of its wounds. Now he could scarcely see the twisted girders of the two broken bridges rising out of the Auer; between them the fast-flowing river capered in gay communion with the glint of starlight.

In Erie, Lashley estimated, it was early afternoon. The Hammermill Paper Company plant next to the lake would be getting into full stride again, after the lunch-hour break. There would be women pushing baby carriages in Kahkwa Park and kids ordering ice cream sodas at Pulakos’s. In his own little office on Peach Street, Reginald Matthews, the senior partner, would be leaning back in his swivel chair and lighting his third cigar.

So different, Lashley realized, from Reschweiler with its shattered streets and its empty-eyed people.

He did not linger on the thought, but wondered instead how soon the Times and the Dispatch-Herald could carry the story, and he tried to picture what prominence the verdict would be given. There were more important matters in the news—the Security Council, the Trieste business, and the endless war in China. But six men sentenced to be hanged and one sentenced to life imprisonment was also news—especially when the prosecutor is a local man.

He wished the magic of science could transport him quickly to Erie. He could picture his father dodging friends on the street. The old man would be embarrassed by the news, but he’d be awfully proud and pleased too. Lashley had felt very close to his father in the four years since his mother’s death, though the two men never discussed the deeper and more personal aspect of their lives. And yet Lashley always had the feeling that his father knew what he was thinking. It gave him a sense of comfort and security.

Tomorrow morning his father would be waiting impatiently for the first edition of the Erie Daily Times. It might even carry a picture of “Robert Lashley—young Erie lawyer” with a flattering story. He hoped they would use the picture he had taken in uniform just before he sailed. It made him looked scrubbed and stern and successful.

Even now in the tight military hierarchy of Eleventh Army Headquarters he had become someone in the last hour. Its commanding officer, General Joshua Marriner, possessor of the efficient military brain that had led the Eleventh Army from the Normandy beach to the Elbe, had called up the moment the trial was over and asked him to his house for a drink. It was common knowledge that Marriner, in war and in peace, was as shrewd a military mind as was ever produced by West Point. An invitation from him was a high accolade for a field officer. Tonight was the first time, as far as Lashley knew, that the general had been conscious of his existence. He had said, “I shall expect you at seven-thirty,” in the crisp tones of a man who is accustomed to being obeyed.

Lashley realized he was late. He hurried to the far corner of the courtyard where his jeep was parked, climbed into the driver’s seat, reached for the padlock on a heavy chain that secured the steering wheel, and unlocked it. As the chain dropped to the floor boards he groped for the starter.

His boot stopped short of the button. The clatter of the chain reminded him of something. Six condemned and a seventh who would die in prison languished not twenty-five yards from where he sat. For a moment he looked at the light from the tiny windows of their basement cells edging over the top of the cobblestones. Then he stepped savagely on the starter, threw the gearshift, and the car careened out of the gates.

He admired humility. And he had not practiced it. He had been thinking not of what he had accomplished for humanity, or for his country, or in pursuance of his duty. He realized for the first time how much he had indulged his vanity, and without knowing it he began to drive more carefully.

The house General Marriner occupied as his private residence was the finest left standing in Reschweiler. A dirt road marked “Eingang strengst verboten” veered off the main highway at the eastern outskirts of the city and one traveled it for nearly two kilometers before reaching the massive iron gates that gave entrance to the grounds.

A sentry stepped out of his box, flashed a light on Lashley, and saluted. He then threw his light on a typewritten card tacked on the side of the sentry box and called out, “Major Lashley, sir?”

“Yes.”

The sentry hammered on the gate with his rifle butt and shouted, “Open up!”

An aged German appeared in the glare of the jeep’s headlights and pulled open one gate, then the other, panting and muttering, “Ja wohl, ja wohl.”

As Lashley drove through, the sentry saluted again.

Two staff cars were already parked in the driveway behind the general’s gray-green Cadillac. Lashley jumped out without stopping to chain his steering wheel, and ran up the stone steps two at a time.

A Frau immaculately uniformed in black dress, white cap, and apron answered his ring and led him through a great oak-paneled entrance hall and across the foot of a beautiful staircase to a massive double door. In his first quick glance after she opened it Lashley saw a huge room furnished with delicate magnificence. The far wall was lined with french windows. Four men were seated in front of a fireplace.

He recognized Marriner and paused to make a gesture of coming to attention.

“Major Lashley, sir. I hope I’m not late.”

Marriner reached for his horn-rimmed spectacles on a side table and examined the newcomer. He rose almost immediately and extended his hand.

“All right, Lashley, quite all right. Evenings here we’re informal.”

Lashley came forward and they shook hands. He felt immediately that he would like Marriner. The man’s appearance denied his reputation as a ruthless field commander and an austere disciplinarian. His figure was slight, his clean-shaven face pleasant to look upon, and his shrewd gray eyes beneath a vast expanse of brow reflected a lively intellect. Except for a burst of decorations on his blouse, he might have passed for a fashionable physician in his late forties.

Marriner said, “You know some of these gentlemen, I think. Our French friend, Captain Gribemont. Major Lashley.”

Lashley said, “Of course. How do you do, Captain.”

The Frenchman shook hands a little stiffly, Lashley thought, considering the fact that they had consulted together every day for two months.

“A happy moment for both of us,” said Gribemont.

Marriner led Lashley by the arm. “And Colonel Pike, my G-1. Major Lashley.”

Pike was stubby, gray, and fifty-five. He put down his glass and chuckled for no apparent reason. “Glad to know you, Lashley. Grand stuff you’ve been doing. Just grand stuff. Yessir.”

Marriner said, “You know—of course you do—Lieutenant Parker.”

Lashley knew Parker. The sallow young man combined the functions of aide, secretary, and confidante to Marriner, and he had become a power in the politics of the Eleventh Army.

“Sit down,” said Marriner, “and tell us something about the trial. What will you drink?”

“Whisky and water, if you have it, sir.”

Pike bellowed, “Have we got it? Hell yes, man, we’ve got it.” He jerked his thumb toward a rolling bar that stood in the corner of the room. “A man who does a job deserves the best in the house. And you’ve done a job, man. Agree, General?”

Parker bustled to the bar.

Marriner said, “All right, Pike. You confine yourself to drinking and let Lashley here do the talking.”

They settled in deep chairs around a spanking fire. Lashley sipped his drink. He felt extraordinarily well.

Marriner said, “I want to congratulate you, Lashley. Gribemont has been telling me about the trial. I understand you did a very effective job in court.”

“My God, yes,” Pike chuckled. “I was there this morning. Jesus, he was wonderful. Great gift of gab.”

Lashley began to feel even better.

“The summation was easy, sir,” he said. “There was plenty of evidence to build on.”

“Easy or not,” said Marriner, “you’ve accomplished an important mission. More important perhaps than you know. Gribemont here is especially grateful.”

Gribemont said, “Indeed, General. We were concerned, as you know, about Steigmann. His crimes against France were abominable. Had he been acquitted here, we would have had to try him in Paris. Major Lashley has saved us the trouble—and expense.”

“Haw!” boomed Pike. “You mean, saved us the expense, eh, Captain? The French never spend their own money. Borrow it from us. Oui, oui or no?” He chuckled.

The Frenchman flushed, then lifted his glass toward Pike. “We Frenchmen know who are our friends.”

Marriner ignored the colloquy. He looked thoughtfully into the fire and said, “I’m a soldier, Lashley. Have been most of my life. I suppose a great many men have lost their lives by my command, one way or another. But I’ve always felt their fate was touched by destiny, never by me. You feel the same way, I imagine, when you send six men to the gallows.”

Lashley stared. The general’s quiet remark stirred him uncomfortably, and he was silent. For months he had thought of this as only a legal problem. Not until this instant had he considered himself in the role of executioner.

He said after a moment, “Not quite, sir. You see, I didn’t sentence them. Colonel Macklin did.”

Marriner smiled. “Well, that’s a fair extension of the old army game. I’m sure nothing bothers Macklin.”

Lashley rubbed his forehead in reminiscence. “He reminds me, sir, of my professor in criminal law. Twice as wise as an owl and nearly twice as ugly. He used to say, ‘Some of you will undoubtedly become judges someday—God save the bench—and you will probably feel a catch in the throat when you sentence a man to be hanged. As for myself, I have always found it convenient to reserve the catch in the throat for the murderer who is about to hang.’ ”

Pike guffawed. “Rich! That’s rich.” He drained his glass, held it out, and said rudely, “Thanks, Parker.”

The lieutenant took the glass and went to the bar.

Marriner turned to Lashley. He said, “I’m sure Macklin has the right idea. The men are murderers. They deserve no second thought. I’m proud of our CIC people who brought them to justice, and I’m proud of you—well, for having brought justice to them.”

“Hear, hear,” grunted Pike.

Lashley tried unsuccessfully to think of a graceful rejoinder. But the pleasure he had felt earlier was enhanced by the drink and the fire, and words eluded him.

Gribemont said, “I can only add my felicitations.” He turned his glass slowly in his hand. “And express my regrets.”

“Regrets?” Marriner put on his spectacles and looked up brightly as though anticipating a bon mot.

“Yes, General,” said the Frenchman. “I regret, particularly in view of our special interest in Steigmann, that the only person to appear in his defense should have been a Frenchwoman.”

Pike came alive. “My God, yes. And pretty, as I remember. Odd name, too; Thémis something, wasn’t it?”

The woman marched across Lashley’s complacent mind like a company of fifes and drums. He stared into the fireplace, puzzled that into this quiet moment of triumph she had again intruded the enigma compounded of her mission and her character.

“Thémis Delisle,” he said carelessly. “She really had no effect on the case.”

Gribemont said bitterly, “Maybe not on the case. But on me—definitely.”

The doors opened and the housekeeper tiptoed in. The conversation stopped until she had drawn heavy brocaded curtains over the french windows, curtsied, and tiptoed out.

Parker said in an aside to the general, “You remember, sir. You made a note about the Delisle woman.”

Marriner rubbed his chin. “Oh yes. Curious thing, Lashley, talking of your fine handling of the case. I made a memo about this woman. I was a little disturbed at the time.”

“Disturbed, sir?” Lashley said unhappily.

“I’ll tell you why,” Marriner continued. “Well, you know something about the way our public safety people operate. They have a very comprehensive set of criteria and graphs on civilian behavior, and every now and again, when the underground pokes up or the civilian black market goes bullish, they recommend that we tighten the screws a bit. A few days ago my G-5 indicated strongly that a capital conviction of this fellow Steigmann would have a salutary effect on the whole area. He was a big man around here, no doubt of it. I think”—he rubbed his forehead—“that was the day the Delisle woman was put on the stand.”

“The day after, sir,” Parker corrected.

“Quite right. I read a report on the court proceedings just before I called the regular staff meeting. In view of the G-5 recommendation, the appearance of the Delisle woman tended to upset me.”

Lashley said, “Her testimony meant nothing, I assure you, sir.”

“So we found out,” said Marriner. “I had Colonel Macklin to dinner that night and I asked point-blank what the chances were of Steigmann hanging.”

Lashley’s brow darkened. “How did the colonel react to that?”

Marriner raised his highball and pretended to be intent on drinking, but he was studying Lashley from behind the shelter of his oversized spectacles.

“You know Macklin. He’s a crusty old bird. He said—a little abruptly, I thought—it would depend on the development of the case. I can tell you I was in a bit of a quandary.” As he watched Lashley stiffen in his chair, Marriner smiled reassuringly. “Well, it turned out Macklin was having his little joke. Before the dinner was over he got around to saying that you were building as fine a prosecution case as he’d seen in twenty-seven years on the bench.”

“Yessir,” chuckled Pike.

Gribemont muttered, “That blasted woman.”

Lashley leaned forward like a pointer. “Did you tell Colonel Macklin about the G-5 report?”

“I think it came out sometime during the dinner,” Marriner said.

Lashley’s mouth tightened and the muscles around his eyes contracted slowly.

Marriner added quickly, “It’s of no importance now. The woman intrigues me, though. Who is she?”

“Yes, who is she?” Pike echoed. “Come on, Frenchy, don’t spare the details.”

Lashley only half listened to Gribemont’s reply. He was thinking of the general and Macklin, and wondering how much importance the G-5 report had been given at the dinner. Almost immediately he dismissed the suspicion that crossed his mind, for he knew Macklin’s stern reputation as a jurist was too great to allow even a hint of collusion. It struck him he was being too sensitive about his first capital conviction.

Gribemont was saying, “I can tell you very little about the miserable creature. She took us all by surprise. Isn’t that so, Major?”

“Yes,” said Lashley absently. “She meant nothing.”

“Come now, Lashley,” said Marriner brightly. “A beautiful woman witness at an important trial. You can’t let her down so cheaply.”

Pike chuckled. “Let’s have the inside stuff, Major. Was she Steigmann’s sweetie? Bet she was.”

For some reason Lashley found himself not wanting to discuss her.

“I suppose she was,” he said.

“Undoubtedly,” said Gribemont. He pushed himself to his feet. “And, gentlemen, I can promise you this. We will know more about her—much more. I have already been in touch with Paris. The Deuxième Bureau is most interested. I understand she is being put on the train tomorrow. When she reaches our zone at Mainz she will find she has company the rest of the way and for some time thereafter. The case of Mlle. Delisle is not closed. It is, as a matter of fact, merely opening.”

Marriner said pleasantly, “There you are, Lashley. You might get a Legion of Honor out of this.”

Furrows formed between Lashley’s eyebrows.

He said, “Surely you’re not going to arrest the woman.”

The Frenchman threw forward his hands. “But obviously. Her testimony clearly implied intelligence with the enemy. We must detain her.”

Parker spoke up. “I think he’s right, sir. It seemed to me she almost upset the case—I mean, against Steigmann. He might have got off with prison if it hadn’t been for that Czech, Rodal——”

“Parker!” said Marriner quickly. “Get the major another drink.”

Lashley stood up slowly. In the firelight he looked taller than his nearly six feet as he moved with thoughtful deliberation to the back of his chair. The changing reflections of the fire highlighted his dark hair and played on his tired face. He leaned over his chair as though it were a lectern.

The Frenchman was still standing. Pike sat deep in his chair. Parker was at the bar, holding a bottle in his motionless hand. Marriner had an expectant look on his face, like a theatergoer at the rise of the curtain. They watched Lashley as though attracted by the intensity of his hazel eyes. In contrast to his eyes, his words were calm and cold.

“This was an American trial. Under our concept of law even the most forlorn cause has a right to be heard in court without let or hindrance.” His voice rose in pitch without sacrificing its quiet tone. “Without let or hindrance, Gribemont,” he repeated. “We cannot dispense justice if witnesses are subject to persecution. The woman may have been misguided but I think she was honest. I know she had courage. She volunteered to appear. She was as much a part of our process of justice as the Czech.” He paused and looked away.

Gribemont turned toward Marriner. He said with a trace of annoyance, “My dear Lashley, this is not the occasion——”

“You made it the occasion,” Lashley said.

Marriner threw his cigarette in the fire. In the low, almost benign voice which had become recognized at headquarters as reflecting his most vicious mood he said, “It seems to me the captain is right. The woman has brought herself under suspicion.”

Lashley swept around toward the general. “We have a certain responsibility toward her.”

Marriner’s voice became even quieter. Parker studied his chief with a troubled face.

The general said, “What the French do with a French national on French soil is completely beyond our responsibility. I don’t think it is proper for an officer from this headquarters to make any recommendations.”

Lashley said sharply, “My opinion is my own responsibility. Gribemont is privileged to ignore it.”

Marriner drew deeply on a new cigarette. He said nothing. Parker looked appalled.

Gribemont shook his head unbelievingly. “You are a curious person, Lashley. You regard this as a game, a contest. You have just sent six men to the scaffold and now you are being magnanimous. France cannot be magnanimous. With us it is a matter of life and death. For a man who has displayed such magnificent thrust and attack during the last six weeks, I find you incredibly sentimental.”

“God damn it, yes. I am sentimental,” Lashley cried. “I am sentimental about compassion and courage. I am sentimental about my integrity, about my responsibility to myself.”

Gribemont said, “And the Nazis. Are you sentimental about them?”

Lashley fixed his eyes on Marriner. “Sir,” he said, “you asked me what I feel about the six men who were sentenced tonight. This is what I feel.” His voice became savage.

“I feel for the millions. The helpless millions, the wailing millions, the damned and the tortured millions. The dead millions. I’ve been to the camps. I saw and I smelled. I threw up. I feel for them all. The French, the Jews, the Czechs.”

Lashley paused. His wide, full-lipped mouth was compressed and he breathed hard. “I hate Nazis. As for the six Nazis who are going to be hanged—I say God damn them. God damn them to hell!”

Lashley lowered his voice. “That too is sentiment. My kind of sentiment. Compassion is the quality we display when we punish the cruel and lift up the wounded. It is an important thing to feel and to know.”

He looked to the Frenchman. “I don’t know who this woman is, what she has done, or why she is here. I do know by the very act of her coming that she has compassion and I cannot stand by and see her crushed by a process that should be reserved for the evil and the vicious.”

Gribemont shook his head slowly.

Lashley said, “Sir, may I be excused now?”

Marriner walked with him through the big hall.

“You didn’t win the argument,” the general said sharply. “The Frenchman wasn’t convinced. Neither was I.”

Lashley grunted, “Sorry, sir.” He picked up his cap and coat. “I’m sorry I broke out.”

Marriner said, “Spirited men make good soldiers, but only in the front line. Remember that.”

They stood in the open doorway, Lashley an inch or two the taller, and they were silent. Then the general said, “How long before your time for separation?”

“Three or four months, sir.”

Marriner said, “I spoke to Frankfurt tonight. They were very pleased about the verdict on Steigmann. Of course they would be. God and the JAG willing, there may be an extra grade in this for you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And, Lashley. I would advise you to forget about the woman. Leave her to the French. They know her kind better than we do.”

“I’ll—I’ll try, sir.”

“Good night, Lashley.”

The Excelsior Hotel where Lashley had his quarters gleamed in downtown Reschweiler like a lighthouse in a dark and angry sea. Across the street the opera house was a fire-blackened ruin rising above a tide of masonry, rubble, and fallen statues. Next to it the Hotel Ritz existed only as a sign hanging askew by a single hinge. There had been no Hotel Ritz since the first thousand-bomber raid in March 1943. The store fronts along the streets were boarded up. Only the light of a small apothecary represented the business life of what was once Reschweiler’s main thoroughfare.

By a miracle the Excelsior had escaped heavy damage. It was here that many officers of Eleventh Army Headquarters were billeted in single rooms. A few suites were reserved for colonels.

When Lashley went to get his key the sergeant behind the desk said, “There are two people waiting for you, sir.” He jerked his chin toward the far corner of the hall.

The Czech, Slava Rodal, and his desolate little companion, Maria Romanek, sat together. Rodal was stroking her lank, tan hair and whispering in her ear. Lashley had long admired Rodal for the kindness he lavished on the girl. She was perhaps eighteen and obviously demented. Rodal had befriended her in the foreign workers’ camp where they had been prisoners, and she had remained with him since liberation. Lashley thought he understood why Rodal took care of her. Although she was his link with the bitterness of the past, the girl was also his instrument of adjustment to the world of the living.

“Tell them to come up,” said Lashley.

Rodal sat on Lashley’s bed with Maria Romanek beside him.

“I would like very much thank you, my major,” he said. Maria watched Rodal’s face as he spoke. Her lips moved silently and almost imperceptibly and her pale blue eyes were wide with inquiry. She seemed to marvel at the miracle of speech.

“What for?” Lashley sat on the arm of a chair.

Rodal looked around the simple room. When his eyes focused on the bureau he saw a bust of Hitler which Lashley had picked up as a souvenir.

“This man he is Hitler?” Rodal’s voice shook with indignation. As she watched him Maria’s breath emerged from her mouth in little moans, like an eager dog panting.

“Rodal,” Lashley said, “don’t worry about him. He’s dead.”

The Czech tossed his chin in the air contemptuously. Maria mimicked him wonderingly. Lashley was amused.

“Now,” he said, “you didn’t come here to thank me. What is it?”

Rodal played with his thin lower lip. His dark cadaverous face was set in contemplation. Then he blurted, “I like know when beasts will be killed. I like from you laissez-passer for me and for Maria to watch beasts killed.” He lowered his voice and quickened his speech. “Also I like little money.”

Lashley looked up, startled.

“I don’t know when the men will be executed. The date will be set by the commanding general—after the record has been reviewed. As for a pass, you must apply to the general’s office. His name is Marriner. I’ll write it down for you.”

Lashley glanced at the narrow stooped little man out of the corner of his eye.

“As for money. What money do you refer to?”

Rodal jerked one shoulder and fingered a strand of Maria’s disheveled hair.

“Money,” he said. “Marks.”

“How much money have you received so far during the trial?”

“A day twenty marks.”

“And your room and food.”

“Yes, also.”

“You received that every day.”

“Every day. From the Leutnant of the second floor in the courthouse. That is finished. The Leutnant said that is finished.”

“You are returning to Pilsen?”

Rodal nodded vigorously. “The Leutnant he says he arranges it—for me and for Maria.”

“Then why do you ask for money?”

Rodal squirmed in impatience with the question. “Journalist last week here give me hondred marks.”

“What for?”

The Czech waved an open hand, palm outward, in front of his forehead. “I give exposition of camp of concentration.” He tapped his skinny chest. “Me myself regard it. Four years.” He held up four fingers.

“I understand that,” said Lashley slowly. “Now you want money from me. What for?”

“Little money, my major. Two hondred marks. Like that.”

Lashley leaped from the arm of the chair and stood over Rodal. “What for?” he cried. Maria crushed herself against Rodal and whimpered.

The Czech stroked the back of her head. “For live here and watch beasts killed,” he said.

“I don’t care why you want the money. Tell me why you came to me for it.” His mouth tightened angrily over the words.

“I not worth two hondred marks?” said Rodal, sucking his teeth and looking away.

“Rodal, this is important. Listen carefully. Why do you come to me for money? Why should I give it to you?” He put his hand on the Czech’s shoulder. “Now answer me!” he demanded.

Rodal looked tenderly at Maria. He rubbed her ear with his thumb. As he did so he said, “All beasts schuldig. That good. Good for Americans. Good for you, my major. Small money. Not big importance.” He jerked his shoulder again. “Must live see beasts killed.”

Lashley stepped back and leaned against the door. He pressed his hands against his temples. His voice was quiet now. “It is very important to you to witness the executions?” he asked deliberately.

Rodal turned to Maria and whispered in her ear. The language was of Slav derivation, Lashley thought. Maria’s eyes lighted and her mouth quivered into a smile. She squealed like a small bitch in heat.

“Maria wants see beasts killed. Also me,” said Rodal.

“Have you asked someone else for money?”

Rodal shook his head vehemently. “God’n heaven truth no.”

“Tell me, Rodal. Why did you come to me? Why didn’t you ask Colonel Macklin? Why didn’t you ask the lieutenant in the courthouse? Why me?”

“You good man, my major. Make beasts schuldig. You my friend. I help you. You help me.” Rodal nodded thoughtfully.

Lashley walked across the room, then back to the door, then across and back again. Each time he turned in the constricted space he saw Rodal gazing at Maria as though there were pictures to be seen in her empty face.

Suddenly Maria spoke in a high, cracked voice. She spoke in German. “My hands are clean, are they not, Rodal?” She looked at her companion appealingly and extended her hands. Lashley had heard her ask that many times before. It was the only thing he had ever heard her say. Once he asked Rodal what it meant and Rodal had replied, “Nothing. She has suffered much.”

Now Rodal stroked her hands and answered in German, “Yes, Maria. They are clean. Fine and clean.” Lashley saw that her hands were filthy and her scraggy fingernails clogged with dirt.

Lashley stopped at the door and turned abruptly to face the Czech. “Rodal, I am not going to give you money,” he said, each word hard and distinct. “Not a single mark. Do you understand? Not a single mark.”

Rodal shrugged his shoulders and got to his feet. Maria shuffled beside him.

Lashley opened the door and stood aside. “If you want to remain in the American zone you will have to ask permission of the lieutenant in the courthouse. I advise you not to ask him for money.”

Once more Rodal shrugged his shoulders in a quick gesture of resignation and stepped toward the door. Maria snuggled against him as though his muscles controlled her movements.

“Before you go,” Lashley said, stepping into the doorway. “I want you to answer one question. Listen carefully. Why did you testify against Steigmann?”

Rodal made a spitting noise with his purple-gray lips.

“He’s beast!” he cried. “Pig, murderer. German pig!” He pushed frantically at his left sleeve to show his worker’s number tattooed in light blue on his forearm.

“I’ve seen that,” said Lashley.

The Czech moved his head up and down as though reviving grim memories.

“Then it pleases you Steigmann is going to die,” Lashley muttered.

Still holding back his sleeve with his right hand, Rodal worked the fingers of his left convulsively. “Killing not enough! Not enough!” he shouted. Maria whimpered in sympathy with the excitement in his voice. “Give him to me. I kill beast myself. With my hands. Me, Rodal. I tear out his eyes. His tongue. Langsam. Langsam.”

“I understand that too, Rodal. Now tell me this. I prosecuted him and proved him guilty. That pleases you?”

“Yes. Much.”

“Then I helped you.”

Rodal’s disconsolate voice revealed his comprehension of the trend of Lashley’s questioning. “Yes, my major.”

Lashley barked, “Then why do you want money from me?”

Rodal and Maria moved toward the door where Lashley stood. “It’s nothing. Forget, my major. Forget, please.”

The men stood face to face.

“One more thing. You swore on the Bible that you—personally—saw Steigmann in the punishment cell when Davilov had his two legs broken by the guards and then was hanged by his thumbs until he died. You swore that. You swore it in court.”

Lashley grasped Rodal’s lapels with both hands. The thin high sob that escaped from Maria sounded like a lyric soprano singing far away and off key.

“Tell me, Rodal. Do you swear it now?”

Rodal’s eyes opened wide. The pupils were like two small-caliber muzzles aimed at Lashley’s forehead.

“Yes, my major,” he cried. “It’s true! True! I swear now. God’n heaven I swear. Yes, my major. Yes, yes!”

Lashley’s knuckles trembled against the man’s chest.

“Now get out!”

Lashley threw himself on the bed and lay a few minutes forcing his tired mind to calm itself, to think. Then he reached for the phone.

“The provost marshal,” he ordered. “Get me the provost marshal.”

When the connection was made he said, “This is Major Lashley of the JAG office. There’s a woman billeted somewhere in town. Her name is Thémis Delisle.... Have you got it? Thémis Delisle....” He spelled it out. “Kinsella is keeping an eye on her.... Yes.... She is supposed to leave tomorrow morning on the Paris train.... I want you to get in touch with Kinsella or the woman or both.... Now listen. I want you to keep her here. Don’t let her take the train tomorrow. ... Do you hear me? ... It’s important.... My orders, yes.... I don’t care how you hold her.... Don’t let her take the train tomorrow....”