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“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 cardb
oard 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!

  Tooling along down the road from Albersdorf Woody felt good. He was driving himself. He was too keyed up not to be doing something. So, it hadn’t been the kind of case he’d hoped for. He had solved it. Without ever learning the name of the victim. Or his killers. Hot damn! In the back of the jeep sat Szarvas, eagerly testing the wind as they sped down the road. Woody had decided to take him back to Corps. The little guy deserved better than a bunch of mangy goats—and Krauts. Perhaps repatriation to his hometown, when the time came. Reunion with his family. He’d do his damndest.

  Fossano, sitting next to him, gave him a sidelong glance. “That patch trick was pretty damned smart,” he said. He yawned. “Huber sure was an ornery bastard. I wonder what the other guy would’ve been like.”

  “Anton?”

  “No. The other guy in the house.”

  Woody stopped the jeep. He stared at Fossano.

  “What other guy?” he asked sharply. “You didn’t tell me you saw someone else in the house!”

  “I didn’t. I just figured there’d be someone else. Out in the field, maybe. How the hell should I know?” He sounded suddenly defensive. Had he screwed up? He hadn’t thought it important. Shit!

  “Why do you think there was another man in the house?” Woody asked, his voice measured.

  “Well, I was poking around in Huber’s bedroom. You told me to take a look. There was a big wardrobe, kind of. It was full of clothes. Huber’s mostly. But some of them were a lot smaller and more dress-up like, I guess. I thought they’d have to belong to some other guy. But didn’t see nobody!”

  At once Woody turned the jeep around. He barreled back toward the Albersdorf farm.

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” he snapped. “You heard that shithead, Huber, tell me only he, his daughter, and the old farmhand lived at the farm.”

  “The hell I did,” Fossano said defensively. “He must’ve told you that. He didn’t tell me nothin’.”

  Woody clammed up. He suddenly realized the corporal was right. He had still been sitting in the damned jeep when Huber made his statement.

  “I didn’t think it was important,” Fossano said sullenly. “Anyways, I thought you got everything you wanted.”

  Woody kept quiet. He cursed himself. It was his own damned fault. He’d been stupid. He should have remembered he wasn’t working with a trained investigator but with a driver from the motor pool. It wasn’t Fossano’s fault. It was his. All of a sudden it all came together. Huber’s reticence. The girl’s apprehension. His own nagging feeling. Shit! He hoped he wasn’t too late.

  He stopped the jeep outside the farmyard. Gun in hand, followed by Fossano, he quickly ran to the door.

  For a second he listened. Then he kicked it down. There were four people in the Bauernstube. Huber, his daughter, Anton—and a slightly built man in his forties, standing in the process of putting a sausage wrapped in newspaper into a rucksack.

  Startled, they stared at the Americans.

  “Up against the wall!” Woody ordered sharply. “Hands on top of your heads. All of you. Move!”

  They scrambled to obey.

  Huber looked furious. He turned angrily to Anton and his daughter. “I told you not to bring that imbecile into it,” he snarled. “He told them.”

  “Szarvas told us nothing,” Woody said. “You did. With your gorilla bulk and your ham-sized fists. And a bunch of clothes in your closet four sizes too small!”

  Huber glared malevolently at him. He said nothing. Woody looked at the stranger.

  “You might as well tell me who you are,” he said.

  The man drew himself up. “I am Sturmbannführer Franz Gotthelf,” he said. Though he was obviously frightened, his voice was firm. “I am not a military man. I am a dentist.”

  “What are you doing here, Major? House call?”

  The quip went over the German’s head. “I—I left Berlin,” he said. “The Russians are closing in. I thought—I thought I could hide out in a small village. Until it is all over. I knew my—my rank in the SS would make it difficult for me, if I were captured.” He nodded toward the glowering Huber. “This man put me up. I needed a place of refuge. He needed the money I paid him.”

  “I bet,” Woody said. He looked at the SS officer. “Major,” he said, “have you ever had a ride in a jeep before? If not, this is your chance.” He motioned with his gun. “We are taking you back to Corps.”

  “You’ve been busy,” Major Hall said. He looked at Woody, draped over a chair before him. “Would you like another case— or is one a day enough for you?”

  “Hell, Mort,” Woody said. “It all came together. The damned case solved itself.”

  Hall picked up the Corps directory. “I’ll get the CID boys on it right away,” he said. He started to look for the number.

  “Courtesy of CIC.” Woody grinned.

  “What about that dentist pal of yours?” Hall asked.

  “I’ve got him stashed in the local jail. The MPs have taken it over. He’ll go back to Army detention tomorrow.”

  “Did you question him?”

  “What for? He's just a dentist. The only reason I pulled him in is because his SS rank is high enough to qualify for mandatory arrest.”

  “Get a statement.”

  “Oh, shit, Mort! A lousy dentist. They can do that at AIC.”

  “I don't care if he is an undertaker. We hooked him and I want an interrogation report.�
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  “Okay, okay. Don't get your guts in an uproar.”

  “Get what you can. The research section likes that sort of crap,” Hall said. He grinned. “Anyway, I thought you were all fired to hell to get this case! Go see what you can extract from your dentist friend.”

  “Oh brother,” Woody groaned. He uncurled himself from the chair and, sighing deeply, left the office.

  SS Sturmbannführer Franz Gotthelf had obviously resigned himself to his fate and had decided to be cooperative. It was easy for him. He had nothing to hide. He had answered every question Woody had put to him. Fully and candidly. He had told his interrogator his entire life story and career as a dentist, from dental school to when he began to work for the Führer’s personal dentist. A great honor, of course.

  Woody was vaguely interested. Perhaps the man could come up with something of interest after all. Somebody was sure to be excited about Hitler's teeth.

  “Did you work on the teeth of Adolf Hitler yourself?” he asked.

  “No, no,” Gotthelf protested quickly. “Only SS Brigadeführer Blaschke did that. He was the Führer's personal dentist. The General did all the work on the Führer's teeth himself. I—I was not involved in that at all.”

  “What did you do?” Woody asked.

  “I assisted. On the dental work done for many of the high-ranking party members. And the military. The Goebbels family. Dr. Goebbels. He had some problems with his maxillary left molars. And I sometimes worked on the children's teeth. Feldmarschall Keitel, of course. And Reichsleiter Bormann. I worked on a gold crown for his right bicuspid in the lower jaw. Very successful. And Eva Braun. We made . . .”

  “Who's Eva Braun?” Woody asked.

  Gotthelf looked embarrassed. "Fräulein Braun is—eh—the Fuhrer's special friend,” he said lamely.

  “His mistress, you mean?” Woody was intrigued.

  Gotthelf nodded.

  “Well, well,” Woody chuckled. “Will wonders never cease? Nice-looking chick?”

  Gotthelf blushed. “I do not know-chick,” he said stiffly. “We worked on a bridge for Fräulein Braun,” he continued. “I was to have fitted it myself. But it was finished too late. The fitting never took place. The bridge still lies in the laboratory in Berlin. And there was work for the secretaries who worked for the Führer. Fräulein Junge and Frau Christian. And I made a crown for . . .”