Anatomy of a Murder by Robert Traver Read Free Book Online Page B

like this there were legal land mines lying all over, and I wasn’t quite ready to chance exploding hem. So I abruptly veered away.
    â€œWhat kind of a weapon did you use to dispatch Quill?”
    The dark eyes gleamed. “A German lüger. War souvenir, World War Two.”
    â€œLet’s see, that’s a semi-automatic pistol, fairly equivalent to our 38?” Having seen one once, I felt something like Hanson Baldwin and I tried to keep the note of pride out of my voice.
    His answer practically made us old battle-scarred buddies. “Yes,” he replied.
    â€œThe cops have it now, of course?”
    â€œYes. I gave it to the state police.”
    â€œTell me where you got this pistol. Where and how? It may possibly be important.”
    â€œIs it necessary?”

    â€œLook, friend,” I said, “suppose you tend to your military knitting and I’ll tend to the department of legal B.S.”
    Lieutenant Manion flushed and sat up straight. The dark eyes clouded and gazed even farther away. “Well,” he began slowly, “we were advancing in Germany, the spring before the end of the European war. It was dusk and I was leading some men out on night patrol. About twelve of us. The sector had been badly shelled and there was very little cover. Intelligence had told us the Germans were in full retreat, that the way was clear.”
    â€œGo on,” I said, listening carefully, mentally appraising the possible effect of all this on a civilian jury.
    â€œField intelligence was wrong,” he went on. “Suddenly there was a burst of small-arms fire. Three of my men fell, two of them killed outright, I learned later. The third died back at base.”
    â€œGo on,” I said.
    â€œAll of us hit the ground and stayed there. As it grew darker I took a quick look and saw a fleeting flash of gray, a gray sleeve, disappearing behind a stub of ruined chimney.”
    â€œWhat’d you do?” I said.
    â€œWe could have rushed the place, but I didn’t know then how many there were. One thing was clear: if this wasn’t a lone sniper it was probably either them or us. I couldn’t communicate with my men, so I crawled on my belly, making a wide circle, and finally got behind the chimney.”
    â€œA wide-end crawl,” I observed.
    â€œIt was a lone sniper. I crawled closer to get within safe pistol range—and then I let him have it.”
    â€œIn the back, from behind?” I said, dismayed, thinking of Old Glory, the playing fields of Eton, the Boy Scout oath.
    He laughed briefly: his first sign of mirth. “It was either him or me. He’d just shot three of my men. I didn’t stop to pose him.”
    â€œGo on,” I said.
    â€œWhen I got up to him I found he was an old lieutenant, gray, tattered, and already wounded. He must have been around sixty. His left arm was in a dirty sling. He had a patch over one eye. The other eye glared at me like a wolf in a trap. In fact he looked like a battered old timber wolf. He was still clutching the lüger pistol. He tried to raise it. He’d rigged up a rifle stock to it. He swore at me in German.”
    â€œWhat happened?”

    â€œI was going to let him have some more—and then he died. Here was a good soldier. So I took his pistol as a souvenir.” Frederic Manion paused and fiddled a bit with the Ming holder. “That’s how I got the lüger.”
    Old Glory was rippling and standing out straight. But I’d seen many duck hunters generate more excitement telling about their misses. “Excuse me,” I said, rising. “I’ll be back shortly.”
    â€œYes,” Mister Cool murmured, solemn as an owl, turning his attention to the Ming holder.
    Outside I reflected that whatever else they were or weren’t, Lieutenant Manion and the old German sniper shared one thing: they were both good soldiers, dedicated disciples of the philosophy of