Eva by Ib Melchior Read Free Book Online

“Corporal!” he called. “There’s an old man working in the stable. Get him. Bring him to the house.” He turned to the farmer. “Move!” he said.
    The Bauernstube of the farmhouse—the combined kitchen-living-dining room which is the hub of all Bavarian farmhouses— was simple and pleasant. Blue-and-white checkered curtains at the windows, a large wooden table with chairs and benches around it, and the inevitable big black, wood-burning stove.
    The farmer, Huber, his daughter, and the old farmhand sat stiffly on a bench against the wall, warily watching Woody and Fossano.
    Woody glared at them. He turned to Fossano. “Take a look around,” he said. “Anything out of the ordinary, let me know. And, be careful.”
    “Okay.” Fossano ambled off. Woody fixed the farmer’s daughter with a cold stare. The girl, a pleasingly plump blonde in her early twenties, watched him fearfully.
    “Okay,” he said crisply, “start talking. What did you see?”
    The girl looked at him with wide, frightened eyes. Instinctively she moved closer to her father.
    “From the beginning,” Woody said. He softened his voice. No need to scare the girl into silence. “Just tell me the whole story.” He pulled over a chair and sat down, his eyes on her level, no longer looming over her. Little by little she relaxed.
    “It—it was three days ago,” she began timidly. “Early in the morning. I—I saw them from my window. I saw them throw the bundle next to the road.”
    “Who? Did you get a good look at them?”
    The girl nodded.
    “Do you know who they were?”
    Again the girl nodded. She looked frightened.
    “Who?”
    “They were—they were American soldiers,” she whispered.
    Involuntarily Woody started. “American!” he exclaimed. “How do you know?”
    “They—they were in uniform.”
    Woody’s mind raced. American uniforms. Were enemy saboteurs operating in American uniforms? Like those Jeep Parties during the Bulge? Werewolves? Or, had the men actually been Americans? Bleakly he knew that could well be the case. He realized that was what had been bothering him. The whole thing hadn’t been consistent with a German strike. Grimly he looked at the girl. “How did they get the body—the bundle there?” he asked.
    “They came by truck. Not many trucks come to Albersdorf,” she said. “So—I watched.”
    “Describe the truck.”
    The girl did. Woody’s face grew sober. It had been a US Army ¾-ton. The description was unmistakable.
    “What did they do?” he asked.
    “The two soldiers opened the canvas in the back of the truck and took out the bundle. They put it in the clearing. They—and the two girls.”
    “Girls?” Woody frowned. “What girls?”
    “There were two girls riding in the truck. With the soldiers.”
    Four of them, Woody thought. Two men—Americans or Germans—and two girls. How the hell were the girls involved? He had no immediate answer. He filed the puzzle in his mind.
    “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