Eva by Ib Melchior Read Free Book Online Page A

at the clearing.”
    “Sure. Why not?” Fossano left. Woody looked at the girl sitting quietly, apprehensively watching him. He’d asked her the jackpot question and come out with one big fat lemon. Some “glamor” case. Shit, he could kiss that five points good-by for sure. He had a good idea what had happened. Three horny guys and two willing Fräuleins. A fight—that turned out a little too violent—and a frantic attempt to conceal it by destroying the identity of the victim and putting the blame on the Krauts. If that wasn’t the exact scenario, it would do till a better one came along. But it sure as hell wouldn’t earn him his cluster, even if he did solve the damned case. He might as well chuck it and look for greener pastures.
    He contemplated the girl sitting tensely before him. He felt uneasy about her. That crazy hunch that every CIC agent developed. That feeling at the edge of the mind that something was being missed. What else did she know? He swore to himself. Hell, he couldn’t just drop the case. He was involved. He was there. And, dammit, he’d asked for it. He might as well follow through. It was his job. Of course, he could turn the case over to the CID. Ultimately he’d probably have to. Should he do it now? Bail out? Or, once started, follow through? What the hell, he’d take it a little further. Reluctantly, somewhat cynically, he admitted to himself that he was hooked. What the hell had happened? What was the bottom line? He looked at the girl.
    “What happened after the men . . . ?” He couldn’t get himself to say Americans. Not yet. “. . . after the men put the body in the clearing?” he asked.
    “They drove away.”
    “With the girls?”
    “No. The girls walked. Back the way they had all come.”
    Figured, Woody thought. Trouble—drop the broads.
    “How did you know the bundle contained a body,” he asked.
    “I—we did not know,” the girl said. She glanced at the farmer. “My father went to take a look. He told us.”
    Woody nodded. Fossano came back into the Bauernstube. “They’re sending a wagon,” he announced. “Be there in about twenty minutes.”
    Woody nodded. “What do you know about all the trash in the clearing?” he asked the girl.
    It was her father who answered. “The Amis” —he used the derogatory German expression for Americans—“the Amis threw it there. When they first came to Albersdorf. More than a week ago.”
    So much for the Sherlock Holmes clues, Woody thought wryly. He glanced at Fossano and caught the smug look on the corporal’s face. Screw him! It had still been the right thing to do.
    “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