Eva by Ib Melchior Read Free Book Online Page B

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