The German by Lee Thomas Read Free Book Online Page B

street, I noticed Mr. Lang sitting in the shadows of his porch, the light from his front window spilled over his shoulders, casting his head in silhouette. My impulse was to wave, but I quelled it and turned away. “We should check our orders and start the assignment.”
    Bum’s mouth dropped open. He shook his head. “Not me,” he said. “You want to go out in the dark and get yourself scalped, go on ahead. Besides, we promised your ma we’d stay put, and you just know that some neighbor will see us out there and tell her. I’m not getting tanned just to peek in somebody’s window. We never see anything good anyhow.”
    “The rules of Spy Commander are clear,” I said with authority. “We can’t refuse a mission, no matter how deadly.”
    “The rules don’t say anything about getting scalped.”
    “Oh come on, Bum, no one’s going to bother us, and what else are we supposed to do?”
    “Maybe something good is on the radio now. We’ll listen to whatever you want.”
    “I don’t want to sit around all night. We have a mission.”
    An entire city waited out there like a cave where any manner of treasure might be found. What could we possibly hope to experience just sitting around my living room? Bum argued and pouted and even crossed his arms and sat on the floor like a lump. We played the usual game of dares and double-dares, but these childhood threats to honor had no effect on my friend. He remained committed to staying inside, far away from whatever might prowl the night, so I took a different tack.
    “Well, I’m going,” I told him.
    Bum’s face screwed up with concern and then relaxed, calling my bluff. “No, you’re not.”
    I asked for the tin spyglass and Bum pointed to where it lay by the sofa. I retrieved it and carried it with me through the living room and into the kitchen. Without pause, I unlocked the back door, opened it and walked down the steps, stomping across the backyard. At the low fence, I paused and looked back, hoping my best friend would be chasing at my heels like a good dog, but the kitchen doorway was empty. Defiantly, I hopped the low fence into the Findleys’ yard and ran to the corner of their house. This time when I checked the open kitchen door, Bum stood on the threshold, looking out. Maybe he saw me, and maybe he didn’t, but I remained perfectly still in the shadows, thinking that if he decided to follow now, I’d hide and give him a good scare for being a pain. He didn’t come out, though. He leaned forward, craning his neck to search the yard, and then he pulled back and closed the door, making it clear he would not be joining me on the night’s mission.
    A car passed on Crosby Street ahead, and I pressed hard against the Findleys’ house. Trepidation lit in my veins, and I heard my mother’s scolding voice telling me how important it was to be responsible with my father gone. I didn’t want to go back and admit defeat to Bum, but neither did I want to walk the streets of Barnard alone. Even before Harold Ashton’s murder, the idea would have unnerved me. Unlike the downtown streets my neighborhood didn’t have arc lamps. Dark houses like tombs lined the road, and the spaces between them were filled with thick camouflaging shadows within which any manner of villain might hide. But I’d made such a show for my friend, and pride won out so I left the side of the Findleys’ house and walked across their yard to Crosby Street.
    As I moved from one shadow to the next, the news of Harold’s murder worked deeper into my bones. When I considered meeting his killer in one of the neat backyards or in the alleys between the houses, I imagined myself brave, recalling episodes of Gang Busters and Crime Files , where a single cop managed to subdue half a dozen crooks with his smarts and a good right hook. The misguided illusion so engulfed me I considered the tin spyglass in my pocket an effective weapon.
    Passing onto Worth Street from between two white houses, I