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doctor, after all. But there would have been too many questions.
Rutledge was silent.
So. After a moment, the man said, What is it you want with me?
There s something. Or you would have handed me over to the local po-
lice. The blue eyes, narrowed with effort, studied Rutledge intently.
Unwilling to be led too far too soon, Rutledge said thoughtfully,
There s enough evidence to hang you. You know that. We haven t
found any other explanation for these murders. Witnesses. Motive.
Opportunity. Only what points to you.
I haven t come here to kill Englishmen. I was sick of that long be-
fore the war ended.
There may be good wine left in the cellars of this house. Did you
use it to trick your victims? There s your weapon. He watched the face
before him with interest. A good K.C. could bring a conviction.
Suddenly he could see an image of Raleigh Masters in a courtroom, us-
ing his voice and his dry wit to shape the thinking of a jury. . . .
You can t kill men with wine. The German s voice was bitter.
No. But you can with laudanum.
I have no laudanum.
You re resourceful. You d find it if you wanted it. A few drops in
the glass, to start with, and then more in the second glass. The victim
would be drowsy by then, and not realize how dangerously close to di-
saster he was. Especially if he s already taking the medication for pain.
Did you bring them here, and kill them? Rutledge looked around the
kitchen, with the bedclothes heaped in one corner, nearest the stove.
You could drag them out and find some means of carrying them off. A
bicycle. A horse borrowed in the night. A handcart. Leaving them be-
side the road, where someone would discover them sooner or later . . .
204 charles todd
The German said appreciatively, It s a clever picture you ve
drawn. A jury would no doubt believe it. As a matter of interest
having left me for dead once would it sit well with your conscience if
I was hanged?
Rutledge flinched. No. And then as if the words were drawn out
of him against his will, he said, Where did you find me? When the war
had ended?
He tried to keep his voice steady. He failed.
Hauser looked at him. You really don t know? No. If I had a map,
I could probably show you. One of my men asked you if you had any
English cigarettes. We had none, and no beer either. But you merely
stood there. Damnedest thing I d ever seen! And you don t remember?
Very little.
What was it? A head injury? We couldn t see a wound. And no-
body wanted to touch you, to try to take your cap off.
Something like that, Rutledge agreed. The tension in his body al-
most choked off his breath.
Hauser nodded. That s the conclusion we came to. Someone said,
You d better get him back to his own lines, but no one volunteered. We
didn t care, in a way. The war was over for us, and we didn t care about
much, to be honest.
And yet you took me back?
I took you as far as I could. Too far, as it happened. I stopped a
Frenchman, an old man, to ask if he d guide you back to the English
lines. He gaped at me as if he didn t understand me. My French is fairly
good accented, but good. Instead, he pulled an ancient pistol from his
pocket, and shot me!
The astonishment of it was still in his voice. I saw you kneel and
start to do something with a dressing. And then everything went black.
I thought he d probably kill you as well, but when I asked the men
who d found me, they said there wasn t another body. Just mine. I de-
cided you d simply walked away, and never looked back.
Rutledge drew a harsh breath. I don t know what happened after
that. I suppose someone thought at first I was a released prisoner.
Later back in England someone came to visit me in hospital. Out of
curiosity, I expect. Or the doctors may have sent for him. But I couldn t
a fearsome doubt 205
make sense of what he was saying. And the nursing sister came and took
him away. He cleared his throat.
He couldn t tell this man, dressed in ordinary civilian clothes and a
long way from the Front, how badly shell-shocked he d been. How con-
fused those months in hospital had been.
Head wounds, Hauser was saying. They do strange things. He
made as if to shrug it off, as if it were too far in the past to matter any-
way. The question now is, what are you to do with me? He swallowed
the rest of his whisky at a gulp, set down the jam jar, and waited, his
eyes fixed on Rutledge s face.
23
Rutledge got to his feet, one of his leg muscles cramp-
ing, and lifted the dressing on Hauser s chest. The blood had stopped
running and was beginning to make dark clots along the edge of the
wound. He thought, It must be painful for the man to breathe. . . .
Hamish said, reversing fields, If ye take him to the police, they ll
clap him in irons and close the case.
Silently arguing, Rutledge said, He s probably guilty.
Aye. But first ye find the one that did the wounding. . . and why.
Aloud Rutledge answered the question Hauser had asked. I could
take you in, let them charge you, and come to the hanging. Or I could
leave you here until I ve looked into your story. I don t think you re up
to walking far.
Hauser gave a grunting laugh. Not tonight. I won t promise to-
morrow.
Rutledge turned and examined the cupboards. The German had
brought in tins, bread, a sausage, and a bowl of apples. There was
cheese wrapped in a cloth, and the pitcher for water.
Watching him, Hauser said, I couldn t risk a fire. Smoke rising
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