“No, I saw the quantities of things the searches turned up. You could hide a piece here and there but not that much. Some of those wagon trailers had big canvases, heavy carved chests, old books,” he explained. “Not stuff you could hide in a money belt or your shirt.”
“Warren had a footlocker, didn’t he?” I pursued.
Laird shook his head firmly. “Yes, but they don’t hold much. And he’d have no way of getting loot back from the line. Does you no good to steal something you can’t hide and can’t send on. Besides, how would someone like Warren know what would be valuable?”
I gave a harsh laugh. “Same way the krauts would. And I suppose, if the krauts felt it worthwhile lifting from the French, it would be worth Warren’s while, too.”
“A point,” Laird allowed but he was not convinced. He leaned forward then, tapping me lightly on the shoulder. “Just remember, Carlysle, all this is only supposition. If it had been normal times, or even in an assembly area, we would have reported it to the MPs or the CID. But we couldn’t.” He glanced over my head at Turtle. “I know Bailey has it in for Warren but I’m afraid he’s allowed other elements to cloud his judgment. Oh
” and he raised a hand to quell Turtle’s resenting guttural, “that’s one reason Turtle came down here, to enlist me in going after Warren and forcing a confession from him.”
“But there’s the gun now,” I reminded him.
“Yes, there’s the gun and there’ve been two attempts to burglarize your room. I’m asking why and although I can’t figure out yet why someone would murder Jim Murdock, I can no longer believe it was a sniper. If there was wide-scale looting traced to our regiment, if Colonel Murdock knew about it and wanted to find the looter, that would account for him not wanting to leave the line for any reason. He had laid a trap .”
“Yeah, and he sent DeLord for Warren,” Turtle reminded him.
“ which would be an ample reason for Warren shooting father .”
“But
” the major interrupted us, “your father never got to Warren that night. He was killed on his way there.”
“Then, if Warren isn’t the looter, though I like that theory very much,” I grinned wickedly, having many private reasons for hating Donald Warren, “whoever put that gun in my dad’s locker knows it will connect him - Warren - with the murder.”
“Exactly. But who’s back?” the major asked sardonically. “I am. Turtle is
“
“DeLord’s back and so is Warren,” Turtle remarked in a very quiet voice.
“Warren?” I exclaimed.
“Yeah,” and I have never seen such a horrible expression on Turtle’s battered face. Involuntarily I drew back. “Yeah, Warren’s back. He got wounded, you know, Bit,” and the sergeant grinned knowingly at the major.
“Bailey?”
Turtle’s eyes rounded with innocence. “He got hit at Aachen when we was clearing out each house in a block.”
“Badly, I hope,” I said vengefully.
“Smashed his shoulder real bad,” Turtle replied, shaking his head ruefully.
“Not low enough, huh?”
“Carlysle!” Laird bellowed.
I grinned up at him. “I have absolutely no use for Donald Warren.”
“Neither do I but your indiscretion is inappropriate for a young girl - “
“But not for a young boy?” I asked sweetly.
The major’s eyes were snapping with anger and he was barely containing his own temper.
“All right, Bailey. I’m here, you’re here, Warren’s back, and so is DeLord. What we have to do is get that revolver out to Edwards and run a ballistics check - “
“When the storm settles down,” Turtle interrupted.
The wind had indeed risen in volume and ferocity, as if stirred by the tenor of our arguments. Snow lashed at the windows, some particles sifting in around the old casements. Regan Laird turned towards the windows, listening to the storm’s violence. His mouth curled in a faint smile as he realized the elements had abetted the sergeant’s moratorium.
“That’s a real cold sound, Major,” Turtle said blandly.
I wondered if the major knew Ed Bailey as well as I did, because I knew that nothing was going to stop Turtle from killing Donald Warren. And I had no intention of apprising the major of that knowledge.
Regan Laird looked speculatively at me. Abruptly I got to my feet, to break his train of thought lest I inadvertently betray myself.
“Good God, dinner!” I exclaimed with real feeling and dashed to the kitchen.
CHAPTER SIX
“Sir, shall we break out the bottle?” I heard Turtle suggest as I left.
“Indeed!”
They followed me into the kitchen.
“Oh, man oh man, that smells like prime eating,” Turtle ground out in a full bellow, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.
“Neat, water, or soda?” asked the major, getting out ice and glasses as I mixed dumplings.
“Neat oh, that’s when, sir. I want to taste that chicken.”
“Soda for me,” I put in.
The major hesitated briefly, the bottle poised over the glass. I saw Turtle’s hamlike hand tilt the bottle generously into the glass. He gave it a courtesy dash of soda and some ice and handed it to me. Then his heels came together, his shoulders snapped back as he came to rigid attention, glass raised.
“The colonel
God bless him!” His voice made it more of a supplication than an invocation. I blinked the sudden tears from my eyes, raised the glass to touch theirs, and swallowed a stiff jolt.
“Did you hear what Timmerman said when he was told to cross that railway bridge at Remagen?” Turtle growled with suppressed amusement. He twisted a chair, its back towards the table, and seated himself, propping his heavy arms on the curved back of the chair.
The major, a smile twitching at the good side of his mouth, moved a chair catercorner from the table, stretching his long legs out just where I’d have to walk over them to get to the sink and back to the stove.
“Tell me,” he urged.
I’m not sure if it was Turtle’s voice that made the story or Turtle’s unusual vocabulary. Probably both plus the added fillip that both men knew the personalities involved and could enjoy an “inside” that I didn’t have.
This Lieutenant Timmerman had discovered that although the railroad bridge at Remagen had been a target of the Allied air forces and had suffered some damage, it was back in commission. The Germans were flowing in retreat over it. When the enemy with their own curious logic decided the Americans would strike somewhere else, they withdrew the considerable strength at the Remagen bridgehead. Timmerman consequently found the bridge intact. Later that day the units supporting him controlled enough of the town to turn their attention to the bridge. The Germans were frantically preparing to blow it up. Timmerman was ordered across it before the Germans could succeed.
“And, Major, get this. The lieutenant says to the general, ‘What if the bridge blows up in my face?’ Get it, blows up in my face? A lieutenant says that to a general! That’s your - new army for you,” Turtle remarked with trenchant disapproval.
“Did it blow up?” I asked. After Dad’s death I hadn’t paid much attention to the First Army’s advance.
“Naw, not then. It got shook up some, that’s all. We crossed it. But I knew it wasn’t the same army or the same war and I got out as soon as I could. Charlie Company was five men by the time we got to Coblenz. I’d had it.”
I didn’t for a minute doubt that once Turtle made up his mind to it, he could get sent home. He was such an old hand at such red-tape cutting, I’m sure it was ostensibly legitimate. It just didn’t sound like the Ed Bailey I knew.
I served their dinner and there was no more talk of war or any talk at all. Turtle paid me the compliment of eating with great concentration and gusto, passing his plate back three times. I had to whip up a second batch of dumplings as the major, though a more elegant trencherman, was equally hungry. Turtle’s capacity had been a private joke for years but after three helpings of chicken ‘n’ dumplings, I hardly expected him to find room for three pieces of cake, too.