The Mark of Merlin

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I woke the next morning, alert as I had not been in a long time, alert and eager for the day to begin. It was early in the morning for the sun was just up over the edge of the dunes sheltering the Point from Nauset Beach. My watch said quarter of eight.

The fire was almost out and I rose hastily in the cold to build it up. I smiled to myself as I realized Regan had not mended it as he had done every night since I arrived. His abstention endeared him further to me. Despite the chill in the room, I stretched fully and luxuriously, curling my cold toes up, away from the frigid floor.

I rummaged through my suitcase to see what I had to wear that was more appropriate to my improved status than pants and layers of concealing sweaters.

I had lost enough weight during the bout with strep throat to make both my wool dresses hang badly. Really, my wardrobe was sadly lacking in anything suitable. I had either skirts and sweaters for classes, cocktail and dancing length dresses, or pants. I had to settle on a kilt, Dress Mary plaid in red and green. At least the full pleats gave me some semblance of curved femininity. I had matching pullover and cardigan to wear with it. Quite British, but the garnet red of the sweaters lent a warm color to my face. As a concession to the unheated house, I tugged on knee-length socks and loafers.

I almost skipped down the stairs but restrained myself into befitting dignity. I’d be very quiet and sedate and have breakfast ready for Regan when he woke. But when I went to feed the stove, I found fresh wood just catching fire from the banked coals. Merlin was barking outside. Then the sound of water rushing in the bathroom warned me that Regan was already up.

Well, I could still get breakfast so I started fresh coffee. I sorted thriftily through the stale bread to make French toast. I had the table set when I heard Regan’s steps in the hall. I felt myself blushing and I certainly experienced what was once termed “palpitations of the heart.”

He was coming down the hall, he was at the door, his hand was turning the knob. I couldn’t bear to stand there, barefaced, waiting, so I whirled to the stove, pretending much industry over the spider. The door opened and he must have stopped at the threshold. Did I make the proper picture, I wondered?

“Morning,” I said cheerfully without looking round.

The door closed.

“Breakfast is nearly ready,” I added, making great work of turning the crisping bread.

He advanced towards me and then I could feel him so close that if I leaned a fraction backwards, I would have rested against him. Above the rich smell of French toast, I caught the odor of piney soap and shaving cream, clean linen and after-shave lotion, a combination excessively masculine and very stimulating.

Then his hands cupped my shoulders, his fingers tightening one by one. He bent and kissed the right side of my neck where the sweater ended.

“Now,” he said softly, his voice rich with laughter and love, “let’s see what my Little Bit looks like dressed as a girl?”

His hands turned me and so help me, I was suddenly too shy to look up at him. With one hand he pushed the frying spider off the burner. Inadvertently following the motion of his hand, I looked at him.

He laughed, deep in his throat. His eyes, more blue than gray this morning, were gleaming with good humor and affection. Still laughing, he spanned my waist with his hands and lifted me high. I gasped, grabbing his hands for balance before he set me down with my feet on the stool, his face level with mine.

“Now, try to avoid the issue,” he dared and, turning his head slightly to one side, drew me into his kiss.

The kiss was no less thrilling than the anticipation of it. I wished I could just melt into him. I certainly tried to. This morning he was master of the situation whereas last night’s encounter had been spontaneous. His attack on my senses was as deliberate as it was skillful. By the time he released me, I was the one trembling.

The expression in his eyes told me this was exactly what he intended and I quickly searched for some diversion to give myself a breather. My glance fell to his chin where he had cut himself shaving below the unshavable scar. As he saw my eyes drop, I felt his arms stiffen. The muscles of his mouth tightened into the thin line of withdrawal.

I wasn’t going to put up with this. If I wanted to look at Regan Laird I was not going to have to put on blinkers until he’d had plastic surgery.

I put a finger on his chin and gave a little push.

Something I owe to the soil that grew More to the life that fed. But most to Allah who gave me two Separate sides to my head.

Kipling was furthest from his mind at such a moment.

He gave a shout of laughter, hugging me exuberantly to him, swinging me around and depositing me on the floor again.

“Message received, over and out. I’m hungry,” and he gave me an affectionate shove towards the stove before he sat down.

Merlin barked at the back door and I let him in. He nosed his face into my hand in greeting. If his walk was stiff and slow, he was again operating under his own power. He went up to Regan, laid his head on Regan’s knee to have his ears scratched. That attended to, he went back to his quilts and sank down with an enormous canine sigh.

“I took a look at the sutures this morning before I let him out,” Regan remarked. “Doing fine.”

“Anything else would be a surprise to me,” I said with complete confidence in the skill of Dr. Karsh.

We had taken our time over breakfast, the problems to be met today remote from our talk. Regan was dressing to go for more wood when Merlin came alert, a bark in his throat. Regan glanced at me inquiringly.

“Friend, whoever it is,” I said. “DeLord!” We both moved swiftly to the front of the house. A Navy jeep was idling in the driveway, but there was no sign of its driver. Just then there was a knock on the back door and someone hallooed.

Merlin barked twice. Evans, the good Samaritan, stood in the kitchen doorway, grinning down at Merlin who had walked stiffly over to greet him.

“Gee, miss, he looks so much better. Dr. Karsh get here?”

“He certainly did, Evans,” Regan replied as he shook the young coastguardsman’s hand gratefully.

“I’ll have to revise my conditioned opinion of the Coast Guard,” I remarked. “Particularly since you sent us that incredible man.”

Evans’ eyes shone. “Aint he something magic? Say, did he like Merlin?”

“Love at first sight. Do you know he stitched Merlin’s side and that dog didn’t so much as flinch?”

“Believe it. I believe it,” Evans assured us fervently. “Oh, Major. A call came in to the station for you. You don’t have a phone, I know. I left the jeep running and we can make it back to the station in no time.”

“DeLord, I imagine. I’ll be right with you, Evans.”

As the sandpeep hesitated, Regan ushered him to the door, closing it firmly behind him.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked, surprised at his behavior. It bordered rudeness.

“Because, my dear ward, I do not wish to complicate your position on the Cape any further by having the Coast Guard witness our passionate farewell,” he said as he folded me into his arms. He lifted me clear of the floor, grinning broadly at the disparity in our heights.

“You’ll have to wear those clog-heels like Carmen Miranda,” he teased as he bent his head.

And a passionate farewell it was for we had not kissed often enough to be the least bit casual about it. We both intended to be brief but Evans revved the motor loudly and I was set on my feet so quickly I had to clutch the edge of the table to keep my balance.

“I’ll need that cold ride,” Regan muttered as he strode out the door.

By the time I had the table cleared and was starting the dishes, I had recovered my wits enough to start worrying. Regan had jumped to the conclusion that it was DeLord who had called. Well, if he had good news, why wouldn’t he just come back here? I chided myself for being pessimistic. Maybe DeLord needed Regan’s supportive evidence. No, Regan had been wounded before Aachen. Oh, I’d find out soon enough. No use borrowing more trouble until I knew there was some. Besides, it was difficult to stray long from the engrossing subject of Regan and me.

How incredibly delightful to contemplate the prospects. Oh, the dean was going to be livid. She hated married students. They were always giving birth in the middle of exams. We could live at the Waltham house and I’d take the summer session to finish my junior year. I assumed Regan would want me to get my degree. That was but one of the hundreds of things we would have to discuss. It was good I did have the rest of the term off at that. A nuisance to worry about a wedding and studies at the same time the way one of the girls had had to. Boy, was she a nervous wreck.

I was so wound up with projections that Merlin had growled twice before it registered as a warning.

“Easy, boy,” I said for Merlin had risen. “Down! I’ll go see who it is.”

I carefully closed the kitchen door to keep him in and preserve the warmth. I was still so bemused I didn’t so much as glance out the dining room window. I even opened the front door wide. When I realized who my visitors were, it was too late to slam it. Beatty’s foot was across the sill. Just behind him stood Marian and Donald Warren.

“Alone, Miss Murdock?” Beatty smirked.

I knew then that he knew I was. Fleetingly I wondered about the phone call Regan had gone to answer at the station. Merlin started to bark furiously. I heard his claws scrabbling on the kitchen door.

“Constable Beatty was kind enough to drive us out here,” Lieutenant Colonel Donald Warren announced in that patronizing nasal voice I remembered all too well.

“You look so wan, dear Carlysle,” Marian Warren said, insipidly correct.

Beatty firmly pushed the door wider and stood aside for Marian to enter. The three of them stood indecisively in the hallway. I said nothing.

“My, it’s cold here,” Marian Warren said pointedly. Merlin barked continuously.

“Oh, I was hoping you didn’t have that beast here with you,” she said, shuddering delicately. “I hope you have him chained up. Donnie always swore he was vicious. He certainly sounds like it.”

I glanced at Warren whose face had taken on that look of intense strain which proximity to Merlin always produced. In spite of that, Lieutenant Colonel Warren looked revoltingly fit, his wounded arm carried conspicuously in a black silk sling.

Warren was not an ill-favored man. His face was full, his features even, and he carried himself well. He looked the proper officer image and if you didn’t know what an indecisive person he was, what little insight he had into anything beyond the end of his rather Roman nose or the pages of the Manual of Arms, you’d have been reassured about the quality of officers running the war. As a matter of fact, he looked more the model of the proper officer than my father had. The natural gauntness of Dad’s rough face always seemed forbidding. Dad, although the same height and general build as Warren, appeared too thin, his tunic dropping from bony shoulders to a hipless torso. The comparison was even more distasteful to me now.

“Isn’t there any warm room in this house?” Marian Warren demanded petulantly, drawing her thick Persian lamb coat tighter to her.

She hadn’t changed. She still looked skillfully plucked and painted. I’d bet anything she was wearing a crepe dress, floral pattern, under that coat. Naturally she wore silk stockings and had high heels on under the rubbers she wore as a concession to the unplowed countryside.

Merlin gave voice to unrestrained displeasure at the sound of her voice.

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Warren,” Beatty said, his hooded eyes glinting smugly. “That dog’s too hurt to stand on his feet.”

I didn’t bother to contradict him because I felt I could handle Beatty without Merlin’s help today. He wouldn’t dare anything in front of the Warrens.

Another fact registered with me, Donald Warren was aware that Merlin was seriously injured. It was probably the only reason he had come under the same roof. He not only hated Merlin; he was terrified of him.

“Shut him up, Carlysle,” Warren ordered through set lips, “no one can hear a word with that racket going on.”

I allowed sufficient time to pass for Warren to realize I issued the command on my own, not because he ordered me to.

“I’m so cold, Carlysle,” Marian Warren complained again.

“I’ll light a fire in the living room,” I said with no graciousness and continued with a bald lie. “The only other room we keep warm is the kitchen. And Merlin’s in there.”

Beatty opened the living room door, displaying a familiarity with the house that I didn’t like. He strode over to the fireplace and knelt to light the fire.

“If Beatty would be so kind as to light the fire for us,” I suggested sarcastically.

The room was more than chilly; it was frigid. The clammy damp cold seeped through my double sweaters. I refused to budge from this room and ignored the desire to shiver.

“There. This fireplace draws well. Take the chill off the room in a sec,” Beatty said genially.

“Unless your presence is official .” I said acidly to Beatty.

“It is,” Warren replied with unctuous mien. He planted his square body directly in front of the fireplace, hugging any warmth.

Beatty looked at me, a smirk on his mule’s face. His eyes took in the fact that I was dressed in a skirt and sweaters. I inwardly cursed the fact that I had no protection from such insolence.

“I fear I am forced to exercise amost unpleasant duty,”

Warren continued. Beatty’s smutty look was driven from my mind. “I must recover some stolen property from you.”

“Stolen property? What stolen property?” I demanded.

“Oh, come now, Carlysle. You received your father’s footlocker and his personal effects. You don’t imagine those parchment books and those valuable stamps are legitimate spoils of war? I know he thought to make restitution - “

“What are you talking about?”

“I told Division that I would handle the matter as tactfully as possible.” His face lengthened with simulated regret. “There will be no publicity and, in view of your father’s otherwise satisfactory record as an officer, this will be forgotten. But only if restitution can be made to the French authorities.”

“What are you saying?” I demanded, the chill forgotten as anger rose in me - hot white anger at the snide implication in Warren’s words. “How the hell can you imply anything so ridiculous?”

“Come off it, girlie,” Beatty put in jeeringly. “You hand the stuff over and we’ll leave. Otherwise I have a search warrant right here. You defy it and I’ll have you in jail.”

“Go ahead. Search. You won’t find anything stolen here.”

If Regan and I hadn’t been able to find that locker, they couldn’t.

“Come now, Carlysle,” Warren snapped, his pose abandoned, “don’t be tedious. We know you have all your things here.”

“Because your second-story man couldn’t find them at Mrs. Everett’s?” I taunted.

“I told you she’d be difficult,” Marian said.

“You’re damned right I’ll be difficult. The very idea of you two ghouls coming here, slandering my father when all the time .”

My voice had risen in outrage and roused Merlin who began barking frantically, banging his body against the door.

“Shut that goddamned dog up,” Warren bellowed, his face white, his eyes darkening with apprehension.

“Only because he’s wounded and don’t think I don’t know who caused that,” I cried. “Merlin, shut up!”

Merlin whined in protest, but he stopped barking and battering the door.

“Search the house, Constable,” Warren directed Beatty in the offhand manner he used with anyone below his own rank. His manner did not set well with Beatty whose good opinion of himself did not include subservience to anyone. I did not miss that quick flare of irritation as Beatty trudged down the back hall. As he passed the kitchen door, Merlin growled. Beatty cursed him but continued.

“Really, Carlysle, you’re making a difficult duty very unpleasant for Donnie. Only the fact that your father served so many years with him persuaded Donnie he must intervene, for the reputation of the regiment. Why your father - “

“Spare me your interpretation of duty,” I snapped. I never could stand the sound of that woman’s voice; there was a whiny edge that grated on my nerves.

Marian Warren blinked at the outright animosity and looked appealingly at Warren.

“I’m distressed you’re taking this stand, Carlysle,” Warren said, switching to the father-confessor pose. “Marian and I wanted to spare you.”

He appeared to deliberate, turning to his wife, shaking his head regretfully, shrugging his uninjured shoulder to show he had been forced into a difficult position.

“I have to tell her, Marian. Maybe then she will cooperate. After all, her father was only trying to shield that insubordinate sergeant of his - “

“What has Ed Bailey got to do with this?”

Marian Warren gasped, her mascaraed eyes wide. “She doesn’t know?”

Warren’s hand had gone significantly to his wounded shoulder. He wore a pained expression.

“We were called down from Boston yesterday to Camp Edwards to identify Bailey. I’m afraid, my dear,” his reluctance was pure crap, “that not only did Bailey loot thousands of dollars of valuable stamps and irreplaceable manuscripts from German baggage trains, but he tried to kill me when I accused him.”

“Stamps? Manuscripts? Bailey?” I repeated inanely, dimly realizing that Warren was harping on minor items.

“Your father must have realized it first, of course.”

“Go ahead, Donnie,” Marian spat out viciously, her cold eyes fastened on my face. “Tell her! It’ll serve her right, the way she’s acted towards us. Just as if her father were chief of staff

“

“My dear,” and he had the nerve to come over and put an arm around my shoulders. I stepped aside, showing my revulsion openly. He stiffened, his eyes narrowing. “All right,” he snapped, his voice taking on the same edge as Marian’s. “Your father was murdered.”

He paused to see what effect his words had on me. I stared back my hatred. He evidently mistook this for shock because he continued. “By none other than your precious Sergeant Bailey. And I have proof.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed in his face. I laughed at the outrageous invention of it, leaning weakly against the fireplace.

“Don’t you dare laugh at my husband,” Marian Warren screeched, her sharp thin fingers digging through my sweaters as she jerked me around to face her.

“She’s hysterical, Marian.”

“She is not, the little bitch. She’s laughing at you, you fool,” and Marian Warren slapped me across the face.

It stopped my laughter but the look on my face dissuaded her against slapping me again. She lowered her hand just as Beatty came back into the room.

“There’s a much warmer room just off the dining room,” he said, his eyes sliding up and down my body.

“Did you find anything?” Warren snapped, without taking his eyes from me.

“No.”

“Search upstairs.”

His peremptory tone caused Beatty to hesitate.

“You deal with her, Donald, I’m going to get warm,” Marian announced loftily. “The sooner we find what we came after, Officer, the sooner we can all leave this icebox of a house,” and she smiled conciliatorily at Beatty. “This is all very upsetting for the colonel. I just know his shoulder is bothering him. Do hurry and search the second floor.”

Those two left. I heard Beatty clumping upstairs as Marian’s heels clattered on the hall floor. Merlin crashed against the kitchen door as she hurried past.

“You can’t think me stupid enough to swallow that accusation, Donald Warren,” I said, surprised at the dead calm I felt.

He began to smile unpleasantly.

“And if you think Division will believe such a tale about my father, from you, you don’t know your reputation in the Fifth Corps.”

His smile broadened. “On the contrary. There is incontrovertible evidence. The obliging lieutenant brought along the slug that the medic dug out of your father’s body. It matches the one that wounded me. Both were fired from Bailey’s service revolver which was taken from him when he was arrested in Aachen, and tallies with the number issued to him.”

He spoke with such conviction that a cold uncertainty paralyzed me. It must have shown in my face for he smiled his toothy smile, showing teeth badly discolored.

He must be wrong, I told myself. Whose was the forty-five we found in Dad’s locker? Turtle Bailey could not have murdered my father. That was impossible!

Besides, it was Warren who had done the looting. Turtle hadn’t. DeLord had proved that. He was completely satisfied it was Warren. And Dad had known it, too. That’s why Warren had shot him.

“Bailey escaped in Aachen. If he’d been innocent, why would he run?” Warren’s voice hammered at me and then he shook my arm roughly. “Now stop protecting that murderer and tell me where those things are or I’ll see your father’s name smeared. He was shielding a looter. He knew, too, how much money was involved. He was obstructing justice. I’ll see his name - “

“You try it, Warren, you just try it,” I shouted, losing all control, “and I’ll give that court-martial proof of the many times my father shielded your reputation, covered up your mistakes. I’ll tell them what happened at Bois de Collette when you lost ninety-five men because you couldn’t give a decent order to save your own neck. I’ll tell .”

His eyes had widened as the impact of my words reached him. He raised his hand, palm flat, to clout me when Merlin’s body lunged past me, knocking him to the floor. He screamed, a curiously high-pitched, womanish scream, terror-ridden.

“Hold, Merlin! Guard!” I ordered, grimly satisfied by the look of abject terror on Warren’s wide-eyed white face.

Merlin crouched, one paw lightly resting on Warren’s throat. He snarled, his fangs a scant inch from the man’s chin. Warren moved once and Merlin’s jaws snapped without meeting flesh. Warren lay still, his staring eyes never leaving the dog’s menacing face.

“Hold, Merlin. Just hold!”

I heard the back door crash open and Regan was shouting for me. I ran for the safety and sanity of Regan’s arms, slamming the living room door behind me, knowing that Merlin would keep Warren there until I heard from Regan’s lips how absurd that man’s charge was.

“Carla, Carla, thank God,” Regan cried, embracing me roughly with relief. “The phone call was a fraud. To get me out of the house. Bailey hasn’t shown up, has he?”

Marian Warren came stalking out of the study into the back porch., “Major Laird,” she began imperiously and was effectively silenced by his look.

“Regan, they’re saying awful things about Turtle,” I cried, “and that Beatty man is searching the house.”

Regan’s face was grim, his eyes terrible.

“What’s the matter?” I wailed. “Where is Turtle?”

“He escaped. When I realized the phone call was a fraud, and you were here alone, I got suspicious. I called DeLord at Edwards. He was just leaving to warn us.”

“Warn us?”

“Sweetheart, listen. Turtle is armed and he’s desperate. He’s sick. He knocked the guard out when they brought his breakfast, stole a jeep, and is on his way here. He’s after Warren.”

“Donnie? Bailey’s after my husband?” Marian Warren cried shrilly.

She barged past Regan on her way to the living room but he grabbed her and propelled her back into the study.

“You stay in there, lock the doors, and don’t come out unless you’re aching for a stray bullet.”

As if to give added urgency to his warning, we heard distant gunfire. Evans, who’d been standing in the door, withdrew hastily. I saw his patrol spreading out, crouching low behind the slope of the land, seeking cover.

Marian Warren shrieked again and slammed the study door. I heard the lock click and her frightened squeals as she raced to bar the study’s front door.

“Regan, please tell me what’s happened?” I begged, pulling at his arm because he had turned to join Evans. “Warren was saying Turtle killed my father! That the bullets match?” I yearned for denial.

Regan gently disengaged my hands.

“According to DeLord, Warren is right. I hate to think so, Carla - “

“It isn’t so. It can’t be so,” I screamed.

Regan jerked his head around at the sound of another volley and indistinguishable shouts. He dashed out the door. Beatty came striding into the kitchen.

“Now whatinhell’s going on here?” he demanded.

I stepped aside, gestured him out the door, too shaken to speak. As soon as he had barged past me, I grabbed up an old coat from the door and followed him out. There were more shots, from just down the road.

I could see distant figures spreading out, advancing purposefully, black against the scintillating snow. I could see the white smoke-blossoms before I heard the crack of rifle fire. Then I caught a glimpse of the running man, crouched low but all too familiar. Sergeant Edward Bailey!

The coastguardsmen opened up from their positions at the edge of the scrub bushes surrounding the house. Horrified I saw the sergeant’s body jerk and spin, lurch with a second jolt, and then sink slowly to the snowy ground.

The rough shakes were icy beneath my hands as I backed against the house for support. I stared at the distant dark form in the snow until tears dimmed the sight.

Numbed and blinded, I closed my eyes. When I opened them again, I saw men converge on the sergeant’s body. Saw them take it away in a jeep. Another car picked up the remaining men and started towards the house. Then Beatty came around the corner. I instinctively drew back but he saw me and halted.

“Well, your murdering sergeant got his. Now let’s - “

“One more word, Beatty,

” and Regan left the threat hanging as he thumbed back the safety on the thirty-eight he carried.

Beatty paused only a moment before he backed slowly away from me, standing at a distance. Regan, his hands gentle, led me back into the house and sat me at the kitchen table.

“DeLord’s coming,” he said, his voice heavy and flat.

A jeep motor whined up the snowy slope to the garage. I wasn’t sobbing anymore but my eyes were full of tears that wouldn’t go away so that I couldn’t see, but my other senses became excessively acute. Heavy boots banged against a metal running board. Men were tramping with grating sounds across the garage cement. The door handle rattled and the hinges squeaked as the door was opened. Cold air beat on my shoulders. There was a heavy smell of cordite from recently fired guns, wet wool, and sour sweat. There was the distinct feel of many people pressing in around the room and the air was close.

“I see Beatty got here. I gather he brought the Warrens,” Robert DeLord said as he slid sideways into the chair beside me. “I missed them by a hair at Edwards and then had to help trace Bailey.” He, too, smelled of cordite and cold air and snow. His cold fingers touched my arm lightly and, obediently, I looked up at him. His face was very tired and his green eyes sad. There was no trace of any boyishness right now.

“Bailey’s dead, Miss Carla,” he said gently.

I managed to nod that I understood him.

“He told me he had fired the shot that killed your father.”

“No.” I contradicted him flatly.

DeLord’s hand tightened. “Yes, Miss Carla. But he thought he was shooting Warren. You see, he heard your father ask me to go get Warren just as he was called to check out the ammo and rations. He didn’t hear your father call me back. Instead, Bailey found a good place for an ambush and when your father and I came along the road, he assumed I was driving Warren back, not your father to Warren.

“You see, Colonel Murdock had just had a call from HQ. I found later it was to tell him that the bait, those stamps and one of the Gospels, had not turned up at Division HQ with the other liberated valuables. So your father had proof it was Warren. If only the colonel’d told me then that it was Warren he suspected but I do understand why he felt he couldn’t confide in me until he had definite proof. And he was mighty upset when he called me back and said he’d go with me.”

DeLord leaned forward towards me, his face anxious, his eyes begging me to understand. “Bailey was only trying to protect your dad. He felt that if he killed Warren, your father’d report himself to the base hospital and recover from the wound. But he knew your father would never leave the regiment if Warren were here, the way the men felt about Warren just then. But Bailey’s been faking eyesight tests for years. Your father was the same height and general build as Warren and in the dark .”

“Bailey wouldn’t have killed my dad,” I repeated stupidly, unable to accept the truth.

Regan’s arm came around my shoulders and I realized he had been sitting quietly on the other side of me.

“No, Carla, he wouldn’t have. He was out to kill Warren. By mistake, he killed someone else someone he worshipped. It isn’t far off the truth to say Bailey went into battle shock. He talked himself into believing Warren had actually fired the shot and he nearly talked me into it except I couldn’t see Warren killing like that. But, in a way, Warren really was guilty of your father’s death. If he hadn’t caused so much trouble, Bailey wouldn’t have been driven to killing him.”

Emotionally I could accept that interpretation. Maybe later when it didn’t twist and hurt so much .

“Turtle did shoot Warren?” I asked finally.

“Yes,” DeLord confirmed. “And the attempt at Aachen was not the first one, either, was it, Laird?”

“No,” Regan admitted, “I knocked his hand up once near Julich, and the lieutenant who replaced Garcia in Able Company told me he caught Bailey taking aim on Warren. Told me later he was sorry he’d deflected the sergeant’s arm. We all knew Bailey hated Warren. I felt I knew why but I was only half right.”

“Is it safe to come out now?” a muffled voice quavered into the dead silence that followed.

“God, I forgot her,” Regan muttered, rising. “Yes, come out, Mrs. Warren.”

We heard her slide back the bolt and then she peered cautiously out. When she saw who was grouped in the kitchen, she pulled the door wide and pranced out, her face suddenly as livid with anger as it had been white with fear.

“Well, who are you?” she demanded.

“Robert DeLord, ma’am,” and the lieutenant had risen, the polite Southerner no matter what. “This is Regan Laird.”

“Well?” she demanded, her voice harsh. “Have you captured that maniac? Where’s Constable Beatty? Has he found that locker yet? Where’s Donnie?”

“Yes, where is Colonel Warren?” asked DeLord, exchanging a look over my head with Regan.

“In the living room,” I gasped. “He’s in the living room. He tried to slap me. Merlin’s holding him.”

“That monster? Ah!” screeched Marian Warren, her eyes bulging with terror as she ran, ungainly in the high-heeled galoshes. Regan and DeLord followed, breaking into a run at her hysterical shriek. There was a ring of horror, so unlike Marian’s usual pitch, it snapped me out of the paralysis that held me. I ran to the living room.

“Merlin, heel!” I heard Regan order and then, more softly, “Colonel? Colonel Warren? Answer me, man!”

Marian kept on shrieking.

“What’s happened?” I demanded, pushing past the lieutenant who had halted mid-room. “Merlin hasn’t .”

Merlin hadn’t done anything. That was it, I guess. But Warren’s abject fear of dogs had. The colonel was in a fixed-eye state of shock, his face gray, spittle dripping down the side of his slack mouth as he lay on the floor. Merlin had scared him out of his wits.

As the two men got the colonel, unresisting, to his feet and sat him in a chair, Marian, still shrieking, ran out. She came back in, dancing in a frenzied rage, towing Beatty behind her.

“Shoot him! Shoot that mad dog. He’ll kill us all. Look what he’s done to my husband. Shoot him! Shoot him!”

Beatty did go for his gun. I threw myself on Merlin, keeping my body between the officer and the dog.

“That’ll be enough, Beatty,” Regan snapped.

“Shoot him! Shoot him!” Marian Warren kept screaming.

DeLord strode over to her and, muttering an apology, slapped her quickly and smartly on both cheeks. It effectively calmed her.

“If you have a radio in that police car of yours, Beatty, call an ambulance. The colonel’s had a shock. And keep that gun bolstered in my house!”

There was an authoritative knock on the front door.

“Come in,” Regan shouted, without taking his eyes from Beatty’s face.

“Colonel Calderone,” DeLord said, waving in a wiry, Italianate man.

“Thank God you came, Colonel,” Marian Warren babbled. “Everyone here’s mad. That dog is, too. They’ve been mistreating me and just look at Donnie.” Then she stopped, her hand going to her mouth as she absorbed the look of cold contempt on Colonel Calderone’s face.

“You were right about the truck, DeLord,” he said turning his back deliberately on the woman. “There were three slugs in the gas tank. We’ve picked up the men.” He turned back to Marian Warren. “There are a few questions I would like to put to you and Colonel Warren.” He looked at the passive figure in the chair. “Colonel?” he said, his face puzzled by the lack of response.

“Warren has gone into shock, Colonel,” Regan said. “No doubt,” and he swung towards Beatty, “due to the untenable position in which he finds himself.”

Beatty was the first to drop his eyes. When he did, as if sensing she no longer had a single champion, Marian Warren began to cry softly. Beatty glanced contemptuously at her.

“I came here to recover stolen goods,” he said stubbornly.

“Yes, where is that footlocker?” Regan asked, looking at DeLord questioningly.

A shadow of a smile touched the lieutenant’s mouth. “Under the woodpile, of course!”