The '44 Vintage

closed on the cocking handle. There was something wonderfully comforting about the feel of the weapon and the oily, metallic smell of it in his nostrils. He remembered having read somewhere, years back, how savage warriors caressed their spears and talked to them before battle—

'It looks like just one,' murmured Audley. 'I can't see anyone else. Which means—keep your fingers crossed, Jack!'

All Butler's fingers were otherwise engaged, particularly one of them. But there was still a corner of his mind that wasn't concentrating on the movement between the trees.

'Sir?'

Audley watched the trees intendy. 'If it's Boucard, then they're not going to help us. But if it's Dr. de Courcy . . .'

That was the big 'if,' of course, Butler remembered belatedly. M'sieur Boucard ran the safe house of the escape route on which they'd stumbled with such incredible beginner's luck. But it was the local doctor who controlled the escapers' transfer from one place to the next along that route—the doctor whose own journeys could always be explained by the requirements of his job.

Suddenly he was aware of his own heart thumping within his chest Another dozen yards or so, and they would be able to see who it was—

Boucard or the Doctor.

Failure or success?

Except that reaching Pont-Civray was itself no guarantee of success, only of somebody's death. Maybe Jack Butler's death even?

Audley relaxed beside him. 'Over here, Doctor!' he called out.

Dr. de Courcy halted in the middle of the car-track just below them, took off his black Homburg hat, and methodically set about wiping the sweat-band with a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket. Only when he'd completed this task to his satisfaction and had returned the handkerchief to his pocket and the hat to his head, did he at last look up at them.

' Eh bien, David Audley! Tu as evente la meche comme toujours. Mais cette fois tu as depasse les bornes,' he said harshly.

Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

A rustle in the hayloft behind them distracted Butler's attempt to disentangle the meaning from the French words.

'So what's that meant to mean?' Sergeant Winston stepped onto the platform, wiping the sleep from his eyes. 'And who's the funeral director?'

'Dr. de Courcy'—Audley's voice faltered—'Sergeant Winston, of the United States Army.'

'Oh—yeah . . .' Winston nodded apologetically. 'Sorry, Doc! Early morning—big mouth.' He looked at Audley questioningly. 'Are we in trouble again, Lieutenant?'

Audley stared at Dr. de Courcy uncertainly. 'He says . . . we've let the cat out of the bag, somehow—?'

The doctor shook his head. 'Not the cat. Another animal, perhaps . . .'

'Another animal?'

'A tiger this time, David Audley. A man-eating tiger. And he has your scent in his nose, I fear.'

20. How Dr. de Courcy made a bargain

'The guys in the wood, Lieutenant,' Sergeant Winston prompted Audley. He nodded thoughtfully at Butler, and Butler knew he was remembering the cold-blooded way they'd killed the wounded German soldiers in the Kiibel.

'Yes,' said Audley, still staring at Dr. de Courcy. 'But there has to be more to it than that, I'm thinking.'

'Sure there is: we got away from them, and they don't like it.'

Audley shook his head. 'More than that. . . What are we supposed to have done, Doctor?'

De Courcy looked at him curiously. 'You ask me that?'

'That's right, Doc.' Winston leaned forward. 'We're asking. So you tell us.'

De Courcy frowned, glancing at each of them in turn. “Well . . . there are fifty dead in Sermigny, to the north of here . . . not counting the Germans. But that might be counted an accident of war, and not your fault. . . . But the four men you ambushed on the road—Communists, I admit, but men of the Resistance Price, Anthony - [David Audley 08] - The '44 Vintage

also. And the German prisoner you released'—he shrugged—'no doubt you had your reasons. But innocence is not the game to play.'

'Innocence?' Winston exploded. ' Innocence!'

'Hold it, Sergeant!' Audley held up his hand. 'We haven't killed anyone, Doctor. Not Frenchmen, anyway. I give you my word of honour on that.'

'Yeah. And my word too,' snapped Winston. 'Not that I haven't been goddamn tempted.'

De Courcy's eyes clouded. 'And I, Sergeant—I have seen the bodies of the men you killed. And also . . .

M'sieur Boucard tells me you have a German officer with you. So where does that leave your word of honour, Sergeant?'

The American drew a deep breath, but then turned abruptly to Audley. 'Lieutenant—are you thinking what I'm