Major McFadden of the Ulster Rifles, an intemperate but likeable Irishman, and a declared enemy of Benucci, had been Colonel Baird’s predecessor as head of the Escape Committee. In this capacity he had been a constant thorn in Benucci’s flesh. After a number of undignified brushes with authority he had been dispatched to Campo 5, the Punishment Camp, in the fortress of Gavi, in North Italy. Benucci and one sergeant of carabinieri had gone with him as escort.
The party, however, did not arrive at Gavi.
McFadden, as Benucci had reported on his return, had been shot whilst trying to escape. The carabinieri sergeant had been posted elsewhere. At all events, no one had seen him again.
Very well, then, thought Goyles, assume for a moment that all these suspicions were correct. Assume that Benucci might be a man with a dirty past and a sticky future. How did that tie in with Coutoules?
He began to see how it might very well tie in.
Coutoules, it seemed certain, had been a creature of Benucci’s. He had been introduced into the camp by him, for his own purposes. They must have been, to a limited extent, in each other’s confidence.
With the immediate approach of the Allied Armies, and, over the horizon, the ending of the war itself, two things might have happened. First, and most probably, Coutoules might have tried a little gentle blackmail. He was well placed for it. With a foot in both camps, the chances were that he not only knew about Benucci’s war crimes, but might be in a position to prove them to a disinterested authority.
As he lay on his bunk in the sunlight and thought of these things, Goyles experienced that faint electric current, the water diviner’s touch, which every investigator feels when, for the first time, he forces his way down from the surface of things as they seem, into the opaque depths of things as they might be.
It was at least a solution which put motives and actors in their proper perspective. He had felt all along, when he was considering the matter generally, that the killing of Coutoules had been an affair of organisation. It was no sketchy improvisation. He was far from seeing how it had been done – how the body had been spirited from a room in one hut to a tunnel under a different one – but if the Italians had done it themselves it did, at least, open up certain fields of possibility.
It also produced the distasteful corollary that the Italians – or Benucci at least – must know all about the Hut C tunnel.
There was, however, a second and in a way an even less pleasant line of thought. The Escape Committee, as the Intelligence Authorities of the camp, would certainly have questioned Coutoules once his position was known. Supposing their questioning had been – well, a little more rigorous than they had intended and Coutoules had collapsed. Would they not have been well equipped to dispose of him in a tunnel? On the other hand there was a good deal against this idea. Had not the Committee themselves been the prime objectors to disclosing the body to the Italians? Had they not, in fact, organised its removal to the other tunnel, and thus unwittingly implicated Roger Byfold in the design? Had they not, lastly but by no means least, employed him, Goyles, to investigate the matter for them? And yet – the beginnings of a third and perfectly horrible theory came into Goyles’ mind.
He was so overcome by its nightmare possibilities that he did not hear the footsteps in the passage outside, and he nearly fell off his bed when the key grated in the lock and the door swung open.
He glimpsed a figure in British Orderly’s uniform.
‘Oh, it’s lunch already, is it?’ he said. Then he looked more closely and saw that it was Tony Long. ‘What the devil are you doing in that rig? Glad to see you, anyway.’
Tony put the lunch tray carefully down on the table, and walked back to the cell door, took a quick look down the passage, and pulled the door shut. Then he turned to Goyles and said, ‘Cuckoo, you’ve got to do something.’
Goyles was shaken by the unmistakable note of panic in his voice.
‘What is it?’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
‘It’s that ass Overstrand. If it was only his blood on his own head I wouldn’t mind so much, but he’s dragging in Hugo and Grim as well.’
‘Just start at the beginning,’ said Goyles.
‘They’ve been pretty hush-hush about it – and I only heard today, rather by accident, from Hugo. They’ve been working on a wall-jumping scheme. It’s Desmond Foster’s scheme really. They’ve made ladders – there was rather a rumpus about that’ – Long managed to smile in spite of his anxieties – ‘they pinched the rugger posts. They’re going to fuse the overhead lights at half-past twelve tonight, and get over the east wall between the theatre block and the showers.’
‘They’ll never catch them napping twice,’ said Goyles. ‘You remember what we all said after the last show – they’d be bound to put in an alternative system of wiring – probably underground.’
‘That’s just it. They think they have.’ He told Goyles about Tim Meynell and his discoveries.
‘Sounds just feasible,’ agreed Goyles. ‘What’s worrying you particularly?’
‘I don’t know, said Long. He looked sick. ‘I’ve got a feeling about it, that’s all. I don’t believe that they can be certain of fusing all the lights – it seems too easy to be true – and if they
don’t
succeed in fusing them – well – in the present state of nerves it’s going to be an execution.’
‘Why is Alec so set on this scheme anyway? If he sits tight for a week or so the tunnel will be through, or the Italians will have packed up and let us out.’
‘That’s what I said to Hugo. Apparently they don’t think it’s going to work out like that. To start with, they’ve got an idea – it’s Alec’s idea really – that the Italians know about the Hut C tunnel—’
Goyles looked up sharply, but said nothing.
‘Then, again, they don’t believe that the Italians are going to let us out if there is an armistice. They think that this is the best tune there’s ever going to be for a break. I’m not at all sure there mightn’t be some truth in this part. They say that all one has got to do is to get out and go south and sit tight. The theory is that when the British do land in Italy, the Germans are going to form a line somewhere – but obviously it won’t be right at the toe of Italy – probably somewhere about Naples – or even further north—’
Goyles nodded. It was what he thought himself.
‘If you can get out now, and get south of this line and lie up, you’re safe as houses. When the landing comes, you’ll be picked up by your own side. On the other hand, if you’re north of the defence line it’s going to be a very different proposition – to say nothing of the fact that you may never get started at all. The Italians may simply bundle us up and hand us over to the Germans. It’s all very well for the S.B.O. to talk about making a rush. Supposing one morning Benucci lines the walls with soldiers and says “Pack up your kit, gentlemen. There’s a German column waiting outside to escort you” – do you think anyone’s going to commit suicide?’
‘Something in that,’ said Goyles. ‘Was that their only reason?’
‘No,’ said Long slowly. ‘There’s something else too. Something you haven’t heard about. It happened yesterday, and I haven’t quite sorted it out yet, but Alec had a scrap with Rolf-Callender. It started over something quite silly, but the upshot of it was that Rolf-Callender accused Alec of murdering Coutoules.’
‘He did
what?’
‘Just that. And what’s more, Alec didn’t deny it. Not directly, anyway. He just went very pink and haughty, and intimated to Hugo and Grim that if that was the sort of thing people were saying about him, the sooner he got out of this camp the better—’
‘The whole thing’s crazy. Look here. Cuckoo. If Alec really is sure that the Italians know about this tunnel, he must have some information that we haven’t got. He must tell us what it is.’
‘Ten to one it’s nothing at all, or he’s just imagining things.’
‘Then if he’s wrong, he ought to call the stunt off tonight. It isn’t just himself. If he wants to earn a V.C. and clear his good name one wouldn’t mind doing a crazy stunt like this – but he’s dragging Grim and Hugo into it too. I got the impression Desmond himself would have called off, if Alec hadn’t been so keen.’
‘What do you want me to do about it,’ said Goyles.
‘I thought – look here, you’ve got more influence with Alec than any of us – couldn’t you have a word with him?’
‘From here?’
‘I thought – it might work – couldn’t you change into this kit and walk out with the tray. We’re about the same height and shape. Even if they noticed in the end, you’d have time for a word with Alec.’
‘There’s one very good reason against that,’ said Goyles. ‘And that is that the sentry, who’s not such a fool as you took him for, has been standing outside the door looking through the spy hole for the last two minutes.’
The afternoon light had gone out of the sky. At seven o’clock Goyles’ evening meal had arrived. It was a genuine orderly this time – Corporal Pearce, a young, black-haired Irishman who worked in Hut C. He had nothing to report. He said the camp seemed very quiet.
At eight o’clock the lights in the cell had been turned on, and at ten they had gone off again.
Goyles lay on his bed. There was no chance of sleep. His own thoughts, mingled with what Tony Long had told him, had thrown a long shadow of foreboding over his mind. He wondered if it would, in fact, have made any difference if he had been able to have a word with Overstrand. He had managed to talk sense to him on previous occasions. Could there be anything behind this idea that Overstrand had killed Coutoules?
It seemed on the face of it, the most arrant nonsense. Where had Overstrand been between nine o’clock and lock-up that evening? He himself had been taking his regular evening walk round the perimeter with Roger Byfold. Their room had been empty when they got back to it. Alec had come in at half-past ten. He hadn’t told them where he had been – why should he? You didn’t go round explaining to people where you’d come from last.
Looking at his watch Goyles saw that the time was near.
He pulled the table up to the window, put a chair on it, and climbed up.
Without shifting the centre bar he could look out far enough to see the north-west sentry platform and the line of overhead lights. The searchlight on the platform, which came on every few minutes, was almost blue, so intense that it paled the overhead lights to a dull yellow.
Everything remained quiet.
Goyles looked at his watch again. It was almost a quarter to one. A tiny flicker of hope sprung up, that the attempt might have been abandoned.
As he was in the act of looking up again, all the lights went out. First the overhead lights flickered and disappeared: then, in mid-sweep, the searchlights dimmed and faded.
They’ve done it, said Goyles.
Then something happened which made his stomach turn right over. The searchlights glowed and came on again.
A second later he heard the machine guns start. They went on and on.
Goyles slept very little and woke early.
He was lying on his bed, fully dressed, when Corporal Pearce brought in the breakfast coffee and bread.
‘You know what happened last night, sir?’ said Pearce.
‘I heard it happening,’ said Goyles. ‘Put down the tray on the table, would you?’ It took a momentary courage even to frame the question. ‘What was the result?’
‘Major Grimsdale and Captain Overstrand, sir – killed. Captain Foster and Captain Baierlein were wounded. They don’t think Captain Foster has got much chance.’
‘What about Baierlein?’
‘They don’t think he’s too bad. He fell right up against the wall, and they couldn’t get a machine gun on to him. He got some in the legs.’
‘I see,’ said Goyles. It was a tiny little bit better than he had dared to hope. In his own mind he had written them all off. Poor old Grim—
‘—all over the camp, sir,’ said Corporal Pearce.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Goyles. ‘I didn’t hear what you were saying.’
‘I was just saying, sir, that there’s a funny sort of feeling in the camp this morning, if you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I do,’ said Goyles.
He had seen it, and noted it before: the after-effects of successful violence. He remembered a train journey before he had come to that camp. One of the prisoners, a young Air Force officer, had tried to jump from the train in broad daylight and had been filled full of buckshot by an excited sentry. Then other guards on the train, who up to that moment had been behaving quite reasonably, had become hysterical and arrogant. The prisoners had gone sullen. It had not been a pleasant journey, and but for the tact of a senior officer might have ended in a massacre in the station waiting-room at their destination.
‘Does anyone know how it happened?’ he asked.
‘They say that the searchlights have all got spare power-units now, sir. They run on the mains for most of the time, but if anything happens to the mains, they can run on their own juice for a bit.’
It seemed a likely enough explanation.
‘Would you like me to wait and carry your things out for you?’
Goyles looked surprised.
‘You’ve miscounted,’ he said. ‘I’ve got about three more days to do.’
‘I was having a word with the sentry when I was coming in,’ said Corporal Pearce. ‘So far as I could make out they’re clearing you out this morning. I reckon they think they’re going to need all the cells they’ve got before long.’
‘I see,’ said Goyles. ‘As bad as all that, is it?’
‘All the chaps are talking about stringing up Benucci next time he shows his face in the camp, and the Eyeties have put double lots of sentries on the walls and they’re all talking monkey-talk and cleaning up their guns.’
‘If they’re as trigger happy as that,’ said Goyles, ‘I’d better wait for a formal order of release. Thank you very much all the same.’
After Corporal Pearce had gone he went over to the window and stood looking out of it. He stayed there for a long time whilst his coffee grew cold and his bread lay untasted.