The Price of Love and Other Stories Read Free Page A

that it could be matched to her attacker’s.
    I averted my gaze and sighed, wondering what sad story Evelyn would have to tell us when, or if, she regained consciousness. Men had been fighting a deadly campaign in Sicily, and even now, as westood around Evelyn in Brimley Park, they were still fighting the Germans and the Japanese all over the world; yet someone, some man, had taken it into his mind to attack a defenceless young woman and steal from her that which, for whatever reason, she wouldn’t give him in the first place. And Evelyn was supposed to be one of those girls who did. It didn’t make sense.
    My knees cracked as I shifted position. I could hear the ambulance approaching through the dark, deserted streets of the city. Just as I was about to stand up, the weak light from the torch glinted on something in the grass, half hidden by Evelyn’s outstretched arm. I reached forward, placed it in my palm, and shone the torch on it. What I saw sent a chill down my spine.
    It was a tiny, perfectly crafted grimacing monkey. The very same one I had seen so many times on Cornelius Jubb’s charm bracelet.
    It was with a heavy heart that I approached the U.S. Army base in a light drizzle early the following morning, while Evelyn Fowler fought for consciousness in the infirmary. It was a typical military base, with Nissen huts for the men, storage compounds for munitions and supplies, and the obligatory squad of soldiers marching around the parade ground. Along with all the jeeps and lorries coming and going, it certainly gave the impression of hectic activity. My official police standing got me in to see the CO, a genial-enough colonel from Wyoming called Hank Johnson, who agreed to let me talk to Pfc. Jubb, making it clear that he was doing me a big favour. He specified that army personnel must be present and that, should things be taken any further, the matter was under American jurisdiction, not that of the British. I was well aware of the thorny legal problems the American “occupation,” as some called it, gave rise to, and had discovered in the past that there was little or nothing I could do about it. The fact of the matter was that on thefourth of August, 1942, after a great deal of angry debate, the cabinet had put a revolutionary special bill before Parliament that exempted U.S. soldiers over here from being prosecuted in our courts, under our laws.
    The colonel was being both courteous and cautious in allowing me access to Cornelius. The special U.S.A. Visiting Forces Act was still a controversial topic, and nobody wanted an outcry in the press, or on the streets. There was a good chance, Colonel Johnson no doubt reasoned, that early collaboration could head that sort of thing off at the pass. It certainly did no harm to placate the local constabulary. I will say, though, that they stopped short of stuffing my pockets with Lucky Strikes and Hershey bars.
    I agreed to the colonel’s terms and accompanied him to an empty office, bare except for a wooden desk and four uncomfortable hard-backed chairs. After I had waited the length of a cigarette, the colonel came back with Cornelius and another man, whom he introduced as Lieutenant Clawson, a military lawyer. I must confess that I didn’t much like the look of Clawson; he had an arrogant twist to his lips and a cold, merciless look in his eye.
    Cornelius seemed surprised to see me, but he also appeared sheepish and did his best to avoid looking me directly in the eye. Maybe this was because of the scratch on his cheek, though I took his discomfort more as a reflection of his surroundings and hoped to hell it wasn’t an indication of his guilt. After all, we were on his home turf now, where the coloured men had separate barracks from the whites and ate in different canteens. Already, I could sense the gulf and the unspoken resentment between Cornelius and the two white Americans. It felt very different from Obediah Clough’s clumsy and childish attempts at