Ричард Деминг - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 11, November 1963

“I didn’t say so.”

“You never say much. But you act. A vanishing breed, Black called you. Quite true. But you did kill — murder — him.”

“How? He was shot with an arrow, and there’s no bow connected with me. Therefore it must have been somebody else. Maybe his girl stabbed him with the arrow.” There was a feverish glint in the blue eyes now, as if Cole felt an urge to talk for once.

“I did some research on archery,” Middlebie said in a level voice. “Many years ago, in the 1880’s or so, there was often a special feature of the sport — arrow throwing. Don’t bother to look surprised; you knew about it long before I did. Maybe you’ve known for years; more likely, finding yourself full of hate, and with only one arm, you investigated the possibilities for an archer so handicapped. It’s an amazing thing, but with practice, a man could throw a special, light arrow several hundred feet.”

“Try it some time,” Cole said dryly.

“Oh, I can’t; I know that. Few could. But you were an expert to begin with; you had the eye, the reflexes, and above all the terrible motivation. But one reason why I couldn’t discover the secret for myself was the piece of string.”

Cole blinked, and Middlebie knew he had struck home.

“The old archery book supplied that one vital link,” he went on relentlessly. “Those long flights were accomplished mainly through an ingenious aid, related to the throwing stick used by spearmen among primitive tribes. The archer — I guess we must call him that, even without a bow — ties a string to the arrow, and by tripping one end in his hand, gets a sling-like whip to his throw. That device gives the extra power needed. You didn’t want to toss a light arrow several hundred feet; you wanted to send a heavy, steel-headed one thirty feet, with enough force to kill. You had many months to practice, while Borden was in jail. The cabby who took you there to get a line on Borden’s habits was also to be your alibi — proof that no bow was involved; just an arrow with string, hidden under your jacket.”

Cole gave him a long, cool stare. Then, true to his nature, he said with slow emphasis: “You’re wrong. Ask Black about the tape-recorder. All I wanted was proof that Borden never even hit the brakes. I hoped he’d say something to his girl, and I’d be able to tape it. Then I’d have the skunk cold.”

“Could they try him again?” Middlebie wondered aloud. “I doubt it, and am sure you had no plans of that sort.”

“There’s an old Scotch motto on some university,” Cole said. “Something like, ‘They say. What say they? Let them say.’ A nice theory, but will it hold up in court? Do you know how difficult it would be — I’m just theorizing, not having had any practice! — actually to throw an arrow thirty feet, string or no string, and split a man’s spinal cord? A jury would have to see it done, and nobody in the world today can do it. I know archery, and I’m telling you.”

“One man can do it,” the professor said steadily.

For the first time Cole smiled — a grin of the damned.

“Will he demonstrate for the D.A.?”

Middlebie looked at him with a kind of pity. “I’m afraid not,” he said in a low voice. His gray eyes fastened to the photograph on the mantel, a plump, smiling woman with happy eyes; a dark little girl, like an elf. Maybe if I lost them, he thought... Well, I must tell Black, but he’ll never make it stick.

“Good night, Mr. Cole,” he said gently.

The murderer gave him a silent nod.

Among the perils of war, we automatically consider that, for some, time will have a stop. Yet even among these unfortunates is the exception that proves the rule.

He awoke slowly. For a long time he lay staring up at the ceiling. Realization came at last that he was in a hospital. He turned his head slightly and saw the night stand, confirming his suspicion.

He wondered what had happened to him and how he had gotten here, but his mind seemed a blank. He scowled, trying to think. Then gradually, bit by bit, the picture began to take form.

There had been a briefing, as there always was prior to the many missions that were preceding the invasion of France. The target had been an ammunition dump near Augsberg.

Other, smaller things, began to take shape in his mind. He had nicked himself while shaving that morning. He had had eggs and little pink sausages for breakfast. He had written to Sandra as he always did before taking off on a mission. Her last letter to him was in the pocket of his uniform.

Thoughts of Sandra brought a smile to his lips. She was everything, the whole meaning of life to him. He had no family at all, no one but Sandra. They were to be married as soon as the war ended.

He put Sandra from his mind momentarily and tried to fill in the gap between the moment he had mailed the letter and right now.

He remembered the briefing vividly. It had been important. Nothing had been said definitely, but there was a strong rumor that the invasion was set for June 6th. He wanted to be part of that invading force, had been looking forward to it.

He remembered strapping himself into the pilot’s seat of the B-17. He remembered the clearance and take-off. Then things went blank again and he scowled. It was like a Picture that had faded out but was now slowly fading back in focus.

He heard again the roar of the B-17’s powerful engines. He remembered watching his own escort fighters engaging the German fighters. Then came the flak, burst upon burst of it, too close, too dangerous.

The impact, when it came, caused the whole great ship to shudder and yaw. There was another muffled explosion within the ship itself. The stick in his hand went suddenly limp. A voice was screaming into his earphones.

“Skipper! They’ve got us! We’re afire!”

He tried to keep his own voice calm, and managed, he thought, to do so. He gave the order to bail out.

He was the last to go. The ship was whirling crazily and he bumped his head. He remembered falling and yanking at the rip cord. Thereafter there was nothing. Only blankness. Nothing at all until now.

He opened his eyes wide, his body stiffening. Was this a German hospital? Was he a prisoner? The thought horrified him. He felt, unreasonably, ashamed for having been captured. If he were a prisoner he wouldn’t be able to participate in the invasion. The thought depressed him.

Abruptly, embarrassed because he hadn’t thought about it before, he wondered about his crew. He had watched them all bail out, had seen their ’chutes open. They were, he thought bitterly, probably all sweating it out in some stinking concentration camp. They would be questioned, he knew, one by one, probably tortured for scraps of information that might be of some value to the enemy.

He heard a door open and turned his head. A nurse entered, took one step toward his bed and stopped abruptly. Her eyes became as round as saucers.

“You... you’re awake!” Her voice had a trace of German accent, and the shred of hope to which he had been clinging faded.

He nodded and said simply, “Yes.”

She came toward him slowly, her eyes still wondrous, but with a smile on her lips. “Do you — remember your name?”

His tone somewhat irritable, he said, “Of course I remember my name. It’s Colonel Kent Burgess, United States Air Force.” He rattled off his serial number and asked, “Where am I?”

The nurse didn’t answer at once. She watched him for a moment, then turned away. “Excuse me. I must tell Doctor Schroeder.”

She was gone before he could protest, and he lay scowling at the closed door. There was something screwy here. This wasn’t the procedure, he had heard, accorded to allied prisoners of war.