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“I agree with you, Ernst, and I’d be honored. And perhaps in time…”
“May I suggest, Oliver, for both our sakes,” said Gruber as the British front line came into sight, “that when you hand me over, you don’t make it too obvious we’re old friends.”
“Good thinking, Ernst,” said Oliver, and grabbed his prisoner roughly by the elbow.
The next voice they heard demanded, “Who goes there?”
“Captain Jackson, L
ancashire Fusiliers, with a German prisoner.”
“Advance and be recognized.” Oliver pushed his old schoolmaster forward. “Bloody good show,” said the lookout sergeant. “You can leave him to me, sir. And you can keep moving, you fucking Kraut.”
“Sergeant,” said Oliver sharply, “try to remember he’s an officer.”
* * *
The war was over by Christmas. Christmas 1918.
Captain Ernst Gruber spent two years in a prisoner of war camp on Anglesey. He passed the mornings teaching his fellow prisoners the local tongue as there might come a time when it would prove useful to speak a little English, he suggested, echoing Jackson’s words.
Oliver sent Gruber the collected works of Rupert Brooke, which he translated in the evenings while he waited for the war to end.
Ernst Gruber was shipped back to Frankfurt in November 1919, and within days he wrote to Oliver to ask if he was still willing to be a godfather to his son Hans. It was several weeks before he received a reply from Oliver’s wife, Rosemary, to say that her husband had been killed on the Western Front only days before the Armistice was signed. They also had a son, Arthur Oliver, and on her husband’s last furlough he’d told her that he hoped Ernst would agree to be one of Arthur’s godparents.
With the assistance of Oliver’s father, Herr Gruber was allowed to visit England to fulfill his role in the christening ceremony. As Ernst stood by the font alongside Oliver’s family, he couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if he had won the toss.
POSTSCRIPT
September 19, 1943
LIEUTENANT HANS OTTO GRUBER was blown up by a landmine while serving on the Western Front. He died three days later.
June 6, 1944
CAPTAIN ARTHUR OLIVER JACKSON MC was killed while leading his platoon on the beaches of Normandy.
November 15, 1944
PROFESSOR ERNST HELMUT GRUBER was executed by firing squad in Berlin for the role he played in the failed attempt to assassinate Adolf Hitler at Wolf’s Lair.
May They Rest in Peace
THE PERFECT MURDER
COINCIDENCES ARE FROWNED upon in a novel, whereas in real life they regularly occur.
I had already read the proofs of Tell Tale and returned them to my publisher, when Reader’s Digest announced they would be relaunching their hundred-word short story competition later this year.
The commissioning editor of Reader’s Digest invited me to take up the challenge a second time, and produce a hundred-word tale within twenty-four hours.
Result? “The Perfect Murder.” I hope you enjoy my latest effort, and if you are a closet author yourself, perhaps you should finally come out, and also take up the challenge.
ALBERT STARED AT THE PRISONER standing in the dock, well aware he hadn’t committed the murder.
Albert had struck the fatal blow moments after Yvonne admitted she was seeing another man. He slipped out of her flat and into a telephone box on the other side of the road. When his rival appeared, he dialed 999.
Twenty minutes later two detectives dragged the innocent man out of her apartment, threw him into the back of a police car and sirens blazing, sped off.
