Little Victor

A Story

by ROBERT LEWIS

THE major was out when the phone rang, so Captain Huggins answered it. Captain Huggins was a British officer who looked like a Hollywood version of a British officer, and enjoyed acting the part in a certain ironic vein, as if smiling at himself. That is why he lifted the receiver and said tersely, “Huggins.” Any American officer would have said “Captain Huggins,” or “Lieutenant Huggins,” or “General Huggins.”

Smith, Spiegel, and I bent over our typewriters to hide our smiles. There was a long silence. Captain Huggins listened in his bored, polite manner, said, “Yes,” once, listened some more, said, “Very well,” and hung up. He came over to me and said, “I’m afraid they want you for another case, Lewis. It’s that Golbey affair. What are you working on now?” I made a face. “I was afraid of that,” I said. “Nasty?” said Captain Huggins, with that humorous quizzical look I admired so much.

“Quite juicy,” I answered in the same vein. I never sirred Huggins. Neither of us liked it. “Nice little murder. Negro driver shot a white sergeant in the home of a Frenchwoman. The only witnesses were the woman and her seven-year-old son. The woman’s husband is in a German prison camp. I was hoping they’d get another interpreter for it.”

“It’s very complimentary on their part,” said Huggins.

“No, just laziness. They can’t be bothered finding someone else. Well, I guess Göring can wait a while.”

“What is it?” said Huggins with vast interest, which we both knew was simulated. “The art treasure affair? Spiegel can take over.”

“Sure,” I said, “except that he gets upset over it.”

Spiegel had of course heard the conversation, being only two yards away. He interrupted to say, “ That’s all right. I didn’t come here for a pleasure trip.”

As I left the office, Captain Huggins was very earnestly telling Spiegel that one must be hard, damned hard, mustn’t one? One must let the iron enter one’s soul. Both he and Spiegel were smiling.

It was quite true that I did not like the Golbey affair. A week before, Lieutenant Tenick from the Judge Advocate General’s office had taken me to Golbey to interview the Frenchwoman, Mme. Ernestine Cayrou, and her son, Victor. Mme. Cayrou was about thirty-five, not unattractive, with a clear pale, complexion and very dark eyes. Lieutenant Tenick, who had been selected to prosecute the Negro driver at the forthcoming court-martial, had got the story from her.

It appeared that both the white sergeant and the Negro driver had been in the habit of visiting Mme. Cayrou frequently. The sergeant was stationed in Golbey; the driver’s unit was camped only a few miles away and the driver often passed through Golbey on his trips to the front, his Army truck loaded with ammunition or gasoline. Previous to the evening of the murder, the two had never met, but that night the Negro was there when the white man, whom they called “Jim,” came in. The two men were hostile from the first. Mme. Cayrou was unable to speak or understand English, but felt their hostility from their tone. There were words, they glared at each other across the table; the woman succeeded in pacifying them and asked the Negro to go home. The Negro went to the door, turned around, pulled out a pistol, and shot the sergeant.

Mme. Cayrou kneeled over the sergeant, saw that he was dead, and lost her head completely. Since the Negro, the pistol still in his hand, was between her and the door, she rushed to her bedroom and climbed out the window, forgetting about her son, who had hidden behind the large tile wood-stove in the living room and had seen everything. She ran to the house of her neighbor, a doctor. By coincidence both the mayor of Golbey and the head of the district police station were there. When they learned that the Negro was still in the house, they showed a natural reluctance to rush in. By the time Mme. Cayrou had prevailed upon them to do their duty, the Negro was gone and Jim’s body had disappeared.

The little boy told them that the Negro had dragged the body out the front door. They found heel tracks in the snow and, following them, discovered the body lying on the sidewalk beside a telephone pole, thirty yards away. The street was deserted.

The doctor verified that the sergeant was dead, and the mayor notified the orderly room of the American unit stationed in the town.

Within an hour the CID had found the Negro driver. There was only one Negro truck company in the neighborhood. Every man in the company was lined up, and with no hesitation Mme. Cayrou picked out the man. Her little boy also identified him and called the man “Georgia,” which the company commander verified as being the nickname by which the Negro was known to his friends.

It was an open-and-shut case, but it was a nasty case, complicated by race, sex, and the fact that the only two witnesses were the woman, who had clearly been having an affair with the murdered sergeant, and the seven-year-old boy.

Lieutenant Tenick was waiting for me in the hall outside the courtroom. He briefed me quickly. “The court took a ten-minute break. We’ve been grilling the man for an hour and a half. The woman and the boy are here, in the witness room. Colonel Withers is in charge of the court-martial.”

“Who’s the law member?” I asked. That was important in a case like this, where admissibility of evidence was in question.

“ Lieutenant Colonel Burton. But actually Colonel Withers is a lawyer too.”

“Well!” I said. “How did that happen?”

Tenick flushed a little, but he took it nicely. He knew that I was referring to the seemingly haphazard method of selecting Army officers to conduct courtsmartial. The last case I was on with Tenick had been conducted by a former Oklahoma rancher who was all for stringing up the varmint in time for chow, and was surprised and annoyed at the insistence of the law member of the court that some little formalities, such as evidence, had to be gone through first. “Colonel Withers is a good man, Sergeant,” said Lieutenant Tenick, “and I’m glad of it. There’s no doubt in my mind that the nigger is guilty, but I’m not trying to railroad him. I want him to get every break there is, and the colonel will give it to him.”

Like hell you do, I thought. I asked, “Is the kid going to give evidence, Lieutenant?”

Tenick hesitated. “I’m going to ask the court to accept his testimony,” he said finally. “I’m afraid to rely exclusively on the woman. You know as well as I do she was sleeping with the sergeant. Lieutenant Bedell is defense counsel — he’ll worm that out of her in no time. That’ll color everything she says.”

“I know, Lieutenant,” I said, “but to make a man’s life depend on a statement from a seven-yearold boy!”

“Age doesn’t make any legal difference. It’s up to the court to decide how much weight they will give his testimony. And the kid makes sense. He’s a smart little boy.”

“Oh, sure, Lieutenant,” I said, “but I’ll bet that’s one wise child who doesn’t know his own father.”

“We’re not trying Mme. Cayrou,” Tenick said gloomily, “although I’d like to. Anyway, it’s not up to me. I’m going to request that the boy’s testimony be admitted as evidence. You’d better talk to Mme. Cayrou and the boy. The woman is nervous. Better explain some of the details — the oath, where she is to sit, and so on. Calm her down. I’ll call you when we’re ready.”

2

THE witness room was full of Negro soldiers standing about in groups, smoking and talking somewhat loudly. At first I did not see the woman and the boy; then I saw them in a corner of the room. Mme. Cayrou was sitting stiff and motionless on a backless bench, and Victor was leaning on her knee and whispering something to her. She was shaking her head vigorously as I approached.

“Bon jour, madame,” I said, “est-ce que tout va bien? ”

“Ça va, monsieur,” she replied, standing up. There was no denying that she was shapely, or that she knew how to dress. A great deal of study had gone into the tailoring of her dress about her waist and hips. It clung to her without a wrinkle. Except for a touch of lipstick, she was not wearing make-up. She was pale. The effect was just right; she was well-groomed and demure.

“Et toi, Victor,” I said, turning to the boy, “comment ça va? ”

“Assez bien, monsieur,” said Victor with dignity. “But you know, these American soldiers of color are making Mama nervous.”

“Victor!” said Mme. Cayrou warningly. She sat down again abruptly.

I glanced around the room. The Negro soldiers had stopped talking and were watching us, not with hostility but with interest. I noticed a first sergeant among them. “Pardon, madame,” I said, and walked over to him. He was sitting down, a big black man, somewhat stout, with a good-natured face.

“Say, Sarge,” he said to me lazily, “do you parleyvoo this stuff?”

“Yes, Sergeant,” I said. “I’m the interpreter for the French witnesses. Are these men all testifying?”

“That’s right. Most of ‘em have been in already.”

“Maybe there’s more to this than I know about. I thought the woman and the boy were the only witnesses.”

“Oh, sure,” said the first sergeant, “but there’s other stuff that has to be proved. Now, for instance, I got the dispatcher’s records to prove that Georgia was out on a run at the time the white boy was shot. They’d have a hell of a time proving Georgia done it if I swore he was in camp the whole time.” He nodded toward a tall Negro standing by the window. “Johnny over there was Georgia’s assistant driver. He testified that he was with him up to the time that Georgia went into her house. He saw him go in. Mike over there seen the pistol.”

“What kind of pistol?”

“Mike!” called the first sergeant. “Come over here a minute.” A stocky Negro sauntered over, a cigarette drooping from his lip. “Tell the sergeant what kind a pistol Georgia was carrying.”

Mike regarded me briefly. “I never seen one like it before, Sarge. Georgia told me it was a Spanish pistol. It was kind of old-fashioned, with pearl handles. It took a regular 45 cartridge. Georgia told me he took it off’n a German prisoner.”

“Georgia a friend of yours?” I asked.

“Used to be. Not no more. A guy that shoots down an unarmed man, white or brown, ain’t no friend of mine. The white boy wasn’t carrying nothing. Georgia didn’t have no call to shoot him. The woman told him to go home, didn’t she?”

“Sure,” I said. I thanked Mike and the first sergeant and returned to Mme. Cayrou.

“These soldiers are not hostile to you,” I told her. “They are here to testify against Georgia. You need not be nervous in their presence.”

“I am not nervous, monsieur,” said Mme. Cayrou, but she seemed relieved. “What is it, Victor?” The boy had come up and stood beside her.

“Mama, I wish to talk to the soldiers of color.”

“You must not annoy them, Victor.”

“Oh no, Mama,” said Victor. “If I see that they have ennui, I shall return.”

“Very well, then.” We watched Victor walk over to the soldiers. They seemed embarrassed, until he said to the group at large, very clearly and politely, “Bon jour, messieurs”; then they grinned and gathered around him. In a moment they were laughing; it was clear that Victor was not annoying them.

“Mme. Cayrou,” I said, “Lieutenant Tenick requested me to inform you about the procedure you are to follow. Do you know what you have to do?”

“I shall tell the truth, monsieur.”

“Of course. But there are a few details. Let me explain them to you. I will enter the court first; you must wait outside, near the door. I shall call you a moment later. I shall ask you to raise your right hand and swear to tell the truth. Then you will sit down in the chair I shall point out to you. The two lieutenants will take turns asking you questions. Sometimes the judges will ask you questions. They will be in English, of course, but I shall repeat them exactly in French. Do not talk to me, but to the officer who asks the question. Talk in a normal voice and slowly. Stop after each sentence, until I have repeated it in English. Do you understand?”

“You are very kind,” said Mme. Cayrou, but she was not listening to me. She was watching Victor, who was earnestly telling the delighted Negro soldiers something they almost certainly did not understand. She sighed and looked at me with tears in her eyes. “It is very hard, monsieur, that such a young boy should be exposed to such a disgrace.”

“He is young,” I said. “He will soon forget.”

She smiled pathetically. Damn it, I thought, quit acting.

“ Victor is a strange boy,” she said. “He has a very vivid imagination. I sometimes have difficulty persuading him that his fantasies never happened. And he never forgets anything. He will never forget this horrible affair.”

“Madame, that is not the worst thing about this affair. Can you imagine the grief of Jim’s parents to learn of his death? I can only hope that they will be informed that he died in action.”

Mme. Cayrou flushed and bit her lip. Her color receded and left her pale. She stammered, “I have thought of that. I am not so heartless as you think.”

“Madame —”

“Oh, I know what you are thinking,” she flared. “A vulgar squabble over a woman! An American soldier killed! But it was not I who killed him, after all.”

“No one holds you accountable for his death. Both Jim and Georgia were old enough to know what they were doing. Please do not cry.”

She fished in her purse for a handkerchief and dried her eyes. “I am a fool,” she said. “Please forgive me.” She succeeded in smiling wanly. “There will be a great deal of explaining to do when my husband returns.”

Yes, that would be worth seeing, I thought.

Victor was back. “You are crying again, Mama,” he said reprovingly.

“Victor,” I said, “I must talk to you.” I drew him to a bench on one side of the room. He sat down and looked at me. He may have talked like a grownup, but he certainly had the face of a child. His eyes were large and had long lashes, like a girl’s. His face was oval and delicate.

“Victor, in a little while you will go with me into that other room and we shall have a chat with some American messieurs. They are very nice men. They are interested in finding out how Jim was shot and they will ask you to tell them what you saw. Georgia will be there too. He has already told them what he knows about the matter. First your mother will go in and talk to them, and then you. Do you understand?”

“Oh yes, monsieur.”

“These men are Americans like Jim and Georgia, Victor. They do not speak French. You will not be able to understand what they say. But I shall be there too, and I shall tell you what they say. In that way we shall all be able to have a chat together.’

“I shall be glad to speak to them, monsieur,”said Victor politely. “Will Georgia be punished severely?”

“I do not know, Victor. You must not think of that.”

“I should not want Georgia punished too severely,” he said earnestly. “Georgia is very kind. He used to bring me chocolate and tell me stories. I could not understand them, but I laughed to be polite, and Georgia laughed too and then I ate the chocolate.”

I gazed at his thin, undernourished body. I thought, This is war, this slow starvation of children. Seven years old, and he looks a scrawny five.

“Do you like chocolate, Victor?”

“Oh yes, monsieur,” he breathed, his eyes glowing.

“Well, Victor, if you are a good boy today, and tell these messieurs exactly what happened, I shall give you some chocolate. But remember, you must not say anything that is not true. I shall know if vou do, and then I shall not give you any chocolate.”

“I understand,” he said with dignity. He put his hand into mine and looked up into my eyes. “Will they put Georgia into prison, monsieur?”

I said in wonder, “ What do you know of prison, Victor?”

“We have a prison in Golbey and I went there once to see Papa. Mama says I must not talk of this, but I do not think she would mind if I told you. She says you are very gentil. One night Papa became very angry at Mama and went to the café, where he struck a man with his fist. The gendarmes took him to the prefect of police, and Papa spent three days in prison. The prefect was very angry. Fortunately Papa was drunk at the time.”

“Fortunately, Victor?”

“Yes, monsieur, because a man does not know what he is doing when he is drunk, and so the prefect was very lenient. I visited Papa on the second day, and had the honor of making the acquaintance of the prefect. He was very kind to me.”

Of course the prefect was kind. I could not imagine anyone not being kind to this fragile, exquisitelymannered child. Victor added, “Of course, monsieur, I must ask you not to mention this matter to anyone, because it is not nice to be in prison. Papa was ashamed and promised Mama never to become drunk again.” I was promising Victor not to tell a soul when Lieutenant Tenick came out of the courtroom and beckoned to me.

3

SEVEN American officers were sitting behind seven Army field tables set up end to end in a row. Colonel Withers sat at the center table; on his left sat Lieutenant Colonel Burton. I did not know any of the other judges — three majors, a captain, and a first lieutenant. The Army was doing this in style.

To the right and in front of this row of tables there were two more set up at right angles to it. Behind one sat a Negro soldier, evidently Georgia; Lieutenant Bedell sat behind the other. In the middle of the floor an empty chair faced the judges. To the right of this sat the court stenographer at another field table.

As Lieutenant Tenick took his place to the left of the judges, opposite Lieutenant Bedell, I walked to the center of the floor behind the empty chair, came to attention, and saluted Colonel Withers.

“Sergeant Lewis reporting to Colonel Withers as interpreter, sir,” I said.

Colonel Withers returned the salute. “At ease, Sergeant,” he said. “Lieutenant Tenick, swear the interpreter.”

Tenick said, “Sergeant Lewis, raise your right hand. Do you swear to interpret faithfully and to the best of your ability all statements which you are called upon to interpret? ”

“I do, sir.”

“Very well,” said Colonel Withers. “Call Mme. Cayrou.”

Mme. Cayrou entered and stood beside the witness chair in the middle of the floor. After she was sworn, I motioned to her to sit down. She stated that her name was Ernestine Aubert Cayrou, that she was married and a resident of Golbey, France.

Lieutenant Tenick said, “Mme. Cayrou, please tell the court what happened at your home on the evening of January 12 of this year.”

“Mme. Cayrou,” I repeated, “vous êtes priée de dire d la cour ce que s’est passé chez vous le soir du 12 janvier de l’année courante.”

Mme. Cayrou sighed and settled back into her chair. A great calm had descended upon her. All traces of nervousness had vanished. She spoke slowly in a clear voice: —

“On the evening of January 12 I was at home with my son Victor. I gave him dinner around sixthirty. About an hour later some friends came to visit me, Mme. Sénan and her daughter-in-law, Marie. They stayed until about eight-thirty and then went home.

“At nine o’clock Georgia came in. He had just returned from a trip with his truck and he was cold. He would often come in to warm himself after such a trip, before he returned to his camp. He was always quiet and well-behaved, and was kind to Victor. He always brought him a gift, some candy or a toy. Victor was fond of him.

“That night Georgia had a pistol with him. He always carried one in his truck and he used to wear it when he came to visit us. Firearms have always made me nervous and once I asked him not to bring them into my house. He stopped doing so, but that night he brought in the pistol to show it to me, because it was an odd pistol he had taken from a German prisoner. It had a mother-of-pearl handle and was very ornate. He said it was of Spanish manufacture. When he saw that I did not like it, he put it in his pocket and sat down near the stove.

“About fifteen minutes later Jim came in. He did not know Georgia and asked me who he was. I explained to him; he seemed very annoyed.”

Colonel Withers interrupted to ask if Jim spoke French.

“Yes, monsieur, but very badly. However, it was not difficult to understand him. Georgia does not speak French, other than a few simple words. Georgia could not have understood what we said to each other, but Jim made no effort to hide his displeasure, and Georgia became sullen.

“Jim sat down across the room from Georgia, and I sat down also and began to knit. I tried to make conversation, but Jim answered only ‘Yes’ or ‘No,’ and at about a quarter to ten I rose and put Victor to bed. While I was in the bedroom I heard Jim and Georgia speaking to each other.”

One of the majors wanted to know where the bedroom was situated in regard to the living room. Mme. Cayrou explained that she lived on the first floor of a two-story house. Her apartment consisted of three rooms and bath. One entered by a little hall; to the right of this hall was the kitchen; to the left, the living room. The bedroom lay at the back of the house. One had to cross the living room to enter it.

“ When I came out of the bedroom a few minutes later, the two men were glaring at each other across the room. Jim turned to me and told me to tell Georgia to go home. I did not wish to be unkind to Georgia, but I realized that his staying would only provoke a quarrel, and so I asked him to leave. But he only became more sullen.

“When Jim saw that he would not leave, he addressed several remarks to him in an angry voice. Georgia answered in the same way. They both stood up and shouted at each other across the table. Then I noticed that Victor was standing behind the stove in his nightgown. I do not know how long he had been there.

“I succeeded in calming the two, and they resumed their seats, more sullen than ever. I began to knit again; I did not know what else to do. I knitted for about fifteen minutes before I began to cry. I then asked Georgia again to go home, and Victor, who was still behind the stove, did so too.

“Georgia stood up, and Jim said something to him that made him very angry. He seized the edge of the table and shouted at Jim in a very loud voice. Jim pushed the table hard and Georgia staggered back. I stood up and cried, ‘Jim!’ and he stopped. For a moment he and Georgia stared at each other across the table. Then Georgia turned abruptly and walked toward the door. As he did so, Jim said a word that sounded like nègre, and Georgia whirled around, pulled out the pistol, and shot him.”

For the first time Mme. Cayrou showed emotion. Her voice broke on the last word. She lifted a handkerchief to her eyes and glanced sideways at the Negro prisoner. His face was expressionless.

Colonel Withers tactfully gave her a moment’s respite by saying “Harrumph,” and asked Lieutenant Tenick what state Jim was from. Tenick thumbed through his papers and answered, “North Carolina.” The officers glanced at each other. The captain nodded to no one in particular.

Mine. Cayrou had regained her poise. “I kneeled down beside Jim, who had fallen to the floor. His chest was bleeding. He was either dead or unconscious. Georgia was still by the door with the pistol in his hand. I cried, ‘What have you done? You have killed Jim!' Then I lost my head and ran to the bedroom door. I climbed out of the bedroom window and ran next door to the house of Dr. Benoit. Mayor Caen and the subprefect of police were there. I told them what had happened and begged them to come immediately. Perhaps Jim was not yet dead. They questioned me at such great length that I became hysterical. I think they were afraid to go into the house because of the pistol. I must have been in there ten or fifteen minutes before they came with me. When we entered the front door, Georgia and Jim were gone. Victor was there in his nightgown. He told us that Georgia had dragged the body outside.”

Lieutenant Bedell objected when this last statement was interpreted, on the grounds that this was hearsay evidence. It was sheer quibbling. Lieutenant Tenick said nothing, probably because the implication that Victor had some information to add to that of his mother would bolster his argument that the boy should be allowed to testify. Colonel Withers ordered the court stenographer to strike the last sentence from the record.

Mme. Cayrou went on. “We left the house and in the snow saw signs that something heavy had been dragged up the street. About twenty-five or thirty meters away we found Jim’s body lying on the sidewalk near the gutter—”

Lieutenant Tenick said, “I will interrupt here, as the court has already heard adequate testimony in the form of affidavits from Dr. Bénoit, Mayor Caën, and Prefect Gaulois, as to the manner of discovery of the body and its condition when discovered. The court has also been apprised of the steps leading to the arrest of Clarence Scott, known as ‘Georgia,’ and of information linking him to the murder of James William Buchanan, known as ‘Jim.’ I shall now ask the interpreter to put this question to Mme. Cayrou: Do you see in this court the person you have called ‘Georgia’?”

“Yes,” said Mme. Cayrou. “He is sitting over there.” She nodded toward the Negro prisoner.

“That’s all,” said Lieutenant Tenick, and sat down.

4

LIEUTENANT BEDELL stood up. He was a short, heavy-set man, with a face marked by smallpox. I knew him from previous cases as a heckler, a bullier of witnesses. His face wore a constant look of disbelief, so that witnesses became unnecessarily emphatic in their most commonplace statements.

Bedell began, as usual, with deceptive smoothness. He desired Mme. Cayrou to inform him just when her acquaintance with James William Buchanan, known as “Jim,” began. She answered that she had met Jim about three months previous to the night of the murder. And Georgia? About a month later.

How frequently did they visit her? That was difficult to say, since their visits were irregular. Perhaps once or twice a week.

“Did they ever spend the night at your home?” Bedell asked.

A spot of color came into Mme. Cayrou’s cheeks, but she looked steadily at Bedell as she said clearly, “Not Georgia.”

“Then the other man, Jim, did sometimes spend the night at your home?”

“Yes,” said Mme. Cayrou, “he sometimes did.”

Bedell leaned forward a little as he said quietly, “Madame, where is your husband?”

As I repeated the question in French, Mme. Cayrou looked at me and did not remove her gaze to reply, “He is a prisoner of the Germans.”

I made the statement in English, and bent forward to whisper, “Répondez au lieutenant, madame.”

Bedell straightened up abruptly and said to Colonel Withers in a poisonous tone, “If the court please, I should like to know exactly what the interpreter said to the witness over and above the question I addressed to her.”

Colonel Withers frowned. “What was that remark, Sergeant?”

“Sir,” I replied, “I requested the witness to address her statements to the defense counsel and not to me.”

The colonel’s face cleared. “I do not believe, Lieutenant,” he said drily, “that the interpreter has exceeded the limits of his duty. You may proceed.”

“Very well, sir,” said Bedell. “Madame, you would have the court believe that Georgia never spent the night at your home?”

“I have already informed the court,” said Mme. Cayrou, “that I allowed the Negro soldier to sit in my living room and warm himself at my fire. I did so because he was kind to my son. Our relationship was never more intimate.” Her tone was calm and dangerous.

Bedell did not seem to notice it at all. “May I ask,” he said with mock politeness, “whether any man, other than your husband and Jim, was in the habit of spending the night at your homo?”

Lieutenant Tenick, who had been becoming more and more restive, stood up and objected to the question as irrelevant and because it was an attempt to blacken the character of the witness.

“May it please the court,” said Bedell, “it is precisely because the character of the witness is of the utmost importance to this inquiry that I have asked the question. I wish to point out to the court that this is a very unusual case, in that the only responsible witness of the crime is one whose relationship with the victim was such that she would have every reason to bear a personal grudge against the prisoner, and one whose morals would not prevent her from gratifying that grudge.”

Neat. Very neat. Especially the marked emphasis on the word “responsible.”

Tenick said, “Would defense counsel have the court believe that a lonely woman who has found consolation in the arms of a lonely man is incapable of telling the truth?”

“Just a moment, gentlemen,” said Colonel Withers. He leaned over and whispered to Lieutenant Colonel Burton. Burton pursed his lips and nodded. Withers said slowly, “The court realizes that this is indeed an unusual case, the conditions of which may excuse questions possibly improper under other circumstances. The character of the witness is important here. Objection denied.”

Tenick sank back into his chair. Bedell said to me triumphantly, “Please interpret the question.”

“Would you repeat it, sir?” I said.

Bedell flushed but kept his temper, and repeated the question. As I restated it in French to Mme. Cayrou, she gazed at me for a moment in incomprehension. Then fury leaped into her eyes. At that moment she was beautiful. She turned to look at the seven officers one by one, striving to control herself. She said slowly and distinctly, “I have never loved more than one man at a time.”

It was brazen, it was magnificent; it deflated Bedell completely. The officers shifted uneasily on their chairs. Tenick smiled. Bedell was now a brute, Mme. Cayrou an erring but unrepentant woman who would not stoop to lie. Bedell had lost all possibility of insinuating that Georgia had lost his head through jealousy.

Bedell had a chastened look as he asked, “At any time during the evening, did either of the two men strike the other?”

“No,” said Mme. Cayrou tersely.

“When Jim pushed the table against Georgia, did Georgia fall to the floor?”

“No, he staggered back.”

“Was the table overturned?”

“No, monsieur,” said Mme. Cayrou. “Georgia’s position on the other side of it prevented it from toppling.”

“Would you explain to the court the exact positions of you, Jim, Georgia, and Victor when the shot was fired?”

“Very well, monsieur. Georgia was about a meter in front of the door leading to the hall. He was facing the living room. Directly in front of him was the living-room table and just behind it was Jim. They were about four meters apart. I was on Jim’s right, about a meter from him. Victor was out of the way in the corner behind the stove.”

“You have already stated, madame,” said Bedell, “that Jim showed displeasure at Georgia’s presence. Did you share his attitude?”

“No,” said Mme. Cayrou calmly, “Georgia was welcome at my house.”

At this point the Negro prisoner, who had sat unmoving the whole time, leaned forward and rested his forehead on his hands, palms down on the table. The entire court, including the perspiring stenographer, turned to look at him. There was an uncomfortable pause.

Colonel Withers coughed and said, “Please proceed, Lieutenant.”

Bedell said, “Did you think his attitude unreasonable?”

“Yes.”

“Then you had never seen him act that way before?”

Mme. Cayrou regarded Bedell steadily. There were daggers in the air, but when she spoke, her voice was mild. “After all,” she said, “the occasion had never arisen before.”

Bedell said quickly, “What I am driving at, madame, is that his unusual conduct may have been the result of intoxication. Do you believe that he was intoxicated?”

“No. He merely seemed to be in a bad humor.”

“Was Georgia intoxicated?” Bedell was casual.

“No. Until Jim came in, Georgia behaved as usual, except for showing me the pistol. It frightened me, and he put it away immediately. He sat near the stove and was very quiet. I have no reason to believe that he was intoxicated.

Bedell seemed disappointed. “Have you ever seen Georgia intoxicated?” he asked.

“I have seen him drink, monsieur, but I have never seen him affected by it.”

“Did you ever give him liquor to drink?”

“No,” said Mme. Cayrou. “But sometimes he brought a bottle of liquor with him.” She turned to the judges. “Messieurs,” she said earnestly, “I wish to impress upon you that Georgia always acted like a perfect gentleman. He was always quiet and well-behaved. When he brought a bottle to the house, he never drank more than a petit verre or two. Even now, although I saw it with my own eyes, I find it hard to believe he did this thing.”

Bedell shook his head impatiently. He wished to make the point that Georgia was drunk, or might have been drunk, or had at least had a drink. This, like the jealousy angle, was a bid for leniency from the court.

“Madame,” he said, “on the night in question, did Georgia have a bottle with him?”

“I saw no bottle, monsieur. But it was a cold night and he was wearing an overcoat when he entered. I cannot vouch for what was in the pockets.”

“Did you offer him a drink?”

“No, monsieur,” said Mme. Cayrou wearily, “I did not. I do not keep liquor in my house.”

Bedell frowned. “Did you leave the room at any time while the two men were there?”

The implication was that the moment Mme. Cayrou had left the room, Georgia had produced a bottle of liquor and guzzled it down; thereupon, crazed by liquor and irresponsible for his actions, he had shot down an unarmed man. Tenick’s eyebrows showed he thought the question silly.

“I put Victor to bed. Otherwise I was with them the entire time. Oh yes, I had forgotten, after they had had their first quarrel and Victor had re-entered the living room, I left for a few minutes.”

“Where did you go?” A gleam of hope lighted Bedell’s eye.

“To the bathroom, monsieur,” said Mme. Cayrou drily.

Bedell threw up his hands and said, “That’s all.”

Colonel Withers said, “The interpreter will conduct the witness to the witness room and remain in readiness to be called again, if necessary.”

“C’est tout, madame,” I said. “Venez avec moi, s’il vous plaît.” I saluted, turned, and walked out, followed by Mme. Cayrou. As we left, Lieutenant Tenick was saying, “May it please the court, the prosecution at this time wishes to present as a

witness Victor Cayrou, son of ——” The door,

closing behind us, cut off the disclosure of Victor’s parentage.

The Negro soldiers watched us return. They made no comment. Mme. Cayrou sat down on the bench she had formerly occupied. Victor was waiting for her.

“Were the messieurs nice, Mama?” he asked.

“Quito nice, Victor,” Mme. Cayrou replied. She looked at me with the beginnings of a smile. “Was it all right?” she asked.

“You were an excellent witness, madame,” I said,

“I am sure the officers thought I was very bold,” she said. Her eyes fluttered once, and then looked down demurely. There goes her act again, I thought.

I said, “Sometimes boldness is a good defense.”

She said softly, “Did you think I was bold, monsieur?”

5

I HAD a good answer for that one, but the courtroom door opened before I could use it. Lieutenant Tenick leaned out and told me to conduct Victor Cayrou before the court. He looked triumphant.

When we entered, Lieutenant Bedell was sitting down nursing a disgruntled look.

“Sergeant,” said Colonel Withers, “the court has decided to examine this child in order to discover whether he is mature enough to remember what he saw and whether he has enough understanding to tell the truth. Bring him here.”

I placed Victor directly in front of the colonel’s table. All the officers leaned forward and gazed down at the boy. Most of them were smiling.

“What is your name, my boy?” Colonel Withers said gently.

Victor looked at me. I repeated the question in French.

“My name is Victor Cayrou, monsieur,” he said politely.

“How old are you, Victor?”

“I am seven, monsieur.”

“Do you go to Sunday school?”

“Yes, monsieur, and to day school too; I can already read and write and I am making progress with numbers.”

Lieutenant Colonel Burton asked, “What do you learn in Sunday school?”

The boy took a deep breath. His tiny hand crept into mine. “Oh, I learn about le bon Dieu and our Saviour, and the angels and the saints, and they tell me stories about Heaven and that other place.”

Colonel Withers asked, “Did you learn about what happens to bad little boys?”

“Oh yes, monsieur, they are damned and go to Hell.”

“Victor, is it bad to tell a lie?”

“One must never tell lies, monsieur.”

“Then you understand that if you tell lies, you will not go to Heaven, but to Hell?”

The boy gazed up at the colonel. “You need not fear, monsieur,” he said with dignity. “I shall reply truthfully to anything you ask me.”

Colonel Withers straightened up with a grunt and glanced at the other officers. “It seems to me,” he said, “that the boy is quite intelligent and honest, and understands the difference between right and wrong. While I should ordinarily hesitate to place reliance on the uncorroborated testimony of anyone so young in a case as serious as this, it should be borne in mind that the boy can say very little that cannot be compared with the information furnished by his mother. I shall ask you for a vote. Is there any man opposed to accepting the testimony of this child?” No one stirred. “Very well, then, we shall proceed. Tell us, Victor, are you acquainted with anyone in this room?”

Victor glanced around. “I know this monsieur,” he said, pointing to me, “and this monsieur.” He pointed to Tenick. The light from the window behind the prisoner prevented him from getting a good look at Georgia’s face. He walked over to the prisoner’s table, peering up over its edge. “And this is Georgia. Bon jour, Georgia,” he added politely. The prisoner nodded with a forced smile.

“Very well, Victor,” said the colonel. “Do you remember what happened the last time Georgia visited your home?”

“Oh yes, monsieur,” he breathed, his eyes shining with intelligence. “Georgia shot Jim with a pistol.”

“Did you see this, Victor?”

“Yes, monsieur, I was behind the stove.”

Colonel Withers put on a big frown. “How can that be, Victor? Your mother informed us that you were in bed.”

The boy hastened to put him straight. He pointed out that it was quite true that his mother had put him to bed, but that he had heard the quarrel and had returned to the living room. There he had seen the whole thing. “So you see,” he said gently, “my mother must have been mistaken.”

“Well, perhaps she was,” admitted the colonel. “What did you see from behind the stove?”

“Both Jim and Georgia were angry, monsieur. They sat without talking. Mama was knitting. I was very sorry to see them so angry, and so when Mama came back —”

“Came back from where, Victor?”

“From the bathroom, monsieur. When she came back, I asked Georgia to go home.”

The colonel pretended not to understand. “I suppose you liked Jim better than Georgia, since you asked Georgia to leave.”

“Oh no, monsieur.” The child was emphatic. “I liked Georgia much better than Jim. Jim came to see Mama, but Georgia came to see me. But Mama wanted Jim to stay, so I asked Georgia to leave. Georgia and Jim shouted at each other, and Jim pushed the table. Then Georgia started to go, and Jim called him a name and Georgia shot him with the pistol.”

“What happened then, Victor?”

“Mama became excited and climbed out of the bedroom window. The noise had frightened me, but I went up to Georgia and took the pistol from his hand.”

The entire court was staring at the boy in amazement as Colonel Withers said, “Why did you do that?”

“I knew the gendarmes would come to take Georgia away. All the gendarmes in Golbey are my friends, and I did not wish Georgia to shoot any of them with the pistol.”

Lieutenant Bedell said, “Good God!” The two colonels looked at each other. Tenick’s mouth was open. Colonel Withers recovered himself first and said gently, “What did you do with the pistol, Victor?”

“I put it on the table, monsieur. Then Georgia dragged Jim out the door. I sat down to wait for Mama. A few minutes later Georgia returned and took the pistol from the table. I thought he would shoot me too, but he put it in his pocket, finished the bottle, and threw it out the window into the snow. Then he went away.”

There was a moment of silence as this statement sank in. Then I saw Bedell’s head lift with a question in his eyes. Georgia, who had been staring stonily at his hands on the table before him, looked up at the boy. Tenick stood up. The same question was in everybody’s mind as Lieutenant Colonel Burton asked, “What bottle?”

“The bottle of cognac, monsieur,” said Victor respectfully.

Bedell, Tenick, and one of the majors all started to say something at the same time.

“Just a minute, gentlemen,” said Colonel Withers, spreading out his hands. He looked down at the boy standing before him. “Victor, I wish to remind you that you promised to tell the truth. You must be very careful what you say. I want you to tell us all about this bottle of cognac.”

“Yes, monsieur. When Papa went away to fight the Boches, he left a bottle of cognac hidden in the house. It was hidden because he was afraid Mama would destroy it. Mama did not wish him to drink cognac, only wine. Mama did not know that he had left it, but I knew. That night I showed Georgia the bottle and he took three drinks very quickly.”

Bedell was staring at the boy as at an angel. He leaned toward the prisoner and whispered in his ear. The Negro shrugged his shoulders.

Colonel Withers said, “Now, just a moment.” His voice was sharp. “Victor, your mother told us that Georgia had nothing to drink at your home. Are you sure you are telling us the truth?”

“Oh, monsieur!” Victor was reproachful. “Mama did not see Georgia drink the cognac. She was in the bathroom. I hid the bottle again afterward, before she came out.”

Colonel Withers looked at Burton and then at the other officers. The captain was clearing his throat to say something when Tenick said, “If the court please, I should like to ask the boy some questions.” His face was stern,

“Very well.”

“Victor,” said Tenick, “where was this cognac hidden?”

“In the china closet,” said Victor tranquilly. “The bottle was in the large earthenware teapot that Mama never uses.”

“What did you do with the glass he drank from?”

“He drank from the bottle, monsieur.”

Tenick stared at the boy. The boy’s eyes were clear and honest; he waited courteously for the next question. Tenick looked over Victor’s head to Bedell, who was smiling. Bedell’s eyes said, “This is your witness. This is the boy you insisted on hearing, because it would hang the nigger. And here he is, giving me a perfect bid for clemency. My boy was drunk. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Tenick went to work on the boy. He had him tell the whole story of the evening all over again. He made him repeat each detail about the cognac twice. What kind of bottle opener was used? Could Victor reach the earthenware teapot without assistance? Did he offer Jim a drink? Tenick’s attitude had changed. He seemed anxious to disprove the boy’s story. He tried to trip him up on details. The court listened patiently. To all these questions Victor replied clearly and to the point. He did not repeat himself word for word, but his facts were substantially the same.

Tenick stopped harping on the cognac and tried another tack. He asked, “Which one of the two men overturned the table?”

The boy was surprised. “Oh, the table was not overturned, monsieur. Jim pushed it against Georgia, but it did not fall.”

“Where was your mother standing when the shot was fired?”

Victor stepped backward and surveyed the room. Putting his hand on the stenographer’s table, he said, “This is the table.” He pointed to Lieutenant Tenick, who had moved forward in front of it. “This is Jim.” He pointed to me. “This is Georgia.” He walked to Tenick’s right side, about a yard from him. “I am Mama.” The tableau he had arranged was exactly that described by his mother.

All seven officers leaned back in their chairs and looked at each other. Tenick said, “That’s all,” and sat down. He looked sick.

Colonel Withers’s eyes asked a question of Lieutenant Bedell, who shrugged his shoulders, still smiling.

“Very well,” said the colonel. “Sergeant, you will conduct Victor Cayrou to the witness room. While the court is hearing the summing up of the two counsels, you will make arrangements with the mess to have supper brought on trays to the witness room for yourself and the two witnesses. I am sorry to have to keep them here, but it may be necessary to ask them additional questions.”

I saluted and left the courtroom with Victor.

6

AT seven Mme. Cayrou, Victor, and I had our supper on trays. We were alone in the witness room. The Negro witnesses had left long ago. At seven-thirty Spiegel, who had been waiting for me in the witness room when Victor and I came out and whom I had asked to scout around to find some chocolate, brought me half a dozen bars wrapped in a sheet of paper.

Victor fell asleep shortly afterward, and at eightthirty Mme. Cayrou and I were still waiting for some sign of life from beyond the courtroom doors. I was on my third pipeful and Mme. Cayrou had made a big dent in my pack of cigarettes when Tenick came out and told me to bring her into the court. There Tenick asked her what was kept in the large earthenware teapot in her china closet.

Mme. Cayrou was surprised, but answered that she kept a large bottle of cough syrup in the teapot. When Victor was five he had had bronchitis, which had left him with an irritating cough. She had dosed him through one bottle and had just started the second bottle, containing half a liter, or about a pint, when Victor got rid of the cough. Since that time she had kept the bottle in the teapot. No, it was not a bottle of the type used for cognac, it was a large medicine bottle which she had purchased from the town apothecary.

The last time she had seen the bottle? The night of the murder. She had used the teapot that very evening, since she had made a cup of tea for her guests, the Mesdames Sénan. She remembered positively removing the bottle in order to scald the pot.

Was the bottle still in her home? No. After the Mesdames Sénan had left her home, she had rinsed and dried the teapot and replaced the cough syrup. She had not used the teapot again since that time. But only two days ago she had looked for the syrup bottle, as Victor had started coughing again, and it was not there. Had she asked Victor if he knew where it was? Yes, but he had said something silly about Georgia having taken it. Really, it was unlike Victor to say such a foolish thing.

No, she had never tasted the syrup herself, nor for well over a year had Victor. Was she sure it was cough syrup? Well, of course. What else would it be?

At this Colonel Withers looked grim, and told me to conduct Mme. Cayrou to the witness room and to bring Victor in. This time there was no smiling as the American officers looked down at the little boy. Victor felt the difference in their attitude, and his little-girl face was grave and his eyes watchful,

“Victor,” said Colonel Withers, “you have told us that there was a bottle of cognac hidden in the earthenware teapot in the china closet. Your mother has told us it was not cognac, but something else.”

“Mama thought it was cough syrup,” said Victor.-

“Oh, for God’s sake!” said Lieutenant Tenick.

“Just a moment, Lieutenant,” said Withers sharply. “What do you mean, Victor?”

“When I was little, monsieur, I was ill with a cough and Mama gave me cough syrup. When I was better, Papa poured out the cough syrup and put cognac in the bottle. In this way, he was able to keep some in the house without Mama finding it. Mama did not see him do it, but I did.”

The expression on Tenick’s face said, I’ll just bet you did. All the officers but Colonel Withers began to smile, and he looked as if he wanted to, but controlled himself.

“Now, Victor, do you mean to say that your father went away with the Army and left the cognac behind?”

Victor glanced up at the colonel quickly, then looked away. He seemed confused; his face was delicately pink.

“No, monsieur,” he said miserably. “Papa meant to take it with him. He put the bottle in his pack, but I took it out when he went into the kitchen to kiss Mama good-bye, because I knew Mama did not want him to drink cognac. I put it back in the teapot for when he would come home.”

That finished little Victor’s testimony. I led him away by the hand.

There is not much more to tell. Clarence Scott, known as Georgia, was given ten years by the general court-martial, which took into consideration the fact that he was intoxicated at the time of the murder, and acted under provocation of insult. It would have been from twenty years to life if, as Tenick put it, “that damned kid hadn’t gummed up the works with that cognac deal.” Tenick thought the whole business an invention, but had to concede that the boy’s story was corroborated at every other point by his mother’s testimony, and that the uncorroborated part could have been true.

I asked him what Georgia had said about the cognac. Tenick growled in disgust, “Until the kid mentioned it, Georgia never said a word. But Bedell made sure his memory was refreshed. Sure he remembered having drunk the cognac. Why shouldn’t he?”

There is one point that has always puzzled me. When the trial was over and little Victor was being bundled up for the cold jeep ride back to Golbey, I handed him the chocolate wrapped in paper.

“What is this, monsieur?” he asked.

“Your chocolate, Victor. I promised you some if you were a good boy and told the truth. Here it is.”

He looked unhappy; there was a wistful look in his eyes, but his delicate jaw was firm as he handed it back to me.

“Forgive me, monsieur,” he whispered. “I cannot.”

And I couldn’t make him take it. As he climbed beside his mother in the back of the jeep, he kept repeating, “Je ne le peux pas, je ne le peux pas — I cannot.”

Of course, I gave the chocolate to his mother. Mme. Cayrou could not imagine what had got into Victor. “He loves sweets so, poor darling,” she said. “He is undernourished, like all the children in France. I shall make him take it when we get home. Perhaps some day you will visit us and bring Victor some sweets?”

I was standing beside the jeep. The driver had started the motor. For no reason at all, I seemed to hear again little Victor’s girl-like voice saying, “Jim came to see Mama, but Georgia came to see me.” Mme. Cayrou was leaning toward me slightly. Her eyes were an open invitation. Her lips were parted. Her whole face seemed transformed. I thought, What, me next? It was just as well that the driver started off then without warning. After all, how do you say, “Not on your life, sister!” in French?