He finished his examination and scribbled something in a note-book. “Death must have taken place nearly five hours ago,” he merely remarked: it was the conclusion I had already come to myself.
“And how about the papers?” the surgeon continued. “You have them, I suppose? This way, please.”
We left the half-stripped body on the blood-stained oil-cloth, and he led me into an office where a functionary sat behind a littered desk.
“The papers? Thank you. You haven’t examined them? Let us see, then.”
I handed over the leather note-case I had thrust into my pocket the evening before, and saw for the first time its silver-edged corners and the coronet in one of them. The official took out the papers and spread them on the desk between us. I watched him absently while he did so.
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation. “Ah—that’s a haul!” he said, and pushed a bit of paper toward me. On it was engraved the name: Oberst Graf Benno von Scharlach....
“A good riddance,” said the surgeon over my shoulder.
I went back to the courtyard and saw Réchamp still smoking his cigarette in the cold sunlight. I don’t suppose I’d been in the hospital ten minutes; but I felt as old as Methuselah.
My friend greeted me with a smile. “Ready for breakfast?” he said, and a little chill ran down my spine.... But I said: “Oh, all right—come along....”
For, after all, I knew there wasn’t a paper of any sort on that man when he was lifted into my ambulance the night before: the French officials attend to their business too carefully for me not to have been sure of that. And there wasn’t the least shred of evidence to prove that he hadn’t died of his wounds during the unlucky delay in the forest; or that Réchamp had known his tank was leaking when we started out from the lines.