The Murder Farm Read Online Free PDF Page B

the engine a trial run, and then I’d be off double quick.
    I fit the padlock back where it was before. Put my stuff on the bike and set off through the middle of the farmyard.
    As I was pushing the bike around the house, there still wasn’t a soul in sight. But the door of the old machinery shed was open, and it hadn’t been open before. I’m certain of that.
    So I think to myself, maybe there’s someone there after all. And I leave my bike again and go a few steps over to the shed.
    “Hello, anyone there?” I called, but no answer this time, either. Nothing.
    I didn’t want to go any farther into the shed, it somehow didn’t seem right to me.
    I went to the front door of the house again and shook it, but, like I said, it was locked.
    Nothing would have kept me at that farm any longer. I was glad to get away from the place.
    I must have finished the repair just after two, because on the way back to the village I heard the church clock strike the half hour.
    Did I see anyone else in the fields? No, not a soul. Only a couple of crows. No wonder in that weather. It had started raining again, a light drizzle. I cycled as if the Devil himself was after me.
    All the way back from the farm I kept thinking, suppose there really was someone there; he’d have been bound to hear the sound of the engine’s trial run, couldn’t miss it.
    I must have been wrong, there wasn’t anyone there, but that shadow, the voice inside me, the odd feeling, well, I don’t know.
    When I got to my next job in Einhausen, I told them the story, because I couldn’t get it out of my head.
    I’d been over five hours at the Danner farm in Tannöd, and no one came along. Five hours alone at that farm without setting eyes on a living soul.
    Frau Brunner in Einhausen thought it was very strange, too. “If only because of the little boy they have there. A child like that has to sleep, has to eat something,” she said. “You can’t just go wandering around like gypsies, not with a small child.”
    But all her husband said was, “They’ll be getting in wood, that takes time.”

T he knife. Where’s the knife, his pocketknife? He always has it on him, in his back trouser pocket. It’s been a fixed habit since the day he was first given that knife.
    He can still remember every detail; he got it the day he was confirmed. A present from his sponsor at his confirmation. A clasp knife, a beautiful, useful knife with a brown handle. It was in a box. He remembers every detail.
    He remembers the gift wrapping of the box. Thin tissue paper printed with flowers, garden flowers in bright colors. And the package was done up with a red bow. He was so eager to undo it, he tore the paper. A brown cardboard box came into sight. His hands trembled with excitement and delight as he opened that box. And there it lay, a pocketknife. His pocketknife. From that day on, he proudly took the knife around with him everywhere he went. It was his most precious possession.
    None of the other village boys had a knife like that. He still sensed the good feeling he had when he took the knife in his hand or just had it somewhere on him. He often liked to holdit, passing it from one hand to the other. It gave him a sense of security. Yes, security.
    Over the years, the knife became worn with much use. But the feeling stayed with him.
    And now he’s been looking for the knife all day. When did he last use it? Where had he left it?
    He goes through this last day again in his mind. Slowly, as if emerging from the mist, a picture comes before his eyes. He sees himself, knife in hand, cutting off a piece of smoked meat. Sees himself putting the pocketknife down beside the plate with the meat on it.
    He feels uneasiness rise slowly inside him. His heart is racing; his heart’s in his mouth. He didn’t put the knife back in his pocket. He was sure of that. He left the knife there. His knife. His knife is in the larder next to the smoked meat. He sees it there in his mind’s eye