Abruptly, Tommy stopped. He turned and eyed Fritz Number One carefully. “You found the body? Right, Fritz? Just before morning Appell, right? Fritz, what the hell were you doing in the compound then? It was still dark, and no Germans are wandering around inside the wire after lights out, because the tower guards have orders allowing them to shoot anyone seen moving around the camp. So why were you there, when you could have been shot by one of your own men?”
Fritz Number One smiled. “Anything,” he whispered. Then he shook his head. “I have helped you now, lieutenant, but to say more might be extremely dangerous. For the both of us.” The ferret gestured toward the gate to the British compound, swinging open to allow him to enter.
Tommy held a number of questions in check, passed the German another cigarette as he had promised, and then, after a momentary hesitation, pressed the remainder of the package into the ferret’s hand. Fritz Number One grunted a surprised thanks and broke into a grin. Then he waved Tommy forward, and watched as the American walked into the British camp, looking for Renaday and Pryce, Tommy’s head starting to swim with ideas. Neither man paid much attention to a squad of British officers, all carrying towels, soap, and meager assortments of spare clothing, heading in the opposite direction toward the shower block. A pair of desultory, bored, and unarmed German guards, their heads drooping as if they were fatigued, escorted the men, who cheerily marched through the dust of the front gate, breaking into the usual wildly ribald song as they strolled past.
“Most curious,” Phillip Pryce said, leaning his head back momentarily to scan the skies for a stray thought, then pitching forward and fixing Tommy with his most unwavering gaze. “Truly, most intriguing. There’s no doubt, my lad, that he was trying to say something?”
“No doubt whatsoever,” Tommy replied, kicking at the ground, raising a puff of dirt with his boot. The three men were collected by the side of one of the huts.
“I don’t trust Fritz, not any of the Fritzes, not Number One, Two, or Three, and I don’t trust any other bloody fucking Kraut,” Hugh muttered. “No matter what he says. Why would he help us? Answer me that one, counselor.”
Pryce coughed hard once or twice. He was sitting with his pants rolled up in a spot of warm sunshine, both feet lowered into a rough dented steel basin that he periodically replenished with near-boiling water. He held one foot up, eyeing it. “Blisters, boils, and athlete’s foot, which, of course, in my case is an immense contradiction in terms,” he said with a mock-rueful grin. He coughed dryly once again. “My God, I’m bloody well falling apart at the seams, boys. Nothing seems to work too well.” He smiled again, turning toward the Canadian. “You’re right, of course, Hugh. But on the other hand, what incentive would Fritz have to lie?”
“I don’t know. He’s a right devious bastard. And always angling for promotions and medals or whatever it is the Krauts like to reward their bloody hard workers with.”
“A man out for himself?”
“Absolutely, goddamn right,” Hugh snorted.
Pryce nodded, turning back to Tommy, who anticipated what the older man was about to say and beat him to it.
“But, Hugh,” he said swiftly, “that suggests that he would be telling me the truth. Or at least trying to point me in some correct direction. Even if he is a German, we all agree that Fritz is mainly out for himself. And he sees everything in the camp as an opportunity. More or less the same way Trader Vic did.”
“So,” Hugh asked, “what do you suppose he’s talking about?”
“Well, what are we missing? What do we need to know?”
Hugh smiled. “Two things: the truth—and the means of finding it.”
Pryce nodded. He turned back to Tommy and spoke with sudden intensity: “I think this could be important, Tommy. Very much so. Why was Fritz inside the wire in the predawn dark? He could very well have paid for that little trip with his life if he’d been spotted by one of these teenagers that the Krauts are enlisting and putting up in the guard towers. And it doesn’t seem to me that Fritz is the type of gentleman to risk an accidental death unless the reward is great.”
“Personal reward,” Hugh added. “I don’t think Fritz does much for the fatherland unless it helps him out, as well.”
Pryce clapped his hands together once, as if the ideas flooding through his head were as warm as the water he was pouring over his ravaged feet. But when he spoke, it was slowly, with a deliberateness that surprised Tommy. “Suppose Fritz’s presence implies both?” Pryce then made his hand into a fist and waved it with a sense of triumph in the air in front of him. “I think, gentlemen, that we have been slightly foolish. We have spent our time considering the murder of Trader Vic and the accusation against Lincoln Scott in precisely the manner that the opposition desires. Perhaps it is time to consider these things differently.”
Tommy Hart sighed. “Phillip, once again, you’re being cryptic and slightly obtuse.”
“But that’s my manner, my dear boy.”
“After the war,” Tommy said, “I think I shall require you to come visit the States. A lengthy visit. And I will force you to sit around an old woodstove inside the Manchester General Store one day in the dead of winter when the snow is piled up about six feet high outside the window and listen to some old Vermonters talk about the weather, the crops, the upcoming fishing season in the spring, and whether or not this kid Williams the Red Sox have playing for them will ever amount to anything in the majors. And you will discover that we Yankees speak concisely and always directly to the point. Whatever the hell that point might be.”
Pryce burst into a laugh tinged with coughing.
“A lesson in forthrightness, is that what you have in mind?”
“Yes. Precisely. Straight-shooting.”
“Ah, a distinctly American phrase, that.”
“And a quality that will be needed on Monday morning at zero eight hundred, when Scott’s trial commences.”
Hugh grinned. “He’s right about that, Phillip. Take it from me: our southern neighbors are nothing if not straightforward. Especially MacNamara, the SAO. He’s right out of West Point and probably has the uniform code of military conduct tattooed on his chest. It won’t do a lick of good to suggest anything in trial. The man has little imagination. We’re going to have to be exact.”
Pryce seemed abruptly to be lost in thought.
“Yes, yes, that is so,” he said slowly, “but I wonder . . .”
The emaciated, wheezing Englishman held up his hand, cutting off both Tommy and Hugh from speaking. Both men could see his mind working hard behind his eyes, which darted about.
“I think,” Pryce started slowly, after a long pause, “that we should reassess the entirety of the crime. What do we know?”
“We know that Vic was killed in a hidden spot an entire alleyway away from the location where his body was actually found. We know that his corpse was discovered by a German ferret who shouldn’t have been inside the camp at that hour. We know that the murder weapon and the very method of death are different from that which the prosecution will contend. . . .”
Tommy paused, then added, “Arrayed against these elements, we have Lincoln Scott’s bloody shoes, bloodstained flight jacket, a weapon that also has blood on it, though it is doubtful that it was used in the killing. . . .”
Tommy sighed, continuing, “And we have well-documented animosity and threats.”
Pryce nodded his head slowly. “Perhaps we would be wise to examine all the factors separately. Hugh, tell me: What does moving the body tell you?”
“That the murder location would compromise the killer.”
“Would Lincoln Scott have moved the body closer to his own hut?”
“No. That would make no sense.”
“But putting Vic in the Abort made sense to someone.”
“Someone who needed to make certain that the actual crime scene vicinity wasn’t searched. And, if you consider it, who would do more than a perfunctory examination of the body inside
the Abort? The place smells. . . .”
“Visser did,” Hugh grunted. “It didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest.”
“Ah,” Pryce grinned. “An interesting observation. Yes. Tommy, I think it is safe to assume that despite his Luftwaffe uniform, Herr Visser is Gestapo. And a policeman with expertise. And it is doubtful that whoever moved Vic’s body would have anticipated his arrival on the scene. They would probably have assumed that the somewhat prissy and stiff Von Reiter would be in charge of the crime scene. Now, would Commandant Von Reiter have carefully searched the Abort? Not bloody likely. But all this prompts a second question: If the killer wanted to avoid a search of a specific location . . . well, who was he afraid of? Germans or Americans?”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “The trouble is, Phillip, every time I think we’re making some sort of progress, new questions arise.”
Hugh snorted. “Damn right. Why can’t things be simple?”
Pryce reached out and touched the hulking Canadian on the arm. “But you see, accusing Scott of the crime is simple. And therein lies the lie, if you will.”
Pryce wheezed a laugh, which translated into a cough, but still smiling, still enjoying himself, still delighting in each intricacy they unfolded, he turned back to Tommy.
“And the unexplained and somewhat surprising appearance of Fritz Number One on the scene? This tells us what?”
“That he had a deeply compelling reason to be there.”
“Do you think that the illicit trade of some item of contraband could bring Fritz and Trader Vic out in the dead of night at considerable risk to the both of them?”
“No.” Tommy spoke before Hugh could reply. “Not for a minute. Because Vic had already managed to trade for all sorts of illegal items. Cameras. Radios. Souvenirs. ‘Anything . . .’ Fritz said. But even the most special of acquisitions can still be managed in regular daytime hours. Vic was an expert at that.”
“So, whatever it was that put both Vic and Fritz Number One out and abroad in the midst of considerable danger had to be something extremely valuable to the both of them. . . .” Pryce mused. “And something that was best hidden from everyone else in the camp.”
“You’re assuming that it was the same thing that brought them out. We don’t know that,” Tommy said sharply.
“But, I suspect, it is the avenue we are obligated to travel,” Pryce said with determination. He turned to Tommy. “Do you see something in all this, Thomas?”
And Tommy did. “Something best hidden . . .” An electric idea raced through his imagination. He was about to speak, when the thoughts of all three men were sharply interrupted by a sudden burst of shouts and alarm coming from outside the wire, past the main gate. In unison, all three turned toward the noise, and as they did, they stiffened as they heard the staccato sound of a weapon being fired, the crack of the rifle riveting the afternoon air.
“What the bloody hell . . .” Hugh started to ask.
Almost instantly, a detachment of guards, their uniforms hastily thrown on, but bearing weapons at port arms, emerged from a building in the administration compound. The soldiers were jamming steel helmets onto their heads, trying to button their tunics. The squad took off sharply, running down the road past the commandant’s office, a Feldwebel shouting hurried instructions. No sooner had the air filled with the heavy tread of their boots slapping into the hard dirt road, than at least a half-dozen ferrets blasting away at their whistles came racing through the front gate, screaming obscenities and urgent commands between shrill shrieks from their whistles. The siren that was ordinarily used only for air raids started up, wailing loudly. Tommy, Hugh, and Pryce all saw Fritz Number One in the midst of the group. The German spotted them and, waving his arms wildly, roared angrily: “In formation! Line up! Line up! Raus! Schnell! Immediately! We must count!”
None of the ferret’s usual wheedling jocularity was contained in any of the words. His voice was high-pitched, insistent, and frantically demanding. He pointed a finger at Tommy. “You! Lieutenant Hart! You are to stand to the side and be counted with the British!”
Another nearby volley of rifle shots creased the air.
Without any further explanation, Fritz Number One raced into the center of the camp, continuing to shout commands. As he passed, the parade ground began to fill with British airmen, all struggling into their jackets, pulling on boots, jamming caps on their heads, hurrying toward the unexpected Appell. Tommy turned to his two companions, only to hear Phillip Pryce feverishly whisper a single wonderful, yet terrible, altogether heart-stopping word:
“Escape!”
The British airmen stood at attention in their assembly yard for nearly an hour, as ferrets moved up and down the rows of men, counting and recounting, swearing in German, refusing to answer any questions, especially the most important. Tommy lingered perhaps a half-dozen yards to the side of the last block of men, flanked on either side by two other American officers who’d also been caught inside the British compound when the escape attempt took place. Tommy only barely recognized the two other Americans; one was a chess champion from Hut 120 who frequently bribed goons to let him pass over to where the competition was better. The other was a slender actor from New York who’d been enlisted by the British for one of their theatrical performances. The onetime fighter pilot made a more than convincing blond bombshell, when decked out in homemade wig, cheap makeup, and a slinky black evening gown refashioned by the camp’s tailors from scraps of worn and tattered uniforms, and was therefore in demand in both compounds’ theatrical productions.
“Still can’t figure what fer Christ’s sakes is going on,” the chess master whispered, “but the Krauts sure look angry as hell.”
“Lotsa talk. And a couple of those formations look to be shy more than a couple of men,” the actor replied. “Think they’ll keep us here much longer?”
“You know the damn Germans,” Tommy replied softly. “If there’s only nine guys standing where yesterday there were ten, well, hell, they’ve got to count maybe a hundred times over and over, just to make sure they’re right. . . .”
Both the other Americans grunted in assent.
“Hey,” the chess champion muttered, “look who’s coming. The Big Cheese, himself. And ain’t that the new little cheese, right at his side? The guy who’s supposed to be watching over your show, right, Hart?”
Tommy looked across the compound and saw that a red-faced Oberst Von Reiter, in full dress uniform, as if he’d been interrupted on the way to an important meeting, was striding down the steps of the main office building. Trailing behind him, in his usual slightly rumpled, much less spit-and-polished appearance, was Hauptmann Heinrich Visser. In contrast to Von Reiter’s hard-edged eyes and ramrod bearing, Visser seemed to have a faint look of amusement on his face. But Visser’s half-smile could just as easily have been a look of cruelty, Tommy thought, which probably spoke a great deal about the sort of man he was.
The two officers were trailed by a substantial squad of goons, all bearing machine pistols or rifles. In the midst of this group, close to two dozen British officers, all in various forms of undress—including two totally naked men—emerged from the camp offices. One man was limping slightly. The two naked men wore immense grins on their faces. All seemed cheery, and more than slightly pleased with themselves, despite the fact that they were marched forward with their hands clasped behind their heads.
The actor and the chess champion saw the same contrast between the Germans and the English at the same moment Tommy did. But the chess champion whispered, “The limeys might think this is something of a joke, but I’ll bet the house that Von Reiter doesn’t find it all so damn funny.”
The officers and the captured men marched past the gate and came to a rest at the front of the formations of British airmen. The Senior British Officer, a mustachioed, ruddy-faced bomber pilot with a shock of reddish hair streaked with gray, stepped to the front, calling the men in their ranks to attention, and several thousand sets o
f heels clicked together smartly. Von Reiter glared at the SBO, then turned to the rows of airmen.
“You British, you think war is some game? Some sort of sport, like your cricket or rugby?” he demanded in a loud, angry voice that carried over the heads of the assembled men. “You think we play at this?”
Von Reiter’s fury fell like a thunderstorm on their heads. No one replied. The captured men behind him slowly grew silent.
“It is all a joke to you?”
From within the ranks a single voice called out in a heavy mock-Cockney accent: “Anything to break the bleedin’ monotony, guv’nah!”
There was laughter, which faded quickly under Von Reiter’s glare. His eyes flashed with rage.
“I can assure you that the Luftwaffe High Command does not consider escape to be a laughing matter.”
From another section, a different voice, this time with an Irish lilt, answered, “Well then, boyo, the joke’s on you this time!”
Another smattering of laughs, which again ceased almost instantly.
“Is it now?” Von Reiter asked coldly.
The Senior British Officer stepped forward. Tommy could hear him quietly reply, somewhat contradictorily, “But my dear Commandant Von Reiter, I assure you, no one is making jokes—”
Von Reiter sliced his riding crop through the air, cutting off the British officer’s response.
“Escape is forbidden!”
“But, commandant—”
“Verboten!”
“Yes, but—”
Von Reiter turned to the assembly. “I have this day received new directives from my superiors in Berlin. They are simple: Allied airmen attempting to escape from prisoner-of-war camps within the Reich will now be treated as terrorists and spies! Upon your capture, you will not be returned to Stalag Luft Thirteen! You will be shot on sight!”
Silence seized the assembly. It took several seconds for the Senior British Officer to reply, and when he did, it was in a flat, cold voice.
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