Pryce rose from his seat and moved across the room, as if abruptly driven by ideas. He opened a small chest made from an empty parcel box and removed tea and cups.
'Phillip,' Tommy said, feeling a sense of relief for the first time that morning, 'you sly dog. You're driving at something.
What is it?'
'No. No. Not quite yet,' Pryce replied, almost cackling.
'I think I shall not speculate further until I know more. Tommy, my dear boy, throw another fagot on the stove, let us have tea. I have prepared some notes for you that should help you with procedural matters to come. I have also suggested some avenues of inquiry…'
Pryce hesitated, then added, instantly dropping the humor from the edges of his words, adopting a seriousness that weighted them in
Tommy's mind: 'The next few hours will be critical, I suspect. More will happen that influences this case. Watch your client carefully when he is released. Hugh, rely on your own instincts. I think it would be wise for all of us if we could fix in our own minds a settled belief in Lieutenant Scott's denial.'
Both men nodded. Pryce took a deep breath.
'Belief is an odd thing for a defense counsel, Tommy. It is not necessary to believe in your client to defend him. Some would say that it is easier to not truly have an opinion, that the maneuverings of the law are only clouded by the emotions of trust and honesty. But this situation is not one that lends itself, I think, to the usual interpretations. In our case, to defend Lieutenant Scott, I think you must subscribe wholeheartedly to his innocence, no matter how difficult he makes that achievement. Of course, with this belief goes greater responsibility.
His life will truly be in your hands.'
Tommy nodded.
'I will search for the truth when I see him,' he said, rather portentously, which caused Phillip Pryce to smile again, like a headmaster at a boys' school slightly bemused by the over eagerness but undeniable sincerity of his charges.
'I think we're some ways from discovering truths, Tommy lad. But it would be wise to start hunting for them. Lies are always easier to find than truths. Perhaps we can exhume a few of those.'
'Will do,' Tommy replied.
'Ah, that's the Red, White, and Blue, All-American attitude.
Thank God for that.'
Pryce coughed and laughed, then he turned to the younger men.
'And Tommy, Hugh, one further thing. A critical thing, I think.'
'What is it?'
'Find the spot where Trader Vic was murdered. The location will speak loudly.'
'I'm not sure how.'
'You will find it by doing what a true advocate must do to truly understand his case.'
'What is that?'
'Put yourself into the hearts and minds of everyone involved.
The murdered man. The accused. And do not neglect the men who stand in judgment. For there may be many reasons that buttress the prosecution of a case, and many reasons a verdict is delivered, and it is critical that before that event takes place, you understand completely and utterly all the forces at work so diligently.'
Tommy nodded.
Pryce reached for a teapot and grandly swished it in the air to determine if it was filled with water, then plopped it on top of the old cast-iron stove.
'Hugh's famous lumberjack may be sitting on the floor with a discharged gun in his lap and reeking from alcohol.
But who gave him the gun? And who poured him the drink?
And who called him a name, prompting the fight? And, more important, who truly stands to lose or gain by the death of the poor sod lying on the barroom floor?'
Pryce smiled again, grinning at both Renaday and Hart.
'All the forces. Tommy. All the forces.'
He paused, then added, 'My goodness, I haven't had this much fun since that damnable Messerschmidt got us in his sights. Tea ready, Hugh?'
For a moment, the older man's smile flickered, as he added, 'Of course, probably young Mr.
Scott fails to find all this quite so intriguing as I do.'
'Probably not,' Tommy said.
'Because I still think they mean to kill him.'
'That's the bloody problem with war,' Hugh Renaday muttered as he tended to the teapot and the chipped, white ceramic mugs.
'There's always some right nasty bastard out there trying to kill you.
Who wants a spot of milk?'
The guard outside Lieutenant Lincoln Scott's cooler cell let the two fliers in without a word. It was closing in on noon, though the interior of the cell made it seem more like the gray of the hour just after dawn. Tommy assumed that Scott's pseudo-release order would be processed soon, but he thought it would be more interesting to question Scott when he was still in the unsettled state that the isolation and starkness of the cooler created. He said as much to Hugh, who'd nodded and replied: 'Let's let me take a whack at him. The old provincial policeman's dull but sturdy approach, perhaps?'
This Tommy agreed to.
The Tuskegee airman was in a corner of the cooler doing push-ups when Tommy and Hugh entered. Scott was snapping off the exercises, his body rising and falling like a metronome, counting out the numbers, the words echoing in the small, damp space. He raised his head as they came through the door, but did not stop until he reached one hundred.
Then he pushed himself to his feet, staring at Hugh, who met his gaze with a singularly intense response of his own.
'And this is?' Scott asked.
'Flying Officer Hugh Renaday. He's my friend, and he's here to help.'
Scott extended his hand, and the two men shook. But the black man did not release Hugh's grip immediately. Instead, they remained linked for a second or two in silence, while the black flier stared hard into every angle of the Canadian's face.
Hugh returned the look with as withering a glare of his own.
Then Scott said: 'A policeman, right? Before the war.'
Hugh nodded.
Scott suddenly dropped his hand.
'All right, Mr. Policeman.
Ask your questions.'
Hugh smiled briefly.
'Why do you think I have any questions for you, Lieutenant Scott?'
'Why else would you be here?'
'Well, clearly Tommy needs help. And if Tommy needs assistance, then so do you. And we are speaking of a crime, which means evidence and witnesses and procedures. Do you not think a former policeman can help with these matters?
Even here, in Stalag Luft Thirteen?'
'I suppose so.'
Hugh nodded.
'Good,' he said.
'Glad to get that straight, right off the top. A few other things you can clear up, as well,
