Tommy remembered that Fritz Number One had been inordinately proud of himself the day he'd uncovered one of the hiding places, because the discovery of one led him immediately to the uncovering of more than two dozen similar locations in different bunk rooms in other huts.
Consequently, the kriegies had abandoned stashing items beneath the flooring over a year earlier, which frustrated Fritz Number One, because he kept searching the same spots over and over again.
'Colonel!
'Tommy heard himself shouting.
'This is unfair!'
'Unfair, is it?' Major Clark replied.
The stocky senior officer reached down into the empty space and came up, smiling, clutching a long, flat homemade blade in his hand. The blade was perhaps a foot long, and one end had been wrapped with some sort of material. The piece of metal had been flattened and sharpened and caught a malevolent glint of light, as it was removed from beneath the flooring.
'Recognize this?' Clark said to Lincoln Scott.
'No.'
Clark grinned.
'Sure,' he said. He turned to one of the officers who had been hanging at the rear of the group.
'Let me see that frying pan.' The officer suddenly held out Lincoln Scott's handmade cooking utensil.
'How about this? This yours, lieutenant?'
'Yes,' Scott answered.
'Where did you get it?'
Clark clearly wasn't answering the question. Instead, he turned, holding both the homemade frying pan and the homemade knife. He glanced at Tommy but directed his words to Colonel MacNamara.
'Watch carefully,' he said.
Slowly, the major unwrapped the odd olive drab cloth that Scott had used to make the handle of the frying pan. Then, just as slowly and deliberately, he unwrapped the blade's grip.
Then he held up both strips of cloth. They were of the same material and of nearly identical length.
'They look to be the same,' Colonel MacNamara said sharply.
'One difference, sir,' Clark replied.
'This one'-he held up the one that had wrapped the knife handle 'this one here appears to have Captain Bedford's blood staining it.'
Scott straightened rigidly, his mouth opened slightly. He seemed about to say something, but instead turned and looked at Tommy. For the first time. Tommy saw something that he took to be fear in the black flier's eyes. And, in that second, he remembered what Hugh Renaday and
Phillip Pryce had spoken of earlier that day. Motive. Opportunity.
Means. Three legs of a triangle. But when they had talked, the means had been missing from the equation.
That was no longer true.
Chapter Six
At the following morning's roll call, the kriegies assembled in their usual ragged formations, except for Lincoln Scott. He stood apart, at parade rest, arms clasped behind his back, legs spread slightly, ten yards away from the nearest block of men, waiting to be counted like every other prisoner.
He wore a blank, hard expression on his face and kept his eyes straight ahead, looking neither right nor left until the count was completed and
Major Clark bellowed the dismissal.
Then he immediately turned on his heel and quick-marched back to Hut 101, disappearing through the wooden door without a word to any other kriegie.
Tommy thought for a moment of pursuing him, then turned away. The two men had not discussed the discovery of the knife-other than for Scott to deny any knowledge about it.
Tommy had spent the night in his own bunk fitfully, nightmarishly, waking more than once in the dark feeling a sullen, helpless cold surrounding him. Now he quickly headed for the front gate, at the same time waving at Fritz Number One to provide an escort. He saw the ferret spot him and seem to hesitate, as if eager to avoid him, then seemingly think twice of that desire, stop and wait. Before he reached the ferret, however, Tommy was intercepted by Major Clark. The major wore a slight, mocking grin that did little to mask his feelings.
'Ten a.m.' Hart. You and Scott and the Canadian who's helping out and anyone else you damn well need. We're going to be set up in the camp theater. My guess is that we're going to play to overflow crowds.
Standing room only, huh, Hart? What sort of performer are you, lieutenant? Think you can put on a good show?'
'Anything to keep the men occupied, major,' Tommy replied sarcastically.
'That's right,' Clark answered.
'Will you provide me with lists of evidence and witnesses at that time, major? As you are required by military law.'
Clark nodded.
'If you want…'
'I do. I'm also going to need to inspect the alleged evidence.
Physically.'
'As you wish. But I fail to see ' 'That's precisely the point, major,'
Tommy interrupted.
'What you fail to see.'
He saluted and, without waiting for a command, turned sharply and headed toward Fritz Number One. Before he'd taken three steps, he heard the major's voice bursting like a shell behind him.
'Hart!'
He stopped and pivoted.
'Sir?'
'You were not dismissed, lieutenant!'
Tommy came to attention.
'Sorry, sir,' he said.
'I was under the distinct impression we'd finished our conversation.'
Clark waited a good thirty seconds, then returned the salute.
'That's all, lieutenant,' he said briskly.
'Until ten a.m. Be on time,' he added.
Once again. Tommy turned, heading rapidly toward the waiting ferret.
He thought he'd taken a risk, but a calculated one. Far better to have Major Clark furious with him, because that would only serve to draw his focus away from Scott.
Tommy sighed deeply. He thought things could not seem much worse for the black airman, and not for the first time since the discovery of the homemade knife the prior evening, Tommy felt a deepening sense of discouragement travel through him. He felt as if he only had the flimsiest idea what he was doing in fact, it seemed to him he hadn't done anything and realized that Lincoln Scott would be standing in front of a German
