young black flier must counter everything by saying, 'Now see here, let me give you another reasonable explanation for this and for that and for this, too.' But is this something that young Mr. Scott seems capable of?'
'Not very bloody likely.' Hugh muttered.
'It wasn't hard for me to trip him up, and I'm on his bloody side. And it seems Clark only had to say, 'If you have nothing to hide…' and Scott eagerly jumped into his trap.'
'No,' Tommy agreed rapidly.
'He is very intelligent and always at least a little bit angry and obviously goddamn headstrong.
He is a fighter, a boxer, and I think he's used to direct confrontation. Even violent ones. This is, I think, a poor combination of traits to have in an accused man.'
'Quite so, quite so,' Pryce said, nodding.
'Does this not make you think of a question, or two?'
Tommy Hart hesitated, then replied forcefully.
'Well, a man is murdered and the accused is black and a loner and unpopular, which makes him terribly convenient for most everyone involved, and there is a stack of decidedly obvious evidence against him that is difficult to counter.'
'A perfect case, perhaps?'
'Very perfect, so far.'
'Which should make one wonder. In my experience, perfect cases are rare.'
'We need to create a less perfect scenario.'
'Precisely. So, where does that leave us?'
'In trouble, I think,' Tommy said, smiling wryly.
The older man grinned, as well.
'Yes, yes, that would seem so. But I am not completely sure of that.
Regardless, do you not think it is time to turn some of these disadvantages to our benefit? Especially Mr. Scott's aggressive behavior?'
'Sure. Okay But how?'
Pryce laughed out loud.
'Well, isn't that the eternal question?
Same for a lawyer. Tommy, as it is for a troop commander.
Now, listen to Hugh for a moment.'
Tommy turned toward the Canadian, who was on the verge of laughing.
'Little bit of the old but unfamiliar and hardly common in Stalag Luft Thirteen sort of good news, Tommy, of which we've had so precious little. I found the man who examined Captain Bedford right where you said he'd be, in the medical services hut.'
'Good. And he said?'
Hugh continued to smile.
'Most curious, what he had to say. He said he was ordered by Clark and MacNamara to prepare Bedford's body for burial. He was told not to perform any sort of even half-baked autopsy. But the fellow couldn't really help himself. You know why? He's a young guy, what you folks in the States call a real go-getter, a hotshot first lieutenant decorated in combat who doesn't particularly like taking damn fool orders and who has coincidentally spent the past three years working in his uncle's mortuary in Cleveland, Ohio, while putting money away to attend medical school. He got drafted after finishing a single semester. Gross anatomy, you know, right off the bat in medical school. So, there was this body and the lad was shall we say 'academically' curious.
About such delightful things as rigor mortis and lividity.'
'Sounds good, so far.'
'Well, he had the most intriguing observation.'
'Which is?'
'It wasn't slicing his throat that killed Captain Bedford.
No great outpouring of blood from a slashed jugular.'
'But the wound…'
'Oh, that was the wound that killed him. But it wasn't delivered like this…'
Hugh stopped, lifted his fist to his throat as if holding a blade, and then drew it across the front rapidly with a cutting motion.
'Or like this…' This time, Hugh stood facing Tommy and slashed the air between them, like a child playacting at a sword fight.
'But that's-' 'That's what we thought. More or less. But no, our erstwhile doctor thinks the killing blow was, well, let me show you…'
Hugh moved behind Tommy and suddenly reached around him with his right arm, grasping the American underneath the chin with his thickly muscled forearm and partially lifting him into the air in the same second, using his hip for leverage, so that Tommy's toes abruptly reached for the earth. In the same movement, Hugh brought his left hand up firmly, again in a fist, as if grasping a knife, and jabbed it against the side of Tommy's neck, just beneath the jawbone. A single, sharp blow, not a slash as much as a punch with the fictional point of the blade.
The Canadian dropped Tommy back to the ground.
'Jesus,' Tommy said.
'Just like that?'
'Correct. And did you notice which hand held the knife?'
'Left.' Tommy smiled.
'And Lincoln Scott is right-handed.
At least, that was the hand he threw the punch at Hugh with.
Intriguing, gentlemen. In-fucking-triguing.' Tommy snorted the obscenity, which made the others grin.
'And our young doctor-in-training? He based this helpful conclusion on what precisely?'
'The size of the wound for the first part, and then the lack of obvious fraying around the edges of the wound. You see, a slash produces a different appearance to even the semi trained and partially educated eye than a stab.'
'And a first-year medical student saw this?'
Hugh grinned again, punctuating his reply with a quick laugh.
'A most interesting medical student. With a most unique background.'
Pryce was also smiling.
'Tell him, Hugh. This is delicious, Tommy. Simply delicious. A fact that tastes nearly as good as a large slice of rare roast beef and a generous dollop of Yorkshire pudding.'
'Okay. Sounds good. Shoot.'
'Our mortuary man did all the gangster funerals in Cleveland.
Everyone killed by the local mobs. Every last one. And they apparently had a bit of prewar trouble between competing, ah, interests in that fine city. Our soon-to-be doctor laid out the bodies of at least three men with their necks cut in the precise same way, and curious lad that he is, he asked his uncle about it. And his uncle conveniently explained that no professional killer would ever just slash a man's throat. No sir. Far too bloody. Far too messy. And difficult. And oftentimes the poor bastard with the neck laid open has just enough energy remaining to pull out one of those quite large thirty-eight-caliber pistols that the gangsters seem to favor and squeeze off a few shots, which, of course, is awkward for the assassin trying to exit, stage left. So they use a different technique. A long-bladed stiletto punched upward, as I demonstrated. Slices the vocal cords on the way to the brain so the only sound you hear perhaps is a little gurgle, twist it around once or twice to mess up the gray matter, and the man drops to the floor dead. Very dead. And it's neat. Hardly any blood at all. Do it just right, and the only risk you have to yourself is fraying your shirt as the blade passes over the arm that lifts the victim off the floor.'
'And obviously,' Tommy said eagerly, 'the wound is delivered…'
