None of the three men responded, letting silence swirl through the small space, filling the room like a bad scent on a weak wind. Visser stepped forward, still regarding the drawing with a studious and intent look. In his only hand, he carried a small, brown leather portfolio, which he set down on the floor at his feet, as he leaned forward and jabbed an index finger at the drawing that mapped the scene.
'Right here,' he said, turning to Renaday and Sullivan.
'This is mistaken. The boot print was another few feet over, closer to the Abort stall. I measured this distance myself.'
Sullivan nodded.
'I can make that change,' he said in an even voice.
'Yes, make that change, flying officer,' Visser said, lifting his eyes from the drawing, and staring narrow and hard at Sullivan.
'A Spitfire pilot, you said.'
'Yes.'
Visser coughed once.
'A Spitfire is an excellent machine.
Quite a match even for a 109.'
'That is true,' Sullivan said.
'The Hauptmann has personal experience with Spitfires, I would imagine.' The Irishman then pointed directly at the German officer's missing arm.
'Not the best of experiences, too, I'll wager,' Sullivan added coldly.
Visser nodded. He did not reply, but his face had paled slightly and Tommy saw his upper lip quiver.
Sullivan took a deep breath, which did nothing to change his own slight and sallow appearance.
'I am sorry for your wound, Hauptmann,' he said, his voice taking on even thicker inflections and accents from his native country.
'But I think that you are among the truly fortunate. None of the men piloting 109s that I shot down ever managed to bail out. They are all up in Valhalla, or wherever it is that you Nazis think you go when you pull a cropper for the fatherland.'
The words from the Irishman were like blows in the small room. The German straightened his shoulders as he stared at the young artist with unbridled anger. But his voice did not betray the rage that the Hauptmann must have felt, for his words remained even, icy, and flat.
'This is perhaps true, Mr. Sullivan.' Visser spoke slowly.
'But still, you are here in Stalag Luft Thirteen. And no one knows for certain whether you will ever see the streets of Belfast again, do they?'
Sullivan did not answer. The two men eyed each other hard, without compromise, and then Visser turned back to the drawing and said, 'And there is another detail that you have gotten wrong in the drawing, Mr. Sullivan…'
The German pivoted slightly, looking at Tommy Hart.
'The boot print It was facing the other direction.'
Visser took his finger and pointed down at the sketch.
'It was heading in this direction.'
He motioned toward the back of the Abort to where the body was discovered.
'This,' Visser continued, coldly, 'I think you will find, is an important fact.'
Again, none of the Allied fliers spoke. And in this second silence, Visser turned again, so that now he was facing Phillip Pryce.
'But you. Wing Commander Pryce, you will already have seen this, and you will, I have no doubt whatsoever, understand its true significance.'
Pryce simply stared at the German, who smiled nastily, handed the sketches back to Tommy Hart, and reached down to his leather portfolio.
With some dexterity, using his only hand, he managed to extract a small, tan, dossier folder from within the portfolio.
'It took me no small amount of time to obtain this, wing commander. But when I did finally acquire it, ah, the intrigue that it held. Quite interesting reading.'
The other men in the room remained quiet. Tommy thought Pryce's breath was filled with the wheeziness of tension.
Heinrich Visser looked down at the dossier. His smile faded, as he read: 'Phillip Pryce. Wing Commander, 56th Heavy Bomber Group, stationed in
Avon-on-Trent. Commissioned in the R.A.F, 1939. Born, London, September 1893. Educated at Harrow and Oxford. Graduated in the top five in his class at both institutions. Served as an air adjutant to the general staff during the first war. Returned home, decorated.
Admitted to the bar, July 1921. Primary partner in the London firm of Pryce, Stokes, Martyn and Masters. At least a dozen murder trials argued, all of the most sensational, with great headlines and all due attention, without a single loss…'
Heinrich Visser stopped, looked up, fixing the older man.
'Not a single loss,' the German repeated.
'An exemplary record, wing commander. Outstanding record. Quite remarkable.
And probably quite remunerative, as well, no? And at your age, it would have seemed that you had no need of enlisting, but you could have remained throughout the war enjoying the comforts of your position and resting amid your quite noteworthy successes.'
'How did you obtain that information?' Pryce demanded sharply.
Visser shook his head.
'You do not truly expect me to answer that particular question, do you, wing commander?'
Pryce took a deep breath, which caused him to cough harshly, and shook his head.
'Of course not, Hauptmann' The German closed the dossier, returned it to his portfolio, and glanced across at each of the men, in their turn.
'Not a single loss in a capital case. Quite a phenomenal accomplishment, even for a barrister as prominent as yourself.
And this case, where you have been so ably, yet so discreetly, assisting young Lieutenant Hart? You do not predict that it might become your very fast failure?'
'No,' Pryce said abruptly.
'Your confidence in your American friend is admirable,' Visser said.
'I do not know that it is widely shared beyond these walls.' Visser smiled.
'Although, after this morning's performance, perhaps there are some who are reevaluating their opinions.'
Visser worked the portfolio up beneath his remaining arm.
'Your cough, wing commander. It seems quite severe. I think you should see to its treatment before it worsens further,' the German said briskly. Then, with a single, farewell nod, he turned sharply on his heel and strode from the room, the metal tips of his boots making a machine-gun-like sound against the worn wooden boards.
The four Allied fliers remained silent for a moment, until Pryce broke the quiet: 'The uniform is Luftwaffe,' he said thinly, 'but the man is
Gestapo.'
It was later in the day when Tommy hurried across to the South Compound, heading toward the medical services tent to interview the
Cleveland mortuary assistant. He was troubled by Visser's appearance.
On the one hand, the German seemed to be trying to help-as evidenced by his pointing out the flaws in the crime scene sketches. But then there was so much unmistakable threat in everything he said.
