'Yes, I suppose so. But then, you might suspect I would have received a letter or a package or something from home, and I haven't. Not a word.' He took another long look at the photograph before returning it slowly to his pocket.
'I've never seen the baby. He was born after I was shipped overseas.
Makes it hard to imagine he's real. But he is. Probably cries a lot.
I did when I was little, or so my mother likes to tell me. I suppose I'd like to live to see him, if only just one time. And I'd like to see my wife again, too.' He hesitated, then added, 'Of course, that's no different for you, or MacNamara or Clark or Captain Townsend or the Krauts or anyone else in this damn place. Even Trader Vic. He probably wanted to go back to Mississippi as bad as anyone. I wonder who he had waiting for him back home?'
'His boss at the used-car dealership,' Tommy said.
There was a bridge game going on in one bunk room, with as many kibitzers following the play as there were players. Unlike poker, or Hearts, both of which lent themselves to more rowdy levels of participation and overflow crowds of observers, the bridge game flowed quietly until the last few tricks of the hand, which prompted intense and raucous discussion about the precise manner in which the cards were played. Kriegies loved the arguments as much as they loved the games; it was another way that something modest was exaggerated, stretched out to consume more of the frustrating minutes of imprisonment.
The door to Scott's room, with its offensive carving, had been replaced, just as the Germans had promised. But as the two men approached, they saw that it was ajar. Tommy might have been surprised, but he immediately heard loud humming and snatches of song coming from the bunk room, and he recognized Hugh Renaday's rough voice amid the mingled off-key tunes and lavishly obscene lyrics.
They stepped in, and saw the Canadian in the process of making up his sleeping area. Tommy's modest accommodations were pushed to the wall, his law books stacked beneath the bunk, some spare clothes hung from a string between two nails. It wasn't much, but some of the starkness and painful isolation of the room had been diminished. Hugh was tacking an out-of-date calendar to the wall. The year-old date was less significant than the portrait of the scantily clad and significantly endowed, doe-eyed young woman that graced the month of February 1942.
'Can't be without February,' Hugh said, as he stepped back, admiring the picture.
'She cost me two packs of smokes. I fully intend to find her after the war and propose to her perhaps ten seconds after we've been introduced.
And I won't be taking no for an answer.'
'Funny,' Tommy said, staring attentively and admiringly at the pin-up.
'She doesn't look very Canadian. I doubt she's ever chewed on a piece of blubber or even harpooned a seal.
And her outfit, well, it doesn't look like it would be terribly effective in the northern wintertime…'
'Tommy, my friend, I do believe you're missing the point here entirely.' He laughed, and so did Tommy. Then Hugh reached out and grasped the black flier's hand, shaking it hard.
'Glad to be here, mate,' he said.
Scott replied, 'Welcome to the Titanic' He turned and started toward his bunk, but then stopped abruptly. For an instant, he remained rigid, then he pivoted back toward Hugh.
'How long have you been here?' Scott abruptly demanded.
The Canadian looked surprised, then shrugged.
'Half hour, maybe. Didn't take too long to unpack and stow my things.
Fritz Number One brought me over, after the South Compound's Appell. We had to stop and check something with Visser, and then with one of Von
Reiter's adjutants.
Numbers stuff' mainly. Paperwork. I guess they want to make sure they get the count straight in both camps. Don't want to go chasing about, sounding off all their whistles and alarms, looking for someone who's merely switched compounds.'
'Did you see anyone when you arrived?' Scott questioned sharply.
'See anyone? Sure, there were kriegies all over the place.'
'No, I mean in here.'
'In here? Not a soul,' Hugh replied.
'Door was shut tight.
New door, too, I noticed. But what's eating you, mate?'
'That,' Scott said, suddenly pointing to a corner of the room.
Tommy pushed to Scott's side. He saw what the black airman was pointing toward instantly. Resting upright in the far corner of the bunk room was the missing wooden board that had been marked with Trader Vic's blood.
He covered the distance in a single stride, grabbing at the hunk of wood, quickly turning it over, back and forth, in his hands, examining it. Then Tommy looked up at Lincoln Scott, who remained in the center of the small space.
'See for yourself,' he said bitterly.
Tommy pitched the board to Scott, who seized it from the air. He turned it over once or twice, just as Tommy had.
But Hugh was the first to speak.
'Tommy, lad, what the hell's the matter? Scott, what's with the hunk of wood?'
Scott shook his head and muttered an obscenity. Tommy answered the question.
'That's all it is, now,' he said.
'Might as well toss it in the stove. This morning, it was a critical piece of evidence. Now, it's nothing. Just firewood.'
'I don't get it,' Hugh said. He took the board from Scott.
It was Scott who explained, as he handed it over.
'A little while ago, it was a board that Tommy discovered right outside Hut 105, covered with Trader Vic's blood. Proof in our hands that he was killed someplace other than where his body was found. But someone has gone to considerable trouble in the last few hours to steal the board from this room and then clean it of any traces of Vic's blood.
Probably poured boiling water all over it, right into every little crack and splinter, and then scrubbed it with disinfectant.'
Hugh lifted the board to his nose, sniffing.
'You're right about that. Smells of lye and suds…'
'Just as if it came from the Abort,' Tommy said.
'And I'll wager you a carton of smokes that we could go over to Hut 105 and find that someone has cut in a different piece of wood at the spot where I ripped this out.'
Scott nodded.
'No bet,' he said.
'Damn.'
He smiled wryly.
'They're not stupid,' he added cautiously, sadness filling every sound he spoke.
'Stupid would have been just to steal the damn board. But stealing it, cleaning it of all traces, and then returning it to this room, now, that's clever, isn't it, Mr. Policeman?'
He looked over at Hugh, who nodded and continued to inspect the board.
'If I had a microscope,' he said slowly, 'maybe even just a magnifying glass, I could probably find traces that the cleaning job left behind.'
Tommy gestured widely.
'A microscope? Here?' he asked cynically.
Hugh shrugged.
'I'm sorry,' he said.
