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, lieutenant. Now, it would be safe to say that the victim. Captain Bedford, hated you, correct?"
"Yes. Well, actually, Mr. Renaday, he hated who I am, and what I stood for. He didn't know me. He just hated the concept of me" Hugh nodded.
"An interesting distinction. He hated the idea that a black man could be a fighter pilot, is that what you're saying?"
"Yes. But it was probably a little deeper even than that. He hated that a black man would aspire and excel at a province ordinarily reserved for whites. He hated progress. He hated achievement. He hated the idea that we might actually be equal."
"So, on the afternoon that he tried to lure you into stepping over the deadline, that would have been not really directed at you personally, but more at what you represent?"
Scott hesitated, then answered: "Yes. I believe so."
Hugh smiled.
"Then those Kraut machine gunners wouldn't really have been cutting you in half, it merely would have been some ideal?"
Scott did not reply.
Hugh smiled wryly.
"Tell me, lieutenant, dying for some ideal, is it less painful? Is your blood somehow a different color when you die for a concept?"
Again, Scott remained silent.
"And, might I ask, lieutenant, did you hate in return in a similar fashion? Did you not really hate Captain Bedford, but hate instead what you consider to be the antique and prejudiced views he embodied?"
Scott's eyes had narrowed and he paused before replying, almost as if suddenly wary.
"I hated what he represented."
"And you would do anything to defeat those odious views, correct?"
"No. Yes" "Well, which is it?"
"I would do anything."
"Including die yourself?"
"Yes, if I thought it was for the cause."
"That would be the cause of equality?"
"Yes."
"Understandable. But would you kill, as well?"
"Yes. No. It's not that damn simple, and you know it, Mr. Renaday."
"Ah, call me Hugh, lieutenant."
"Okay, Hugh. It's not that damn simple."
"Really? Why not?"
"Are we having a conversation about my case, or in general?"
"Are the two that separate, Lieutenant Scott?"
"Yes, Hugh."
"Then tell me how?"
"Because I hated Bedford and I wanted to kill every racist ideal that he represented, but I didn't kill him."
Hugh leaned back against the cooler wall.
"I see. Bedford represents everything you want to destroy.
But you didn't seize that opportunity?"
"That's correct. I didn't kill the bastard!"
"But you would have liked to?"
"Yes. But I didn't!"
"I see. Well, sure is convenient for you that he's dead, isn't it?"
"Yes!"
"Lucky for you, as well?"
"Yes!"
"But you didn't do it?"
"Yes! No! Damn it! I may have wanted to see him dead, but I didn't kill him! How many times must I tell you that?"
"I suspect many more. And it's a distinction that Tommy's going to have some little difficulty arguing in front of a military tribunal.
They are notoriously obtuse when it comes to these sorts of subtleties, lieutenant," Hugh said sarcastically.
Lincoln Scott was rigid now with anger, the muscles on his neck standing out like lines forged at some hellishly hot foundry. His eyes were wide, but his jaw was thrust forward; rage seemed to stream from his body like the sweat that ringed his forehead. Hugh Renaday stood a few feet away, leaning against the cooler wall. His body seemed languid, relaxed.