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 firing squad if he didn't come up quickly with some sort of genuine scheme.
As he walked, he shook his head, thinking it was all well and good to suggest that they find the real killer, but he was unsure what the first step would be in that search. In that second, he longed for the simple navigational tasks aboard the Lovely Lydia. Find a marker, use a chart, note a landmark, make some simple calculations with a slide rule, bring out the sextant and take a sighting, and then chart a course to safety. Read the stars glittering above in the heavens and find the way home. Tommy thought it had been easy. And now, in Stalag Luft Thirteen, he had the same task in front of him, yet was unsure what tools to use to navigate. He walked along quickly, feeling the early morning damp loosen in the air around him. It would be another good day for flying, he thought to himself. This was incongruous. Far better to wake up to fog, sleet, and wildly tossing storms. Because if it were a clear, bright, warm day, this meant men would die. It seemed to him that death was better delivered on gray, cold days, the chilling, wet times of the soul.
Fritz Number One was shuffling his feet as he waited. He made a smoking gesture, making a V with two fingers and then lifting them to his lips. Tommy handed him a pair of cigarettes.
The ferret lit one, and placed the other carefully in his breast pocket.
"Not so many good American smokes now, with Captain Bedford dead," he said, eyes sadly following the thin trail of smoke rising from the end of the burning cigarette.
The ferret smiled wanly.
"Maybe I should be quitting.
Better maybe to quit than smoke the ersatz tobacco we are being issued."
Fritz Number One strode along with his head declined, giving him the appearance of a lanky, gangly dog that has been disciplined by its master.
"Captain Bedford always had plenty of smokes," he said.
"And he was most generous. He took good care of his friends."
Tommy nodded, but was suddenly alert to what the ferret was saying.
"That's what the men in his bunk room said, too."
Almost exactly. Tommy thought to himself. Word for word.
Fritz Number One continued.