"Captain Bedford, he was liked by many men?"
"It seemed that way."
The ferret sighed, still walking along rapidly.
"I am not so sure of this, Lieutenant Hart. Captain Bedford, he was very clever. Trader Vic was a good name for him. Sometimes men are too clever. I do not think clever men are always so well liked as they maybe believe. Also, in war, to be so clever, this is not a good thing, I also think."
"Why is that, Fritz?"
The ferret was speaking softly, his head still bent.
"Because war, it is filled with mistakes. So often the wrong die, is this not true, Lieutenant Hart? The good man dies, the bad man lives.
The innocent are killed. Not the guilty. Little children die, like my two little cousins, but not generals."
Fritz Number One had deposited an unmistakable harshness in the soft words he spoke.
"There are so many mistakes, sometimes I wonder if God is really watching. It is not possible, I think, to outwit war's mistakes, no matter how clever you may be."
"Do you think Trader Vic's death was a mistake?" Tommy asked.
The ferret shook his head.
"No. That is not what I mean."
"What are you saying?" Tommy demanded sharply, but beneath his breath.
Fritz Number One stopped. He looked up quickly, and stared at Tommy.
He seemed about to answer, but then, in the same moment, looked past Tommy's shoulder, his eyes directed at the office building where the commandant administered the camp. His mouth was partly open, as if words were gathering within his throat. Then, abruptly, he clamped shut, and shook his head.
"We will be late," he said between tightly pursed lips. This statement, of course, meant nothing, because there was nothing to be late for save the mid-morning hearing still several hours distant. The ferret made a quick, dismissive gesture, pointing toward the British compound, and hurried Tommy in that direction. But not fast enough to prevent Tommy from tossing a single glance over his shoulder at the administration building, where he caught sight of Commandant Edward Von Reiter and Hauptmann Heinrich Visser standing on the front steps, busily engaged in a rapid-fire conversation, both men seemingly on the verge of raising their voices angrily.
Phillip Pryce and Hugh Renaday were waiting for Tommy just inside the entrance to the British compound. Hugh, as always, was pacing about, almost making circles around their older friend, who wore his anticipation more subtly-in the lift of his eyebrows, the small upward turn at the corners of his mouth. Despite the fine morning that was rising around them, bright sunshine and advancing temperatures, he still draped a blanket across his shoulders, again giving him an antique, almost Victorian look. His cough seemed immune to the advantages of the spring weather, still punctuating much of what he said with dry, hacking sounds.
"Tommy," Pryce said, as the American quickly approached.
"Let us walk a bit on this excellent morning. Walk and talk.
I've always found that sometimes movement can stimulate one's imagination."
"More bad news, Phillip," Tommy replied.
"Well I have interesting news," Hugh replied.
"But you first. Tommy."
As the three men traveled around the perimeter, just inside the British camp's similar barbed-wire deadline and looming guard towers. Tommy filled them in on the discovery of the knife.
"Had to be planted there," he concluded.
"I mean, the whole show was orchestrated like some carnival magic act.
Poof!
The murder weapon. The alleged murder weapon. It made me furious, too, the way Clark baited Lincoln Scott into agreeing to the search. I would bet my GI insurance that they already knew the knife was there.
Then they make this little scene of searching his stuff, not that he has much, and then wham!
Bang! They pull back the bed and find a loose board. Scott probably didn't even know there was a hiding place underneath the flooring. Only the old boys in the camp know about those spaces. Totally transparent, the whole performance…"
"Yes," Pryce said, nodding, "but nastily effective. No one, of course, will see the transparency, but the word that the murder weapon has been discovered will likely further poison the atmosphere. And giving it all the veneer of legality, as well. The issue. Tommy, of course, is less how it was planted than why. Now, perhaps the how will provide us the why, but the reverse is often true, as well."
Tommy shook his head. He was a little embarrassed, but spoke quickly, so as not to display it. He had not yet made that particular leap of logic.
"I don't have an answer to that, Phillip. Other than the obvious: to close all the loopholes through which Lincoln Scott might manage to extricate himself."
"Correct," Pryce said, with a small flourish of his hand in the air.
"What I find most interesting is that we seem, once again, to be thrust into an unusual situation. Do you not see what has taken place, so far, with each aspect of this case, Tommy?"
"What?"
"The distinctions between truth and falsehood are very fine and narrow.
Almost imperceptible…"
"Go on, Phillip."
"Well, in every situation, with every piece of evidence that has surfaced so far, Lincoln Scott is pushed into the awkward position of providing an alternate explanation to the arrival of a fact. It is as if our 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.