Hauptmann Visser relaxed, shuffling his feet momentarily in the muddy earth. He did not sport the riding boots that the commandant and his assistants preferred. Instead, he wore more utilitarian, but highly polished, black boots.
"I am to witness all aspects of the situation, then make a report back to my superiors. We are bound by the Geneva Convention to account for the well-being of every Allied prisoner of war in our possession. But here, now, I am merely in charge of having the remains removed. Then perhaps it will be possible for us to, how do you say? Compare our findings? At a later juncture."
Hauptmann Visser turned toward Fritz Number One.
"This soldier was providing you with a camera?"
Hugh stepped forward.
"It is customary in a murder investigation to take photographs of the body and of the crime scene location. That is why we demanded Fritz obtain the camera for us."
Visser nodded.
"Yes, this is true…"
He smiled. Tommy's first impression was that the Hauptmann seemed a dangerous man. His tone of voice seemed gentle and accommodating, but his eyes told a different tale.
"But only in a routine situation. This situation, alas, is decidedly not routine. Photographs could be smuggled out of the camp. Used for propaganda purposes. I cannot permit this."
He reached out his hand for the camera.
Tommy thought Fritz Number One was ready to pass out.
His chest was drawn up, his spine rigid, his face pale. If he had dared to even take a breath of air in the Hauptmann presence, Tommy Hart had been unaware. The ferret immediately thrust the camera forward to the officer.
"I did not think, Herr Hauptmann" Fritz Number One started.
"I was told to assist the officers…"
Visser cut him off with a laconic wave.
"Of course, corporal. You would not see the danger in the same way that I might."
He turned back to the two Allied airmen.
"That, precisely, is why I'm here."
Visser coughed, a dry, gentle sound. He turned, gesturing to one of the armed soldiers still ringing the Abort. He handed this man the camera.
"See that it is returned to its owner," he said. The guard saluted, draped the camera's strap over his shoulder, and returned to his sentry position. Then Visser removed a package of cigarettes from his breast pocket. With surprising dexterity, he extricated one from the pack, returned the remainder to his pocket, and produced a steel lighter, which immediately flickered with flame.
He took a long drag on the cigarette, then looked up, one eyebrow slightly raised: "You have completed your inspection?"
Tommy nodded.
"Good," the German said.
"Then the corporal will accompany you to see your…" he hesitated, then, still smiling, said, "your charge. I will complete matters here."
Tommy Hart thought for a second, then whispered to the Canadian: "Hugh, stay here. Keep as close a watch on the Hauptmann as you can. And find out what he does with Bedford's body."
He looked over at the German.
"I think it would be critical to have a physician examine Captain
Bedford's remains. So that at least we can be certain of the medical aspects of this case."
"Damn right," Hugh said in an almost whisper.
"No photos. No doctor. That's bloody-all fucked."
Hauptmann Visser shrugged, not acknowledging the Canadian's obscenity, though he surely heard it.
"I do not think this would be practical, given the difficulties of our current situation. Still, I will examine the body carefully myself, and if I think your request is warranted, I will send for a German physician."
"An American would be better. Except we don't have one."
"Doctors make poor bombardiers."
"Tell me, Hauptmann, do you have knowledge in criminal investigations?
Are you a policeman, Hauptmann? What do you call it? Kriminalpolizei?"
Tommy threw the questions across the dirt ground.
Visser coughed again. He raised his face, still smiling crookedly.
"I look forward to our next meeting, lieutenant. Perhaps we will be able to speak at greater length at that point. Now, if you will excuse me, there appears much to do and not much time to accomplish it."
"Very good, Herr Hauptmann," Tommy Hart said briskly.
"But I have ordered Flying Officer Renaday to remain behind and personally witness your removal of Captain Bedford's remains."
Visser's eyes darted at Tommy Hart. But his face wore the same accommodating smile. He hesitated, then said:
"As you wish, lieutenant."
With that, the German stepped up, passed Tommy, and headed into the
Abort. Renaday hurried after him. Fritz Number One waved wildly, now that the officer was out of sight, for Tommy to follow him, and the two men set off across the camp again. The milling knots of kriegies still gathered on the parade ground let them pass. Behind him, Tommy Hart could hear the men murmur with questions and speculation, and perhaps the first few tones of anger.
There was a single guard clutching a Schmeisser machine pistol standing outside the door to cooler cell number six.
Tommy thought the man young, probably no more than eighteen or nineteen. And although he stood at attention, the guard seemed nervous, almost scared to be in such close proximity to the kriegies.
This was not all that uncommon, Tommy thought. Some of the newer and younger, less experienced guards arrived at Stalag Luft Thirteen so propagandized about the Terrorfliegers-terror-fliers, according to the constant harangue of Nazi broadcasters-in the Allied armies that they believed the kriegies all to be bloodthirsty savages and cannibals. Of course. Tommy knew that the Allied air war was admittedly one that was predicated upon the twin concepts of savagery and terror. Night and day incendiary raids on the populated centers of the cities could hardly be considered something different. So he guessed that the unsettling thought of coming into close contact with a black Terrorflieger kept the teenager's finger dancing around the trigger of the Schmeisser.
The young guard wordlessly stepped aside, pausing only to unbolt the door, and Tommy stepped past him into the cell.
The walls and floor were a dull gray concrete. There was a single overhead bare lightbulb and a solitary window up in the corner of the six by nine room. It was dank, and seemed a good ten degrees colder inside the cell than outdoors, even on the overcast, rainy day.
Lincoln Scott had been sitting in a corner, his knees drawn up to his chest, across from the sole piece of furniture in the cell, a crusted metal pail for waste. He stood up rapidly as Tommy entered the room, not exactly coming to attention, but certainly close to it, rigid and stiff.
"Hello, lieutenant," Tommy said briskly, almost officiously.
"I tried to introduce myself to you the other day…"