"Diamonds are a Devotchka's Best Friend"
Author's Note: Indulging in a little fantasy casting, I imagined frequent guest star Noam Pitlik in the role of Gustav Holtzmann.
October 1943
The tall, elegantly-dressed woman slumped against the bumper of the black Mercedes sedan, legs crossed, elbow on her knee, taking a lengthy drag on a cigarette through a long tortoiseshell holder. She didn't have to try to look bored. She was bored. But at least, thanks to the long red-fox coat and matching fur hat she wore, she wasn't cold. And she wouldn't be even if it took this dullard who accompanied her all night to figure out what she already knew: there was no way he was going to be able to fix this car so they could be on their way.
She had seen to that. Personally.
"Gussie…" she drawled in her throaty Russian accent. "Gussie, darling… I've told you, it's no use. A mechanic, you are not." A lover, he was not much of one either. But that was for another conversation, at another time. Shortly before she was good and done with him would be the ideal time to enlighten him on that subject. And she was already thoroughly tired of him, so that time when his usefulness would be at an end couldn't come soon enough to suit her.
Gustav Holtzmann was certainly more at home wearing a white smock in a scrupulously clean laboratory than he was with his shirtsleeves rolled up and the upper half of his body completely inserted into the maw of the huge car as he bent over the engine that had mysteriously given out on them nearly an hour earlier. The young dark-haired man with the intense features and serious expression really had no idea what he was looking at. But he hated to admit that in front of her. "We must move on, Marya. It is not safe here."
"Safe? I've told you; there is a prisoner of war camp right over the hill. Fences ten feet high and machine guns they've got. Your little collection of boobni will be quite safe there, I can promise you."
"Marya!" Holtzmann righted himself so fast he nearly slammed his head on the underside of the hood. "How many times must I tell you?"
"Who can hear?" She rolled her eyes, something she was quite good at. "All the squirrels are German, Gussie. You can tell by the beady eyes. Loyal to Hitler, would never betray your secrets."
But would she? Holtzmann had asked himself that question more than once since he'd met her. Was she worth it? Not really. He was beginning to wish he was back in Berlin with his dull plain wife, not stranded out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night with this woman who couldn't seem to keep her luscious mouth shut for thirty seconds at a stretch. She had definitely managed to learn more about his research than he had intended, and he had his suspicions about that too… the morning after Marya mixed the after-dinner drinks, she seemed to know a lot more than she had known the night before. Her cigarette holder was long and sharp enough to impale someone. He sometimes wondered if it had ever been used for that purpose. Still… there was something about her that drew men to her, whether they wanted to be drawn or not. He supposed he wasn't the first to find it to be true, and he strongly suspected he wouldn't be the last.
No. He could do a lot of impressive things in a well-stocked laboratory, but he could not fix this car. He slammed the hood down in frustration. "This prison camp… how do you know of it?"
"The Kommandant and I are old friends," she assured him smoothly. "You'll like him, Gussie… Klink is a fun person."
A POW camp was the last place he wanted to spend the night, and he was hardly in the market for any new friends… still, it was beginning to sound like their best option. Holtzmann reached into the front seat of the car, extracted his leather attaché case, and slammed the door shut. The car, he cared little about. The case, he tucked firmly under his arm. "Let's hope we don't get shot on our way in. Where did you say it is?"
Marya got to her feet and gestured with her cigarette holder down the Hammelburg Road in the direction they had originally been headed. "There, just over the hill."
His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You seem to know this area very well, Marya."
She gave him one of those looks… the ones that unnerved him enough to miss his plain, boring wife, at least for a moment or two. "You might say that."
oo OO oo
The Aragon Ballroom, Chicago. One of the best tables, right next to the dance floor. Tommy Dorsey's band played I'm Getting Sentimental Over You.
Hogan, dressed to the nines in a white dinner jacket with black tie and gold cufflinks, leaned across the table for two, reaching to light the cigarette of the woman sitting across from him. It was Claudette Colbert tonight, wearing a low-cut black silk sheath that accented every curve. That made for a nice change; Ginger Rogers had turned up two nights in a row, and his feet had been killing him after their second date.
"Busy in here tonight," he remarked, blowing the match out for her.
"Is it?" Claudette gave him a smooth, flirty smile. "I only see you."
The waiter arrived at their table just then, carrying a silver tray with a plate of hors d'oeuvres and two flutes of champagne that sparkled like diamonds, to replace the two empty glasses in front of them. "Excusez-moi, Colonel."
Oh, no. The waiter carrying the tray was wearing a red scarf and beret over his white cotton serving jacket. And that could mean only one thing.
"Go away, LeBeau." He kissed Claudette's hand… he had big plans to make it around to the rest of her before the night was finished. "That's an order."
But he was out of luck. Even as LeBeau set the fresh glass of champagne down in front of Claudette, his meaning was all too clear. "I'm sorry, Colonel, but you have to wake up."
oo OO oo
"Wake up, Colonel."
This time, LeBeau's voice was for real. So, unfortunately, were the cold dingy barracks, the flashlight beam in his face, and the lumpy mattress beneath him. "You're fired…" Hogan mumbled sleepily. "Pick up your check and get outta the war…"
"I'm sorry… who was it this time?"
"Claudette Colbert… and I had to leave her with you."
"I hope I don't disappoint her."
"I hope you do." Hogan pulled himself very reluctantly to a sitting position on the top bunk. "Okay, what is it? And it better be good."
"Two people were just admitted at the front gate. They were on foot."
"At this hour?" The colonel squinted at his watch, barely visible in the beam from the light LeBeau carried. "It's quarter of two… and whoever it was didn't come in a car?"
"Non. We thought it looked suspicious enough to let you know right away."
"Any idea who it is?"
The corporal shook his head. "They weren't in uniform; that much we could see even in the dark. More than that…" He shrugged.
"Two civilians turn up in the middle of the night unexpected and just walk right in the front gate? Did the last of the guards finally desert?"
Behind LeBeau, Carter appeared in the doorway to his quarters, his stringbean frame clad only in long underwear. "The lights just went on in Klink's office, Colonel."
"Okay, let's get some answers as long as we're up." Hogan climbed down from his bunk as Carter went to plug in the coffee pot and Kinch and Newkirk joined the party, neither of them looking particularly happy about being awakened at that hour.
"Do you have any idea of the dream you just pulled me outta?" Newkirk asked LeBeau.
"If you can't top Claudette Colbert, tais-toi," LeBeau replied.
The voice of the man emanating from the tinny speaker in their coffee pot was unfamiliar to Hogan. He didn't like that. "Your hospitality, Kommandant, is much appreciated."
Klink sounded only half-awake, at best. "Not at all, Herr Holtzmann… my stalag is your stalag; the guest quarters are at your disposal."
"I will also require some assistance with my car; it is disabled a short distance down the road from the camp."
"Certainly, Herr Holtzmann; I'll have someone from the motor pool look at it in the morning. Well, now that that's been settled, perhaps you won't mind if I return to my quarters and…"
The voice of the woman who interrupted him just then was well-known to them all. "But Klinkie, the night is still young! Let us drink to our reunion!"
Hogan's head dropped in disbelief. "Oh, please tell me it isn't…"
"I wish I could," Kinch replied, no fan of the eccentric Russian either.
LeBeau brightened like the entire City of Light was shining on him. "Marya! She's come back to see me!"
From Claudette Colbert to Marya in thirty seconds. This night was going downhill fast. Well, for everyone except LeBeau.
For once, Klink and Hogan were in perfect agreement, although Klink obviously had no idea that Hogan was listening in via the microphone hidden in the photograph of the Führer that hung over his desk. At the moment, the kommandant found himself reflexively pulling his dressing gown a little more snugly around himself… he didn't like the look in that woman's eyes, not at all. He didn't want to know what she was thinking, but he was afraid he already did.
Her companion, like all the other flies this large furry spider had dragged in behind her on past visits, appeared to be supremely indifferent to her outrageously flirtatious behavior and was instead standing at the bar cart, pouring himself a large brandy to ward off the evening chill. There was nothing unusual about that – any man accompanied by Marya would be well advised to begin drinking heavily if he were not already disposed to indulge – but what was strange was that the briefcase he carried was still wedged under his arm, exactly where it had been since he'd entered Klink's office. He'd even shaken hands while holding it.
Marya advanced towards him a step, and Klink backed up two. Why hadn't he just given the guard at the front gate a resounding no when he'd received the call requesting permission for them to enter, taken the phone off the hook and gone back to sleep? "Herr Holtzmann… I can't help but notice, that case must be of great importance to you. If you like I would be more than happy to keep it for you in my safe."
Holtzmann gave him an icy glare. "I suggest you try harder to keep from noticing things that are none of your business."
"Of course. Forgive me." Klink was becoming painfully aware that Marya's eyes were still focused on the area at his neck where the top button of his pajamas was unfastened, and he yanked the collar of his robe nearly tight enough to choke himself.
Back in the barracks, Hogan caught on to something that made sense. "What do you bet that whatever's in that case, she wants us to see it?" He turned to Kinch. "See if you can get any intelligence on a Holtzmann."
"That isn't much to go on, Colonel."
"I know. But something tells me I'll be getting more details on him real soon."
"You figure the Russian'll make contact with you, sir?" Newkirk asked.
"Not if I can help it… but I'm betting I can't."