Newkirk was unaware of the discovery that his two friends were making at Miss Sandiego's house; he was more worried about whoever was after them. He pushed down the images of someone stalking his friends from the shadows, waiting for the opportunity to finish them off.
Hogan could tell that Newkirk was worrying; the corporal had explained what had happened upon arriving, much to the colonel's concern, as well.
"Well, we have one clue to the intruder," Kinch said, coming back down after receiving the call from Carter. "It's a lady—she lost her heel tripping over the torn carpet, and Carter found it when he was trying to get the carpet back in order."
"Oh, blimey; maybe Andrew's theories about Gretel skulking around ain't so farfetched after all," Newkirk said.
"LeBeau wants us to keep an eye on whether or not this reporter has new shoes when she shows up," Kinch added. "But Gretel is an option, of course."
"And she could be after Andrew and Louis right now…" Newkirk fumed. "Colonel, maybe we should tell that reporter that we've changed our minds."
But Hogan shook his head in response.
"That reporter will get suspicious if we do," he said. "We've got to go through with this—and so does she."
"Come again?" Newkirk asked, not sure by what he meant.
"You just wait, Newkirk," Hogan said. "She's going to ask about Stalag 13—about the operation. She has to; if she's really a serious reporter, she'll want the scoop. And if she's a spy, she'll want the information to give to her employers. One way or another, she'll ask about it. I'm counting on you to make sure she goes back to either the paper or her boss empty-handed as far as Stalag 13 is concerned."
"Don't worry, Sir," Newkirk promised. "It's like I told Louis—I learned me lesson with Gretel."
"All the same, we need to practice your answers for some of those nosy questions," Hogan said. "You can't make it obvious that you're trying to hide anything, either. That's why I called you here so early."
For the next few hours, Hogan and Kinch came up with a list of possible questions that the reporter might try to use. Newkirk learned his part beautifully, ready to answer any questions put forth to him. They had extra time to practice; the reporter arrived at 3:30—half an hour after the appointed time.
"Ah, I'm sorry I'm late," Miss Sandiego said, as she entered the conference room. "My boss was discussing my last article with me."
"Blimey, we were wondering if you 'ad changed your mind," Newkirk said, as Hogan tried not to look suspicious.
Kinch's eyes fell upon the lady's shoes as she greeted them. The shoes didn't look new, but it didn't clear her name, by any means. Suppressing a sigh, the sergeant took his leave in case Carter or LeBeau called.
"By your permission, Colonel Hogan, I would like to begin the interview," Sandiego said, bringing Newkirk back to the present.
"If you're certain you don't mind my supervision, you two can get started," Hogan said.
"Excellent," she said. "Corporal Newkirk, I think we'll start with your squadron before your capture. You served under Squadron Leader Rawles—now Wing Commander Rawles, correct?"
"Oh, was 'e promoted?" Newkirk asked. Blimey, even old Rawles was promoted, and I'm still a ruddy corporal?
"You didn't keep in touch with your old squadron leader?" Sandiego asked.
"We didn't exactly get along too well; the man thought I was a ruddy coward—not that 'e was wrong," Newkirk said. "I was drafted—only went to fulfill me service to the king. I wanted to survive the war for me sister, see, so I made me career in the RAF being cautious—or as cautious as Rawles would allow."
"You are an orphan, I take it?"
"I might as well be," Newkirk sighed. "Me mum died when I was still attending school, and I 'aven't seen me dad in years."
"I see," she said. "So can you tell me how long you served under Rawles? How and when were you were captured?"
"I served under Rawles for only about five months—the first five months of 1940," Newkirk said. "After France fell, Rawles 'ad the squadron cover the retreat at Dunkirk from the air. I 'ad a close friend—'e and I and a few others were shot down that evening, and I was the only one who survived. I tried to make it to the boats where everyone else was retreating to, but… I was captured."
"Were you always in Stalag 13?" Sandiego asked.
"For five ruddy years," Newkirk said.
"You didn't try to escape?" she asked, sounding surprised.
"Oh, we all tried to escape," Newkirk said. "I believe I've been marked down for more than a dozen escape attempts."
"No one ever escaped from Stalag 13," Hogan lied. "Goodness knows we tried."
The reporter gave a nod to Hogan and turned back to Newkirk.
"You appear to be very close with your barracks-mates," she said. "I understand you've been with them ever since the night of the reunion."
Newkirk blinked.
"Who told you…?"
"I spoke with a friend of yours the other day, when I was on the way to your apartment to speak with you," Sandiego explained, smiling. "Roger Turner."
Newkirk refrained from rolling his eyes, making a mental note to himself to have a word with Roger about his discretion, or lack thereof.
"Well," the corporal said. "When you spend five years in a place like that, you've got two choices—you can either wall yourself off and survive as a loner, or you can form alliances. I chose the latter, and it made it… bearable."
"You obviously hold a great deal of respect for Colonel Hogan here," Sandiego said. "Tell me about that."
Newkirk glanced at Hogan, who glared at the reporter out of the corner of his eye.
"Not much to tell, really…" said Newkirk. "The Guv'nor organized things like shows and exercises for us to do to stop us from going bored out of our skulls. And 'e always tried to bargain with Colonel Klink if one of us ended up in solitary confinement. Cor, 'e's gotten me out of the cooler more times than I can count…"
"Any reason why you always ended up in there?" she asked.
"Oh, you know… an escape attempt one night, a fight a few days later…"
Miss Sandiego turned the page of her small notebook and paused, looking into the Englishman's eyes.
"I visited Germany not too long ago to see the sights and meet a couple of faces. There were the strangest rumors about Stalag 13—escaped fliers coming in and out, tanks crashing through rec halls, high-ranking German officials mysteriously disappearing, and high sabotage activities in the surrounding areas…"
Both Newkirk and Hogan remained expressionless.
"We 'eard those rumors, too," Newkirk said. "And believe me, if there really was a chance for us to go 'ome, we would've taken it."
"So you don't know who Papa Bear is?" she asked.
Newkirk pretended to look confused.
"I thought 'e was a fairy tale character, wasn't 'e?"
"Papa Bear was a master spy and saboteur who operated in the Hammelburg area during the war," she said. "The identity of Papa Bear is a mystery—and a well-guarded secret."
"Don't ask me, Luv; nobody tells me anything," Newkirk said. "And it's a ruddy frustration, too."
"I am sure it was," she said. "And I assume that this current situation with the Springheel Jack is also a 'ruddy frustration,' isn't it?"
"Too right, it is," Newkirk said. "Just because the bloke looks like me, people are jumping to conclusions. I don't deny that I was a thief in me younger years, but I resent that me past makes me a prime suspect now."
"Why, though, would this Springheel Jack look like you?"
"Good taste, I'd like to think…"
"But this man is clearly trying to frame you for these crimes," Sandiego said. "Can you think of any reason why someone would want to do this to you?"
"I wouldn't know," Newkirk lied. "I'm just a performer—do a little tailoring on the side to pick up some money when I can. But I can't imagine why anyone would 'ave it in for me like this."
"If it makes you feel any better, I intend to find out the truth about this new version of the Springheel Jack," she assured him. "You don't seem like the type to do those sorts of violent robberies."
The interview continued in this manner. Miss Sandiego was rather prudent in her choice of questions; Hogan didn't have to insist that Newkirk skip any questions, as the questions she did ask could easily be answered with the lies they had practiced. The reporter thanked the both of them and left soon after they had finished.
"Well, Colonel, what do you think?" Newkirk asked, as they headed outside the conference room. "You were right about 'er asking about Stalag 13, but does that mean anything?"
"I don't know," Hogan said, honestly. "She's a hard one to read. Until we can learn for certain whether she is or isn't a spy, we have to treat her as though she is one…" The colonel trailed off as he noticed Kinch talking to the receptionist.
"You're absolutely certain that no more calls came in?" the staff sergeant was asking.
"Only the one call I put through earlier," she said, shrugging her shoulders. "I'm sorry, Sir."
"Kinch? What is it?" Hogan asked.
"You know that Carter and LeBeau called before that reporter got here—that was when they told me to look at her shoes, and that they were going to Epping. But that was hours ago. They promised to call back, but no other calls have come in."
Newkirk paled.
"When exactly did you say they called?" the corporal asked. "They left shortly after I did—just after lunch."
Kinch looked at the lobby clock. The interview had taken much longer than they had anticipated; it was almost 5:00.
"I'd say about four-and-a-half hours ago," Kinch said.
Hogan's face was set with an unreadable expression as his mind raced. Carter might be one to get too caught up in the moment to remember to call, but LeBeau was not the type to do so; the Frenchman would have found a way to get in touch with them. There was no way of knowing whether or not they had made it to Sandiego's house, or if they had made it out. Chances were that the reporter was on her way there now; there was no telling what would happen if Carter and LeBeau were caught on the premises.
"Sir, we 'ave to go find them," Newkirk said. "They don't even know their way around the area, and if they promised to call but didn't—"
"Hold it," Hogan said. "One thing to keep in mind is that this is London, not Hammelburg. Newkirk, you and Kinch go back to your apartment and make sure that no one's tampered with anything in there. I'll go to Epping myself."
"But, Sir, I know the area better—"
"You'd also know your own apartment better than Kinch or me," Hogan said, cutting him off. "I've been to London before, you know."
"Right, Sir…" Newkirk said, slightly subdued. He silently turned his thoughts to his two friends, regretting that he didn't insist upon having them come along with him as he had wanted.
LeBeau and Carter, in the meantime, were having their own difficulties. Carter had taken as many pictures of the robotics as LeBeau kept watch. Once the sergeant had finished, he gave a thumbs-up to the corporal. LeBeau nodded in response and led the way downstairs, but paused halfway down the stairway.
The front door was unlocking.
Gritting his teeth, LeBeau frantically motioned for Carter to go back upstairs. The Frenchman looked behind him as he followed, and his jaw dropped.
Newkirk had entered into the hallway. But something was wrong, LeBeau realized; he didn't get the same vibes he usually received whenever Newkirk entered the room.
Carter looked back, stunned for a moment, but then moved to call out to him. LeBeau sensed this and quickly clapped his hand over the sergeant's mouth. Carter's eyes widened, but he got the message.
Silently, the duo watched from the top of the stairs as "Newkirk" took a look around cautiously before heading over to the desk, rifling through it thoroughly, as though looking for valuables.
LeBeau's eyes narrowed now, and Carter's mouth fell open in shock.
"That isn't Peter!" the sergeant mouthed. "It's Repli-kirk!"
LeBeau gave a solemn nod, his mind seriously considering attacking this impostor who was seemingly set upon ruining his cherished friend's reputation.
Carter had other ideas. Slowly, he took out his camera; the light pouring in from the window was bright enough to get some pictures of the impostor. As quietly as he could, Carter began to take a few pictures as the thief went about his work.
The doppelganger suddenly paused after Carter had taken a few pictures, causing both men on the stairs to freeze. Had he heard the camera shutter clicking?
LeBeau didn't want to wait to find out. He quietly waved Carter back even further until they were both on the landing of the staircase. They could no longer see the impostor, but it also meant that, hopefully, he would not be able to see them.
"We need to get out of here—at once!" LeBeau mouthed.
"How?" Carter mouthed back. "We'd have to go downstairs and get past him if we wanted to get out. Unless you're suggesting we make a rope from the bedsheets, we're trapped! And even if we did, people would realize someone was in here!"
LeBeau gave him a withering look and pointed downstairs.
"Oh, right… he is in here," Carter mouthed in realization. "But that's no good, either! If someone sees him here, Peter will get the blame!"
"I know, I know. Give me a moment to think…"
The Frenchman looked around, trying to come up with a solution to their problem. There had to be a way for them to escape the house without attracting attention.
"I think we have no alternative but to use a bedsheet rope," he mouthed at last. "We will just have to count on us being able to keep the real Pierre out of prison."
Carter gave a nod, realizing that their options were limited.
Slowly, the duo crept across the upper landing to get to the guest bedroom, which was the closest to them. Taking great care to ensure that they would not cause the floor to creak under their wait, they both moved, catlike, to the room door as the sounds of rummaging started up again from downstairs.
Carter slowly turned the doorknob and tried to ease the door open, but the door protested with a slow, loud creak, which caused the sergeant to grit his teeth in nervousness. LeBeau responded by silently cursing in his native tongue.
The rummaging sounds stopped from downstairs again as the impostor heard the creaking; Carter was amazed that his heart seemingly hammering in his ears wasn't drowning out his ability to hear what was going on downstairs.
"Who's up there? You 'ad best beware!" the Newkirk impostor taunted, even imitating their comrade's voice. But the doppelganger's taunting tone was something absent in the real Newkirk's—the impostor seemed to be rhyming on purpose.
LeBeau didn't care about the rhyming, however; the Frenchman's eyes blazed in fury to hear his friend's voice being used by another throat.
Carter didn't seem to care about the rhyming, either, but that was because he was trying edge inside the guest room as quietly as he could.
"Louis, come on!" he mouthed. "We still might have a chance to get out of here! Let's go!"
But footsteps could be heard from downstairs—jumping footsteps; though the duo couldn't see from their position, it was clear that the impostor was hopping towards the staircase, with every intent to come up and look around.
"Louis!" Carter mouthed, desperately.
The Frenchman's mind was racing again. He had every opportunity to bag the impostor right now as he approached. On the other hand, there was every chance in the world that the goon was armed.
The bounding footsteps now started up the stairs, each one counting down the limited time the Frenchman had to make his choice.