The Stalag 13 Choir had taken up position onstage, standing in two rows just as they did twice a day for roll call; although not a man of them had ever turned out for assembly looking quite so respectable.
Carter remained in the wings, still in a state of bewilderment over his unexpected elevation to what was, effectively, a position of command. He'd never quite got the hang of that kind of stuff. Why couldn't Doyle have picked someone else? he thought. Kinch or LeBeau, maybe. Boy, I bet even Beckett could have done it.
There was no escape now. To get out of here, he'd have to get past Schultz, which was never easy; not because Schultz was fast, but because there was so much of him. Anyway, he couldn't let the guys down. They were depending on him.
"How hard can it be?" he muttered under his breath. "All I have to do is go out there and get them to sing...what the heck are we supposed to be singing?"
He couldn't remember, and he was seized by a kind of paralysis.
Just stick with whatever you feel happy conducting, Doyle had said. But Carter was pretty sure feeling happy wasn't an option.
In the auditorium, Kommandant Klink had just returned to his seat. He'd managed to weasel his way into the box reserved for General Burkhalter; perhaps there was an element of gratitude involved, as it was only due to the participation of Klink's prisoners that the concert had actually gone ahead.
"It all seems to be going very well," he observed brightly.
Burkhalter was in a genial mood. His wife was happy; he had been able to tell, when she was on stage with the other singers, that she was very happy indeed. And when Bertha was happy, Burkhalter's life was much more comfortable.
"I will be most interested to hear this, Klink," he said. "It seems Doyle has unsuspected executive skills."
"Indeed he does, General," burbled Klink.
"When he returns to Stalag 13," Burkhalter went on, "make sure you keep your eyes on him. I don't trust him."
"Excuse me, Herr Kommandant." The interruption came from Langenscheidt, who had crept into the box, and now stood hesitating behind the Kommandant. "Sergeant Schultz sent me to let you know, Lieutenant Doyle had a slight accident, and he is unable to conduct the choir."
"What happened?" demanded Burkhalter sharply, turning his entire body to glare at the unfortunate guard, and thereby depriving Langenscheidt of the power of communication.
"Well?" Klink's voice went up with nervous irritation. "Don't just stand there, answer the general."
Langenscheidt swallowed, and stammered back into speech. "He cut his hand. One of the other prisoners is taking his place as conductor."
Burkhalter pursed his lips. "If this is some kind of ruse, Klink..."
"Of course it isn't," Klink broke in. "There would be no chance of success. I have four of my best guards watching the prisoners' every move."
"I thought you said you brought Schultz."
"Bitte, Herr Kommandant," mumbled Langenscheidt, "Gluck has stayed with Doyle and Colonel Hogan in the room backstage."
"You see, General?" said Klink. "Everything is under control."
Burkhalter looked dissatisfied, but accepted the explanation. "I don't wish to spoil the concert," he said after a moment's thought. "As long as the prisoners are under supervision..."
"Every minute, General. You have my word on it. Langenscheidt, which of the prisoners has taken over conducting?"
But Langenscheidt didn't feel equal to answering that question, and retreated thankfully as the house lights went down, and the curtain opened. He didn't want to miss this, either.
For a few seconds, Klink peered at the assembled choristers, trying to work out who was missing. Then the substitute director appeared, looking very much as if he'd rather be elsewhere; and Klink's monocle dropped out in sheer astonishment.
"Carter?" he squeaked.
"Shh!" The rebuke came at him from all sides.
Carter, bright red with embarrassment, shaking with nerves, made a hasty, inelegant bow, and turned his back on the audience, without saying a word. He looked around at the ensemble, trying to remember even one song.
Then his half-panicked memory suddenly threw out a piece they'd sung every day since this started. That would do, he could cope with that one. With a vague sense of relief, he informed the choir in a stage whisper what they'd be opening with.
"Carter, that's not on the programme," muttered LeBeau, as the other men exchanged startled looks.
"Well, it is now," Carter replied, slightly too loudly. He caught Kinch's eye, cleared his throat and hummed the starting note. Then, trying to copy what he'd seen Doyle do, he raised his hands, waited till he had everyone's attention, and gave them the beat. And Doyle's well-trained, well-disciplined ensemble responded, in sweet, harmonious unity:
In a cabin, in a canyon,
Excavating for a mine,
Dwelt a miner, forty-niner,
And his daughter Clementine...
Morrison took the lead on the way up towards Claudia Valensizi's dressing room; because he knew his way around the building, and also because, as he was in uniform, it would be easier for him to deal with anyone they encountered on the way. Hogan followed, and Newkirk, still wearing what LeBeau had dismissed as singing-waiter costume, brought up the rear.
They met nobody on the stairs, but as they reached the upper corridor Morrison stopped in his tracks, then stepped back.
"SS, outside the dressing room," he whispered.
"Okay, you know what to do," Hogan murmured. He retreated with Newkirk to the first landing. Morrison went halfway down, to give himself a good run up. Then he rushed back up the stairs and into the passage.
"Halt!" The two SS men swung round at his arrival, their weapons ready. Morrison stopped so abruptly he almost fell over, and gaped at them, just as if he'd never seen any SS before.
"Who are you?" one of them demanded.
"Bitte...bitte...Private Kraus...Stalag 13...bitte."
Hogan grinned, and Newkirk suppressed a chuckle. Morrison was more versatile than either of them had given him credit for, and had the average prison guard pegged, all right. He sounded as if he was about to faint.
"This corridor is restricted access," the SS guard snapped back.
"Bitte," said Morrison again. "I need to find Captain Baumann. I was told...there was someone he was looking for. The maintenance man."
The two men glanced at each other. "You have seen him?" asked the one who had spoken before.
"He was loitering outside the room where the prisoners are, when we took them to the stage," replied Morrison. "He looked very suspicious. Sergeant Schultz didn't notice him, he was lurking. Suspiciously. So I thought I should let Captain Baumann know..."
"Captain Baumann is not to be disturbed," replied the SS curtly. "Go back and keep him under surveillance until the captain is available."
Hogan and Newkirk couldn't see Morrison, but if the note of panic in his voice as he replied was anything to go by, he was putting on one hell of a performance. "But...but I am supposed to guard the prisoners. And he looked dangerous. A man who looks like that would stick at nothing."
"Are you afraid?"
"Oh, no...but...but..." Morrison stammered off into silence; then, as neither of the SS men replied, he went on. "If I didn't have to think of my family, I'd tackle him without thinking twice. But I have a wife, and seven children, completely dependent on me. And I'm not as young as I was. And he's armed. Well, he has a hammer, and I think he knows how to use it."
He could almost pass for Schultz, thought Hogan appreciatively.
Once again the two men exchanged glances. "Very well," said the one who was doing all the talking. "We will take care of the suspect. But you must wait here, and make sure the captain is not interrupted."
"Oh, I'll do that," replied Morrison. "Don't go that way," he added. "I came up the back stairs so he wouldn't see me. It's quicker if you take the other stairs. Go down three flights, turn left and go through the big door at the end."
As the two men rushed off towards the other end of the passage, he backed towards the stairs. "All clear," he hissed.
Hogan and Newkirk ran up the stairs. "Where'd you send them?" Hogan asked.
"Under the stage," replied Morrison cheerfully. "Should take 'em a while to get out, too. That whole area's being used for storage. There's a whole lot of furniture and props, as well as leftover building materials from the renovation. It's a mess. And the lights don't work."
"Well, that should keep them occupied," said Hogan with a grin. "For a while, at least. You ready, Newkirk?"
"Looking forward to it, sir," replied Newkirk dryly. "I haven't done something that could get me shot for...oh, nearly a week."
"Well, we can't have that, can we?" Hogan's grin widened; but anyone who thought he was taking this lightly was mistaken. "Okay, men. Let's put on a show."