Chapter Four

The sun was just touching the horizon when Klaus returned to his apartment. The walls were awash in rosy light, providing a false sense of warmth to the small, utilitarian room. Tossing his cap on the scarred table and his jacket across one of the straight-backed chairs, he sought out his couch. He knew better than to lie down on the bed. If he did, he would sleep until morning, missing supper at Stalag 13 and incurring Risa's wrath. He considered himself a brave man. But not that brave. He sat on the couch, ignoring the twang of a cushion spring, and got settled. He was soon drifting in a state of semi-awareness, listening to the building settle.

A light knock startled him fully awake. Only two people knew where he lived and he wasn't expecting either of them. Unsnapping his holster and drawing his gun, he silently padded across the room to the door. He looked through the peephole at his visitor. An amber eye suddenly blocked the glass and blinked with exaggerated slowness. Laughing softly, Klaus holstered his gun, opened the door and stepped aside.

"You certainly left in a hurry." Hermann breezed past and removed his cap, baring cropped, black hair. With a flip of one hand, the cap sailed across the room and skidded to a landing beside Klaus'.

"It was not possible for me to remain in the building with Dinske a moment longer." Klaus leaned back against the closed door. "I was more than ready to shoot him and have done with it."

Hermann's amber eyes lit with feral brilliance. "Oh, no. That pleasure will be mine." His mouth curled, displaying a grin that would give even the bravest of men pause. "When the time comes."

Klaus did not argue the point. Ultimately, all that he desired was that Dinske's part in his father's death be avenged.

A shudder gently rocked him against the door. His father's death was a subject he didn't trust himself to think about at the moment. He was glad when Hermann did not press the issue, but walked across the room to the couch.

Hermann sat down and immediately grimaced. The stuffing in the cushions had migrated outward to the very edges, leaving little support in the middle except for the springs. Gingerly, he sought a less painful spot. He eventually found it and with a sigh, he rested his head against the couch's back. His eyes lazily rolled toward the room's sleeping area, and Klaus knew that he was looking at the dress uniform hung upon a hook next to the bed.

"You are planning to wear your dress uniform to the Hauserhof? Seems a bit overdressed for a beer hall."

Klaus shrugged. "Maybe I have met a fraulein and wish to impress her with my impressive rank."

Hermann snorted his dismissal of the idea and Klaus' play on words. "And when would this have been? In between meetings, patrols, filing reports, or could it have been when you took that walk to the firing range?"

Klaus took a seat at the opposite end of the couch. "Actually, the famous Kommandant Klink invited me to an evening meal at Stalag 13 tonight."

Hermann's mouth fell open. "Klink? That strutting turkey?"

"We met last night at the Hauserhof. Risa accepted his supper invitation and -- "

"Risa did what?" Hermann sat up straighter. "She has been trying to avoid him for -" His eyes suddenly narrowed. "What did you do?"

"Me?" Klaus rested his hand upon his chest in a gesture of affronted innocence. "Why do you assume that I had anything to do with it?"

Hermann stared back at him, unblinking.

Klaus slouched deeper into the couch. His rump hit the metal frame and he carefully moved over. "I teased her into it."

"That makes her crazy."

"That is exactly why I do it."

Hermann shook his head. In a faintly exasperated tone, he said, "The two of you will still be bickering when you are old and gray."

"I pray that you are right about that," Klaus murmured. Not for the first time, he wondered if he would live to grow old. Would he live to see Risa's children? Hermann's? His own? Melancholy hovered like a black cloud at his shoulder and he resolutely turned his thoughts back to Klink.

"When did you meet the strutting turkey?"

Hermann shifted, winced, and gave the couch a baleful look. "I have not met him personally, but he once stopped by headquarters to meet with Dinske on some matter, shortly before you were transferred back here. How Klink managed to leave headquarters alive is beyond my understanding. By the time the meeting ended, Dinske was so furious he looked ready to throttle Klink and shoot him afterward for good measure." He shook his head. "Klink must have connections somewhere to have achieved colonel. From what I witnessed, he certainly could not have done it on his own merits."

Klaus nodded. "To all appearances, he's a bumbling idiot who wouldn't be able to get out of his own way in a small closet. His military career was totally unremarkable before he took command of Stalag 13. Yet somehow, he's managed a perfect record of no escapes. It just doesn't make sense. Either he's a consummate actor or incredibly lucky."

"Perhaps it isn't Klink who's actually responsible for the perfect record," Hermann commented slowly. Dinske, for one, was constantly claiming credit for his men's accomplishments.

"That possibility had occurred to me, also. I did a little research this morning. The record of the camp's sergeant of the guard is even less impressive than Klink's, if that is possible. There is no one else in the camp who would gain honor or advancement from the perfect record, either directly or indirectly." Klaus looked the length of the couch. "Another mystery."

"You truly are a glutton for punishment," Hermann growled. "Our present mystery isn't enough to occupy your time?"

Klaus frowned. "That particular problem had been out of my thoughts for . . ." he checked his watch. " . . . about ten minutes." He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. He had lain awake many nights thinking of what might have been if he had only taken a chance. Without realizing he intended to, he spoke the thought aloud.

"I should have taken my chances and approached him that night at the Metzger farm."

"No. Your first instinct was the correct one. Under those circumstances, he very likely would have killed you outright." Hermann threw his feet up on the low table next to the couch and loosely folded his hands upon his stomach. "There is always your earlier idea."

"Which one are you referring to?" Klaus asked, looking at him blankly. They had discussed so many.

"We gain the trust of someone he works with and then use that person to channel the information to him. After a time, they might feel secure enough that a face-to-face introduction might be arranged with us."

"Who can we try that we haven't already? Kurt might have led us right to him. But the only thing my cousin has done in the past month is travel back and forth between his home, the hospital and the farm. Zoellner was the next logical choice. If not for my tactical error of allowing Vogt to devise a reason to talk with him, we might have gotten some answers."

"You couldn't have known Vogt would use a chisel to pry the heel off of his boot."

"Knowing Vogt, I should have foreseen it. That mistake, alone, was enough to make the cobbler suspicious. Then Vogt started asking too many questions -"

"And Zoellner stopped talking altogether."

"He's not the most talkative of men to begin with," Klaus muttered. The added reminder of their failures was suddenly one too many. The melancholy fell upon him, smothering his spirits. 

"And since we are all known as soldiers, trust is doubly hard to achieve."  Hermann was silent for a few moments, staring down at his laced fingers. When he spoke again, his voice was cold. "Why did Dinske summon you into his hallowed sanctum this morning?"

Klaus' eyes flicked to him before gloomily seeking the floor. "He ordered the patrols be increased."

Hermann scowled. "It was only a matter of time considering their most recent run of successes. That level of efficiency has an unfortunate tendency to draw attention."

"That efficiency is exactly why we must find them."

Klaus had thought the task of finding the underground leader would be a simple one. How arrogant of me, he mused. To believe that I would quickly locate a man that so many others before me have been unable to find.

Hermann glanced down at his watch. "Vogt is to meet me at the park soon. Perhaps he has had better luck with our newest lead."

"Let us hope so, my friend. Our luck is overdue to change for the good." 

Hermann started pulling himself out of the couch's grip. A brittle twang brought him to a halt, poised mid-air above it. Carefully, he gained his feet and peered down at the cushion he had occupied moments before. A wicked spiral of metal now extended three inches above the cushion's thin upholstery, as if reaching for him. Horrified, he smacked one hand to his backside in a protective gesture.

"That thing came very close . . ."

Klaus grinned, felt the melancholy's grip weaken.

Hermann's glower deepened. "I told you when you purchased this monstrosity from Herr Stuben that it was an evil thing just biding its time, waiting for victims."

"He needed the money and I needed a couch," Klaus countered.

"The Marquis de Sade would drool with envy if he knew of this thing's existence! It's a hazard and should be taken out and blown up! And may I point out that trying to explain a wound there would be horribly embarrassing!" Hermann backed away, snatched his cap from the table, and stalked to the door.

"Mark my words, one day that thing will turn on you and I'll come here and find only your legs sticking out of it."

Klaus clamped his lips together and waited until Hermann's footsteps had receded down the hall. Only then did he release his laughter. 

HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH*HH

Humming quietly to himself, Hogan left the barracks and headed across the prison yard for Klink's quarters. Twilight had fallen and a crisp breeze teased and danced past his face. He neatly avoided the searchlight, mounted the porch and stopped in surprise. A noise that sounded like a cross between a screeching cat and a drunken yodeler had erupted on the other side of the door. Only Klink's violin playing sounded worse. Wishing mightily for a pair of earplugs and thinking that he didn't get paid enough, Hogan ventured inside.

Klink flitted by the foyer on a course for the dining area, merrily singing a tune mangled beyond recognition. Upon reaching the table, he plucked a piece of the silver setting from the linen cloth, checked its polish, then carefully replaced it. A second later, he maneuvered the same piece a few millimeters to the right, stepped back and gauged the effect, then nudged it back to its former position. The linen napkins suffered his attention next. Face screwed up in concentration, he unfolded the artistically folded napkin, then attempted to re-fold it. The result looked like a badly used handkerchief. Flustered, he fussed the napkin into a pitiful heap next to the plate and reached for the candlesticks.

The kitchen door crashed open. LeBeau sped out in high dudgeon and smacked Klink's hands away from the candlesticks, accompanying the action with a blistering tirade in French. Hogan's working knowledge of the language was limited, but even he could figure out LeBeau wasn't paying Klink compliments. The Kommandant cringed back, sputtered and spread his hands wide in defense.

"But I was just . . ."

Brandishing a towel, LeBeau drove Klink away from the table with sharp flicking snaps of the cloth. "Do not touch another thing!" he snarled up into the taller man's face. Scowling, he re-adjusted the silver place settings and re-folded the napkin, gave Klink another threatening glare and rocketed back into the kitchen.

Klink wilted in relief. Noticing Hogan's presence, he did his best to gather his tattered dignity, but failed miserably.

Hogan ambled over to him. "You got off easy. Until the meal's over, this is his territory and he's the one in charge."

"That cockroach needs to remember his place!" Klink pulled back his shoulders, puffed out his chest and started for the kitchen.

Hogan watched this sudden flare of bravery with interest. "Are you sure want to take this up with him now?" he asked, one eyebrow slanting upward. "Or would you rather wait until after he's served the meal?"

Klink stopped as if he had hit a brick wall. Slowly, he turned back. "You're right, Hogan. LeBeau's gone to a lot of trouble. I certainly wouldn't want him to think that I'm ungrateful."

"There's that razor sharp mind we're so in awe of."

Klink's eyes suddenly fixed upon Hogan as if seeing him for the first time. "What are you doing out of your barracks?"

"You seemed pretty nervous this afternoon. I thought you might appreciate some company while you waited." Hogan strolled over to the table on the pretense of admiring the flower centerpiece.

"Nervous?" Klink scoffed. "Why should I be nervous? There's no reason to be nervous. I've hosted dozens of dignitaries, generals, field marshals . . . Frau Linkmeyer . . . now there's a reason to be nervous . . . "

The clock struck the three-quarter hour. Klink blanched and started wringing his hands. "Risa will be here any minute!" he wailed, launching toward the table.

Hogan jumped into his path and grabbed him in a bear hug. Klink's arms flailed, straining for freedom and the table. Hogan tightened his grip.

"Don't do it! If LeBeau catches you, you'll never play the violin again!"

The warning penetrated Klink's panic and his struggles ceased. Noticing the intimacy of their position, he cleared his throat and shoved against Hogan's chest. Hogan released him and backed up, but made certain to remain between him and the table.

Klink smoothed a palm over the sparse hair at his temple. "Thank you, Hogan. I don't know what came over me." Despite the evenness of his voice, a trace of panic still lingered in his eyes.

Hogan waited until Klink nervously looked toward the door, then sidled back to the table and twitched the tablecloth aside. As usual, Kinch had done an expert job in planting one of their bugs.

Klink glanced back, saw Hogan still looking under the table, and paled. "What?!" Klink yelped, stepping closer. "What is it? Is something wrong? What's wrong?"

Hogan dropped the tablecloth like it was on fire. "Slight wrinkle. Just adjusting the drape."

Ten minutes and another grapple hold later, Hogan finally had Klink calmed down again. Gaining the Kommandant's assurance that he would keep his distance from the table; Hogan left, muttering under his breath and pulling his jacket to rights.

He definitely didn't get paid enough.

To be continued . . .