"Gosh, Peter, that's you!" Carter exclaimed. He flinched as Newkirk gave him a withering look. "Well, it just looks like you…"
"That was a shocker to us, that was!" Roger said. "Peter, we'll stand by you no matter what, you know that. But… are you really the new Springheel Jack?"
"Are you mad!" the corporal roared back. He had to bite his tongue and hold back what he hadn't shared to anyone—how he had privately vowed to himself during his time in Stalag 13 that he would never steal again unless it had something to do with a mission.
"Hey, I didn't even ask that," Carter said, finding it difficult to believe that Roger just asked that. "And you're supposed to be his best friend?"
"Andrew…" Newkirk said, turning to him again. He stopped, deciding not to say anything. "Forget it." He turned back to Roger. "No, it was not me—I already told you, I was with Louis and Andrew last night."
"I knew it couldn't be you," Roger said, with relief. "Like I said, it was never like you to 'urt the ones you stole from. I'll be sure to tell the boys—not that they really believed it was you, either, of course."
"Thank you, Roger," Newkirk said, sardonically, as he shooed him away. He stared at the sketch in the paper, still trying to make sense of it, as were the others.
"Why would the new Springheel Jack look like you?" LeBeau asked, scowling. "It cannot be a coincidence. Someone is trying to get you into trouble, and I think I know who it is."
"Gretel, no doubt," Newkirk said, before LeBeau could start accusing Miss Sandiego. "She knows exactly what I look like; this pretty much proves that she's 'ere."
The Frenchman frowned, but Carter spoke up before he could retort.
"Hey, we need to tell the colonel about this, though I bet he already knows—he's probably reading the story right now," the American said. "If you lend me some change, I can go to the nearest pay phone and ask him what he wants us to do."
Newkirk grunted, going through the pocket of his jacket, which was draped over a chair. Finding some money for Carter to use, he handed it over to him.
"Don't forget to tell 'im about Flood's matinee show," he said.
"Gotcha," Carter said, heading out the door. "See you guys in a bit."
"And keep an eye out for anyone suspicious loitering around the area!" LeBeau called after him. "They're going to be watching you, too!"
He turned to Newkirk as Carter headed out the door, staring at the Englishman, without saying anything for a moment.
"Right, I know what you're going to say," Newkirk said. "You don't think it's Gretel; you think it's that reporter, don't you?"
"I never said that Gretel was not involved; she would want revenge on us for discrediting her, without a doubt," LeBeau said. "I am trying to say that you should not trust that reporter! It would not surprise me in the slightest if they were somehow working together." He shook his head. "Mon pote, you are a very dear friend of mine, and you have intelligence that the rest of us do not have—I believe André once referred to it as 'street smarts,' whatever that means. But you trust women far too readily."
"I 'ave to take this from the bloke who goes absolutely crackers whenever a certain Russian bird is in the vicinity?"
"Trying to turn the conversation towards me is not going to change anything. And besides that, I keep telling you she is on our side—General Barton said so!"
"General Barton also once said that the Guv'nor was a traitor," Newkirk reminded him.
LeBeau froze. He didn't have a witty reply to that remark, because it was true, and he had been as upset with Barton as Newkirk had been.
"I will go clear the breakfast table," he said, turning on his heel and walking off.
"You do that," Newkirk said, glancing at the sketch of his face in the paper. "I've lost me appetite, seeing this…"
LeBeau responded with a casual "hmm" of agreement.
They seemed to silently agree to drop the argument right there; the last thing they needed was to let an argument distract them from the mission at hand—and this new hiccup of someone trying to frame Newkirk.
The Englishman decided that LeBeau shouldn't be forced to clear the table alone when he was supposed to be a guest in his apartment; he moved to help him. A few minutes went by before Carter came back.
"The colonel's on his way with Kinch," he said. "He saw it in the paper, just as I thought. He's really steamed."
"Charming," Newkirk sighed, leaning against the wall.
"Oh, he doesn't blame you," Carter assured him. "He knows it's not your fault. He's just trying to figure out how to get you an alibi; we can't exactly let it be known that we were in Heidelberg. It would confirm the enemy agents' suspicions that we're on the case and will be after them."
"Right, but until then, I'll 'ave to keep a low profile," Newkirk said, decidedly upset about this.
"It is crazy that anyone would think you're the new Springheel Jack," Carter added. "I mean, if you could jump a wall in one bound, wouldn't you have jumped over the wire in Stalag 13?"
"That only means that they will think he was a collaborator in addition to a thief," LeBeau said, darkly. "The world is a very cold place, André."
"Can I help it if I'm still an eternal optimist?" Carter said, with an innocent shrug.
Newkirk was lost in his own thoughts as Carter and LeBeau began to banter. Something that Carter had said earlier was still in his mind.
You're supposed to be his best friend?
Roger had always been his best friend until the war. But, somewhere along the line, LeBeau and Carter had made a takeover bid for that position. Once the war ended and he was back in familiar settings, it seemed that Roger was trying to take that title back, but LeBeau and Carter were still holding onto it.
You're going to have to make a choice, Peter, he told himself. You've got two different lives, and you're going to have to choose one. The Guv'nor will understand if you decide to back out—especially with this new development of you being framed and all. But can you really leave them like that?
Newkirk shut his eyes, and he paused for a moment to listen to Carter and LeBeau squabble, but then their voices faded into the background of his mind.
The Dartboard Four. The Unsung Heroes. You're a leader in one, but a follower in the other. One is nothing but fun, but the other can be fatal. You've known the blokes in one since you were a lad, but you've only known the other for a few years.
It seemed like it would be such a simple choice. So, then, why was it so difficult to decide?
"Hey, why don't we change the subject? We're upsetting Peter," he heard Carter say, after some time had passed.
"No, you go ahead and talk about whatever you want," Newkirk said, pulling himself back to reality. "I wasn't really…"
He trailed off as he heard a knock on the door.
"It's open," he called, knowing it was Hogan.
Hogan and Kinch carefully strode over the carpet as they entered; Hogan was noticeably upset, and Newkirk couldn't help but feel that he was, somehow or other, at fault.
"Sir," he said, quietly. "Sir, if I 'ad done anything wrong—"
"It's not your fault," Hogan said, immediately. "It was just bad luck that they picked you; they could easily have picked anyone else. If we were in Paris, they might've picked LeBeau. What we need to do is figure out how to investigate without being investigated in return."
"Are we still checking out that theatre today?" Kinch asked. "It's not a good idea for Newkirk to be out when his sketch is all over the papers."
"We're still going," the colonel replied. "But we'll need some sort of disguise for Newkirk; I don't want anyone recognizing him from the paper by accident."
Newkirk sighed, but agreed to the disguise—which consisted of a fedora, sunglasses, a fake moustache, and a long coat.
He bit his lip as they headed towards the theatre. He still had to talk to the colonel about his second thoughts regarding joining the team again…
"Gee, I think we're slipping in the disguise department," Carter suddenly commented, prompting Newkirk to remove the shades long enough to give him a deadpan look. "I mean, we've put him in better disguises than this!"
"Well, we revived the organization three days ago," Hogan said, humoring him. "You can't expect us to have our entire wardrobe of disguises up and running so soon."
"No, I guess not…"
Newkirk shifted his gaze to LeBeau, who had his arms folded and his brow furrowed in deep thought. It was very difficult to tell what the Frenchman was thinking at times—especially when he usually wasn't even thinking in English.
Sergeant Flood was more than willing to let the Heroes investigate under the guise of helping with his show; he didn't believe that Newkirk was guilty, either.
A sweep of Pandora's dressing room revealed nothing; there was only stage makeup, not women's cosmetics. And the only things in the closet were the costumes he used, plus an old bottle of champagne that Newkirk briefly considered "borrowing" to make up for all of the time they had wasted searching the place.
"I didn't really expect anything to be in here," Hogan sighed. "If anything was here, it would tie Pandora to whatever's going on. But if it's in the storage area, he can deny that it's his."
"Or hers," Carter added, still not giving up his theory that Pandora might really be Gretel.
"You lot can look in the storage area if you like," Flood said. "And while you're there, can you move the Table of Death to the stage while I go get ready? It's a blooming beast to move on your own."
"With a name like that, I can imagine," Hogan deadpanned.
Newkirk got the door open for them, revealing the interior of the dimly-lit magicians' storeroom. Carter resisted the temptation of saying that it looked like something out of a mystery novel; magic equipment—the most unused pieces resting in the back with a layer of dust—lay in seemingly random positions all around. A disappearing cabinet was holding up silk hats, along with numerous cards, ribbons, handkerchiefs, and other magicians' essentials. There were levitating chairs and tables, and boxes of every shape and size for various death-defying magic tricks.
Carter's enthusiasm for the search was starting to dwindle; the sight of all of those boxes—and the swords and blades that accompanied them—were beginning to get a little bit discomfiting.
It really is like a mystery novel—a murder mystery, he thought.
"What's eating you?" Kinch asked, startling Carter.
"Oh, nothing," he replied. "Just that a guy could easily get himself killed being around this stuff, that's all. I mean, look at this!" He indicated an oblong box that was used to saw people in half. "Is there anyone among us who wants to get into this thing and be sawn in two?"
"Not me; I am short enough as it is," LeBeau said, dryly, as he folded his arms. He didn't like the eeriness of the equipment, either, but he wasn't going to broadcast his nervousness.
"It's all an illusion, Andrew," Newkirk said, with a shake of his head.
"Oh, yeah? Then what's this?" Carter asked, lifting up one of the rectangular blades, which was splattered with something red.
Thud.
"Oops. Sorry, Louis…" the sergeant said, to the now-unconscious Frenchman.
"Oh, for 'eaven's sake…" Newkirk muttered, as he knelt down to wave his fedora in front of LeBeau's face. "That's fake blood, that is—they need to 'ave some touch of realism, don't they?"
"A little too real for some," Hogan commented, helping LeBeau up as he began to come around.
The Frenchman groaned, shaking the cobwebs from his head as Carter hastily put the fake blood-covered blade out of sight. With that incident effectively over, the team resumed searching.
"Here's something," Kinch said, after some time. He pulled out an RAF dress uniform from one of the unused boxes in the back. "It can't be Flood's; it's for a corporal."
"Blimey, that looks about me size, doesn't it…?" Newkirk murmured, taking a closer look.
"And there's no dust on it," Hogan added. "Gentlemen, I think it's safe to confirm that our impersonator does have a job here."
"Is there anything else back there?" LeBeau asked, still a little unsteady on his feet.
"Not in this box," Kinch said. "But there could be something in the others—"
Carter suddenly let out a yell; he had been opening the different compartments of the Mis-made Person trick, and had come face to face with a pair of dummy legs in one of them, which, in the dim light, had looked all too real.
"Uh, it's nothing; I'm fine…" he said, blushing from his embarrassment as the others turned to stare at him.
"Another touch of realism," Newkirk reminded him, with a roll of his eyes.
"Yeah, I figured as much."
Unfortunately, the remainder of the old, empty boxes in the back didn't seem to hold anything; apparently, the RAF dress uniform had just been dumped there after the perpetrator realized that it would be of no further use. Whoever the perpetrator was, he—or she, as Carter would add—was hiding the costume they were using.
"They're being careful; they've probably found other places in or nearby the theatre to conceal their equipment," Hogan concluded, as they all helped to more the Table of Death to the stage as Flood had requested. With that task done, they could start asking around about Pandora. "It's true that more clues would've been helpful, but at least we know where to keep an eye out for any suspicious activity."
"Yeah, and we still need to get a good look at this Pandora," Carter added. "I guess we're coming back for his show tonight, huh?"
"Yes, but we're keeping a low profile," Hogan replied. "So no volunteering for anything."
"With all due respect, mon colonel, I highly doubt that any of us were planning to do so," LeBeau said.
"Yeah," Hogan agreed. He turned to the East Ender. "You're rather quiet, Newkirk."
"I've got a lot on me mind, Guv," he said, quietly.
LeBeau's head turned sharply; he had known Newkirk long enough to be able to read him better than the others. This was more than just the Springheel Jack II impersonating him, and LeBeau had a sneaking suspicion that it had to do with Newkirk having second thoughts about the team.
Unbidden came the memories of the time he had wanted to leave Stalag 13 after hearing General de Gaulle's rallying message to Frenchman. Newkirk had been the first to try to convince him to stay.
LeBeau was not about to let Newkirk quit without a similar fight. He folded his arms again, his eyes narrowed; Newkirk picked up on the visual cues and deliberately avoided catching his eye.
It wasn't about to be the last fight he would get into with Newkirk, either.