Carter was getting more and more nervous as time ticked by without any word from LeBeau. While Newkirk himself had no phone, Carter made frequent trips to the landlady, asking if the Frenchman had called, but each time, she shook her head, growing more and more annoyed with the American.
It didn't take Newkirk long to realize that something was very wrong; once he stopped worrying for himself, he began to get suspicious after the first half-hour had passed. He had shown LeBeau where the closest markets were before on his numerous visits to London. And it did not escape him how Carter kept finding the most pathetic excuses to go downstairs every fifteen minutes, tripping over the carpet each time he reentered the apartment.
One hour had gone by, and then two. Newkirk was not waiting for answers any longer.
"What's going on?" he asked, coldly, as Carter returned from downstairs yet again.
"I was… reminding the landlady of the carpet," Carter lied, as he tripped again. "You know, I figured that if I remind her enough times—"
"Andrew, where is Louis?" Newkirk demanded, his voice rising. "Where is 'e? You were supposed to be with Kinch and the Guv'nor; I don't know why, but for some reason, Louis got you to come 'ere to cover for 'im while 'e went off someplace!"
"Well, I told you; he wanted to find some ingredients to fix up that bouillabaisse. Maybe he just didn't find what he was looking for here; you know how particular he is about the kind of ingredients he uses—"
"Will you stop it, Andrew? I'm not about to fall for it! It's just like Louis to try something like this! For the last ruddy time, where is he?"
"Please, Peter! Louis will throttle me if I tell you!"
"And I'll throttle you if you don't!"
Carter flinched; he was in a no-win situation, but he figured he may as well act in the interest of LeBeau's safety.
"All right, I'll tell you," he sighed, looking at the clock. With only one hour left, maybe LeBeau wouldn't even notice; he could easily play dumb and pretend that he had no idea that it was only two hours that had passed by. "Louis was worried that the lady reporter was going to go to the police and say that you stole her brooch. He said that if she got there before Kinch and the colonel did, the police would never believe them. And even if she got their after them, her story would hold more weight."
"That doesn't tell me where 'e is! Andrew, I swear, if you don't—"
"He's in Epping!" Carter blurted out. "I told him it was a bad idea, but he wouldn't—"
"…What?"
"Louis thought that if he went over to that reporter's house to discuss a possible plan for an interview, it'd stall her enough for Kinch and the colonel to get the police to believe that someone is framing you," Carter explained. "He said that if I didn't hear from him after three hours, to finally tell you. I know it's only been two hours, but I guess there's…" He trailed off as Newkirk's face turned red and he headed out the door. "Oh, boy…"
"Andrew, you'd better come with me."
"I should? But what if Louis tries to call?"
"You'd better come with me because I'll need someone to stop me from punching 'im!"
Carter stood there for a moment, baffled, but followed Newkirk out the apartment door, trying to ignore the voice in his head whispering that something was terribly wrong.
Hogan and Kinch, in the meantime, were having their own struggles. As the trio had predicted, the police were finding the notion of the impostor hard to swallow, even when looking at the pictures that Carter had taken.
"I suppose it is possible that there is a difference between these pictures," a constable said, comparing one of Carter's pictures of the impostor to that of a picture of the real Newkirk. "But it does leave one question unanswered, doesn't it? You claim that this man, Peter Newkirk, whom you claim is being framed as the Springheel Jack, served under you during the war as a corporal in the Royal Air Force?"
"The records of Luft Stalag 13 will confirm that Corporal Newkirk did serve under me," Hogan said, knowing where the constable was going.
"Colonel Hogan, I understand that you see the need to defend the reputation of your men—this one included," the constable said, pulling out a file. "However, Peter Newkirk is no stranger to the London police; he has a record of thefts—"
"A record of petty thefts, which, if you'll notice, came to an end around 1937, I believe—just less than three years before he joined the Royal Air Force," Hogan said, coolly. "He never had another arrest after that, and never once in any of those thefts did he resort to violence, let alone murder."
The constable stared at him, but glanced at the file and saw that the colonel was correct.
"A good officer knows his men," Hogan explained, pleased to see him somewhat flummoxed.
"Not just officers," Kinch added. "I can vouch for Newkirk's character, and I'm not the only one. He told us more than once about how he was determined to make an honest living for himself. He has a job in a local magic theater, and he has a very close friend in Paris—another man who was in Luft Stalag 13 with us and happens to be in town now—who will willingly send him money if he even detects the slightest hint that he needs it."
"Even if what you say is true, Gentlemen, it still begs one to ask why on earth someone would go through the trouble of impersonating a corporal and committing violent crimes just to frame him," the constable said.
"We're curious about that, as well," Hogan said. "We're hoping to get some answers once the impostor is caught."
"Rest assured, Gentlemen, we will catch the murderer," the constable assured him. "And I thank you for bringing Peter Newkirk to our attention once again."
"Just one thing," Hogan said, handing him a telegram. "You'll find that this is a wire by General Aloysius Barton of the U.S. Army Air Corp ordering you not to arrest Corporal Newkirk for reasons of military intelligence."
"Military intelligence?" the constable asked, pointing to the picture of the real Newkirk. "Him?"
"Perhaps you heard last night about the escape from the Heidelberg prison?" Hogan asked. "That war criminal who escaped, Wolfgang Hochstetter, frequented Luft Stalag 13; General Barton needs information from all former prisoners of Stalag 13 in regards his description and mannerisms that might lead to his recapture—and that includes Corporal Newkirk."
"Well, Colonel, I understand this order," the constable said, baffled. "But as he is an American general, I am afraid that your General Barton's order does not hold as much weight now that the war is over—"
"And here," Hogan said, handing him another telegram. "I have an order from Colonel Wembley of the British Army, instructing that General Barton's order be obeyed. You may call the colonel to confirm it, if you'd wish."
The constable stared at the second telegram for a long time.
"Colonel Hogan," he said, at last. "I have a sneaking suspicion that you caused the Germans much trouble during your time in Luft Stalag 13."
"Whatever gave you that idea?" he replied, wryly.
The constable sighed, deciding not to answer the question and realizing that there was no alternative for him but to throw in the towel.
"Very well, Colonel Hogan," he said. "I do not understand why there seems to be so much of a fuss over this corporal, but far be it from me to stand in the way of these officers. I will see to it that word of these orders will be passed along to the rest of the London police, and that they will be obeyed to the letter. Good day, Colonel." He turned to Kinch and gave a nod. "Sergeant."
Hogan and Kinch thanked him and turned to go as the phone on the constable's desk began to ring.
"And the silver tongue wins again," Hogan mused, but paused as he heard the constable speak over the line.
"More sightings of the Springheel Jack?" he was saying. "Where?" He began to write down the information. "Some trouble at Epping… sounds of a violent struggle… Springheel Jack seen heading towards Greater London… I see. Do you have a description of him? Just Brown hair, green eyes, RAF uniform… Yes, that's the same description we've been getting. What? He was also wearing a red wool scarf?"
"Red wool scarf?" Kinch repeated, quietly. "You don't think…?"
The triumphant look in Hogan's eyes had now vanished. The colonel wanted to believe that it was a coincidence, but his sixth sense was telling him otherwise.
Carter was not having a good time. During the bus ride to Epping, he had to sit and listen to Newkirk rant about the different ways he was going to make LeBeau pay for doing something so incredibly stupid and making him worry even more, despite having given him a good talking to the previous day.
"I suppose it'd be useless to point out that what he did was because he wanted to help you out?" the American asked at last.
Newkirk gave him a very withering look.
"…Yeah, I thought as much…" Carter said, as they got off of their bus.
"Exactly where is this lady's place, anyway?" Newkirk asked. "You'd better be leading me in the right direction."
"Of course I am! It's right over…" he trailed off, staring the door, which was ajar. "Well, that's it. I wonder why the door's open…"
"Louis must be in there, of course," Newkirk snarled, ringing the doorbell.
"You'll have to come up with some story to explain why you came for him."
"I'll just say I didn't think 'e 'ad enough money to make it back to Stepney on 'is own," Newkirk countered. He frowned as no one came to the door. "Blimey, what…?"
The Englishman now trailed off as a feeling of unease came over him.
"Louis?" he called, stepping into the house. "Louis, where are you?"
"Hello?" Carter called, following him. "Anyone home? Huh. I guess they must've gone out somewhere—maybe for lunch or something."
"Louis would never eat out in England," Newkirk stated, flatly. He peered into the drawing room, seeing nothing out of the ordinary.
It was Carter who looked into the den and gasped.
"What is it?" Newkirk asked, running over. He froze upon seeing the telltale signs of a struggle—overturned furniture, small objects out of place, papers all over the floor, and scuff makes all over the carpet.
"She couldn't get the jump on Louis like that, could she?" Carter wondered aloud. "I mean, Louis knows what he's doing; he wouldn't walk into a trap like that… would he?"
"I don't know," Newkirk said. "But it ain't looking good. Louis must've found something that she didn't care to 'ave found."
"Like that?" Carter said, flinching as he noticed the sword impalement box. Not wanting to look at it, he determinedly stared at the wall as he pointed to it.
Newkirk regarded the box with some amazement.
"This belongs to Pandora!" he said. "But was it stolen? Or is 'e really in on this?"
He frowned, staring at the box as he walked around it. It was the usual box that Pandora used, but Newkirk took note that someone had painstakingly put swords through each individual slit.
"If Pandora was 'ere, 'e must've been practicing," he observed, gingerly placing his hand on the hilt of one of the swords sticking out of the box. "Though it still doesn't answer the question of what 'appened to…"
Newkirk trailed off, yet again. He had casually pulled the sword out slightly, freezing upon seeing blood on the blade. Carter turned to see what had caused Newkirk to stop talking, and he paled at the sight.
"Just a touch of realism, right?" he asked, grasping at straws.
Newkirk looked at the box again and at the swords sticking out of it, and the horrible realization sunk in.
"Andrew," he said, as calmly as he could. "'elp me get the swords out. Now."
Newkirk and Carter carefully removed each sword from the box as quickly as they dared, knowing that they wouldn't be able to get the box open otherwise. Each sword had blood on it as they removed it.
Carter found himself unable to look as Newkirk yanked the door of the cabinet open. The Englishman yet out a horrified cry as a motionless body fell into his arms, covered with blood.
"Louis…" Newkirk whispered, his voice choking as he sunk to the floor, cradling the Frenchman's still form.
"No!" Carter gasped. He knew that he should've expected it from the moment they found the blood on the first sword, but he had been hoping and praying that, by some miracle, it wasn't so.
Newkirk checked for a pulse, but wasn't finding one. He did, however, find the marks on the Frenchman's neck from where he had been choked; his scarf was gone, taken by his attacker. A mix of emotions was building up inside of Newkirk.
"Why did you do it, Louis?" he hissed, seizing him by the lapels. "Why'd you 'ave to go when you knew it was dangerous? You can't die on me now—not after we survived that ruddy war together…"
He trailed off, blinking back the rapidly-forming tears in his eyes as he recalled some of LeBeau's earlier words to him.
"One of these days, Pierre, you will be begging me for my bouillabaisse."
Not like this, Newkirk thought, miserably, as he continued to helplessly cradle his motionless friend. It was never meant to be like this. I wasn't supposed to let this happen to you. I should've been there for you. You're me little mate, and now… Oh, Louis…
Carter gripped Newkirk's shoulder as the Englishman shut his eyes and bowed his head.
"You know he would've done anything for you—even if he knew this was going to happen, he would've done it," the American said, softly, drying his own tears. "Now that he's… Well, I guess you can know now that he wrote you into his will."
"'e did what?" Newkirk asked, his heart twisting further.
"He told me yesterday that he knew you'd never take the money from him, so he made you the main beneficiary of his will," Carter confessed. He figured that Newkirk was going to find out soon, anyway—he may as well find out from him.
Newkirk felt even worse now. It was true that his own pride had stood in the way, but he hadn't even realized that LeBeau would go that far to help him.
"Louis…" he whispered, hugging his friend close to him. He shut his eyes, trying to seal out everything. He felt as though the entire world had come crashing down on top of him. So lost was he that it took him a long time to notice the faint, slow pulsing as he hugged LeBeau's torso against his own.
Newkirk's eyes snapped open. At first, he had assumed it was his own heartbeat, but it suddenly became clear that the pulse was too slow to be his own. He placed two fingers on LeBeau's neck, but, once again, felt nothing.
"What is it?" Carter asked, startled.
"I think," Newkirk said, unbuttoning the Frenchman's shirt so that he could press his ear to his chest. "I think 'e ain't dead!"
"Huh?" Carter asked, feeling for a pulse on LeBeau's wrist. "But I can't feel anything…"
"That's because 'is pulse is weak—slow, too…" the Englishman said, just barely hearing the sound he had wanted so desperately to hear.
Carter's eyes widened, and he placed the back of his hand in front of the Frenchman's nose and mouth, but felt nothing. He grabbed a compact mirror from a nearby table and tried placing that in front of LeBeau's face. He waited for a moment, and gasped as the tiniest trace of condensation appeared on the mirror.
"He is alive!" he exclaimed. "But… why couldn't we tell? Do you think…?" The sergeant trailed off, an idea coming to him. He crossed to the nearest wastebasket, and pulled out a small, dark bottle which was empty. "Look at this! Louis was drugged! And here're some empty bottles of that fake blood stuff, too!"
Newkirk looked up, anger now filling his eyes.
"They did all this just to make us think 'e was dead!" he said. "And I know what's going to 'appen now—they're going to say that I killed 'im!"
"What do we do?"
Newkirk looked at his unconscious friend and sighed.
"You look after 'im—try to revive 'im, but don't let 'im exert 'imself. I want 'im to fully recover from this. I'm going to find that double of mine and end this. And then I'll find that reporter and end it again."
"Do you even know where to find them?" Carter asked, as he took LeBeau from Newkirk.
"I do now, thanks to this," said Newkirk, pointing to the impalement box. "They'll be at the theatre now."
"Yeah, good thinking; they probably took the robotic equipment that was upstairs with them."
"Look into that once Louis recovers," Newkirk said. "I'm going to find them."
"Newkirk!" Carter called, as the Englishman headed for the door. "Be careful!"
The corporal paused before leaving.
"Of course I will," he said, quietly, as he turned to face Carter. "I've got a lot to tell Louis after 'e wakes up." An 'I'm sorry' will be just the tip of the iceberg.
With that, he headed out the door.