Hogan felt as if time had slowed almost to a standstill. Everything had stopped, except his thoughts, which were going at a frantic pace, trying to find some way to save Carter, knowing the slightest move, the slightest sound from him, and Staremberg would pull the trigger.
He couldn't believe Carter had done that. It hadn't even been the final plan; it was the coffee he was supposed to spill, and after he'd become the focus of Staremberg's unfavourable attention, Hogan had tried to signal to him to abort the scheme altogether. Given Carter's usual form, however, it might have been a legitimate accident. One that was about to get him shot.
Hogan had no real hope that Klink would interfere, and yet Klink was the only one who could. And when the Kommandant actually stepped up to the mark, and tremulously took Staremberg to task, Hogan was so dumbfounded that for a moment he wondered if the whole unbelievable situation was just a bad dream.
It wouldn't work. Klink couldn't be expected to stand his ground.
None of the witnesses would ever be able to say for sure how long it was before Staremberg responded. The only measure of time was the sound of Carter's free hand beating intermittently against the wall as if it was somehow channelling away the pain. He still had his eyes open, fixed on Staremberg's, refusing to make it easier for him. Perhaps that was what tipped the scale; perhaps Staremberg couldn't actually look a man in the eyes and shoot him. At all events, the general finally answered.
"Why waste a bullet on him?" he said, and withdrew the pistol. And he let Carter go.
LeBeau broke from Hogan's grip, and flung himself at Carter, who slumped against the wall before sliding to the floor. As Staremberg moved aside, Hogan took a few steps forward, placing himself in front of his men. If the son of a bitch decided to have another go, he'd have to get past Hogan first.
The silence now was almost one of embarrassment. It was broken by a low, almost inaudible plea from Carter: "Don't, Louis. Leave it. Just give me a minute, okay?"
Hogan glanced over his shoulder. Carter had his maltreated hand curled up against his chest; with his other arm he was warding off LeBeau's attempts to inspect the damage.
There was a soft rustle of silk, as Madame Rochaud came to help. "Let me see," she said, in a voice that allowed no refusal. She took Carter's hand and gently removed the white cotton glove. "Oh, dear. It looks quite painful."
"Hurts a bit, ma'am." That was probably one hell of an understatement.
Madame was examining the fingers which had been so brutally forced out of their natural alignment. She transferred Carter's glove from her right hand to her left; then, finding it an inconvenience, passed it to LeBeau so she could bring both her hands to the task.
Staremberg remained silent, his face flushed, as he tried to remove the worst of the mess from his uniform with a napkin. And Klink, who would normally have been trying desperately to regain whatever good graces he imagined he had held, stood immobile and dazed. He had dropped his monocle, and seemed not to have noticed. He wasn't even looking at Staremberg; his attention was fixed on Madame Rochaud.
Then he seemed to come to himself. "Schultz, take Hogan and his men back to the barracks."
It wasn't the time to argue. Hogan offered his hand to Madame as she rose, then he and LeBeau got Carter to his feet. Schultz went first and opened the door for them.
"You go ahead," murmured Hogan. "I'll be a couple of minutes."
He wasn't sure there was anything he could do, but he couldn't bring himself to walk out on Klink now. Schultz seemed about to protest, but LeBeau jabbed him with one finger, and gave him a fierce glare, and he folded, too shaken by what had happened to put up much opposition. Hogan turned back, and stood a few paces behind and to the right of the Kommandant; close enough to reinforce, not too close for comfort.
Staremberg straightened his jacket. "You should realise, Klink, that in a short time I will be returning to Stalag 13 with the authority to impose discipline on the prisoners as I see fit," he said , in a low, harsh voice. "And I never forget an insult. I will remember that man, when I come back. I won't forget your part in this, either."
Klink blanched, and glanced over his shoulder at Hogan, with a kind of panic, then looked at Madame Rochaud. Somehow he seemed to gain a little courage from one or the other, although his voice was slightly strangled as he replied. "General, it's getting late. Perhaps you should return to your headquarters."
Wonders will never cease. Klink's got some, after all, thought Hogan.
Staremberg looked as startled as if he'd just been savaged by a field mouse. His eyes, wide with outrage, travelled from Klink's pallid face to Hogan, and from there to Madame, standing a little further away. Something in her candid, steady gaze, or in Hogan's unconcealed contempt, threw him off balance, and his voice was a little less certain when he spoke.
"Madame, it seems your car is not going to be ready tonight. May I have the pleasure of driving you to Hammelburg?"
"I don't think so," replied the lady. "I don't like bullies, General."
Put in his place yet again, Staremberg drew back. A deep flush of anger darkened his face. Hogan suppressed a sigh. Now Madame Rochaud was probably on the man's list as well, right below Klink and Carter. This was going to take some fixing.
The general didn't say anything more. He sent one long, fulminating look at Klink, then stalked to the door, his dignity shattered as far as Stalag 13 was concerned.
Nobody spoke for almost a minute. Hogan found himself gazing at the Kommandant, trying to fit the last ten minutes into the template of Klink's character that he'd built up over the past couple of years. He couldn't do it. Nor could he make sense of Klink's reaction, now that it was over. No sign of either elation at having outfaced Staremberg, or hysterical panic at the thought of what might follow. Klink just looked as if he'd lost something, and wasn't sure how it had happened.
"Hogan," he said at last, "I told you to return to the barracks." He sounded weary, and he looked as if he had suddenly aged ten years.
Hogan had never imagined he'd feel sorry for Klink. But there was no point in him staying; he was not on the kind of terms with the Kommandant that made it possible to offer any open sympathy.
He saluted, a real salute, for the first time ever. Klink had earned that, for once. But the Kommandant didn't pay any attention.
"Willi, I'm so proud..." The words caught Hogan's ear just before the door closed behind him. He paused for a second, glancing back. Madame had taken both Klink's hands in hers, looking up at him with affectionate concern. She knew what he was in for, all right. But there was an intimacy in the moment which made Hogan feel ashamed of himself for peeking.
Schultz returned just as he closed the door. "Is the general gone?" he whispered.
"For now," replied Hogan. "But he said he'd be back. Schultz, if I were you, I wouldn't go in there just now. Let 'em have a few minutes."
"Carter, where's that bloody grenade?" The words burst from Newkirk just as Hogan got to the barracks.
Carter, who was sitting at the table while Kinch applied a cold, wet towel to the injured wrist, bit his lip. Now was not a good time to admit he'd hidden the thing in Newkirk's mattress. Before he could come up with a way to get out of it, Hogan interrupted.
"It's too late. Staremberg's already left. How bad is it, Kinch?"
Kinch gave him a straight, steady look. "One broken finger, maybe two. I think the wrist is just sprained. But he needs to go to the hospital to be sure."
"Okay, I'll go back and tell Klink," sighed Hogan.
"It was an accident, Colonel." Carter spoke with trepidation. "I didn't do it on purpose, it just sort of happened."
"I know, Carter. Don't worry about it," said Hogan.
Newkirk was pacing the floor in the manner of a caged tiger waiting for the chance to tear into the first keeper incautious enough to come within striking distance. "Colonel, we've got to see to the bastard," he said abruptly.
"Yeah. Sorry, Carter. We should have done something about him earlier."
"Well, gee, Colonel, I don't see how," replied Carter. He looked about ready to drop again.
Kinch leaned back. "What about the microfilm, Colonel?" he asked.
"Oh, for pity's sake!" muttered Newkirk, but at a glance from Hogan he fell silent.
"Well, Madame's probably settled here for the night," said Hogan, rubbing his forehead. "But from the look of things, Klink will be telling her his woes until sunrise. So I don't know how we're going to find an opportunity."
He noticed that Carter was looking shamefaced, and added quickly, "It's not your fault, Carter. The whole scheme was bound to fall apart as soon as Klink spilled the beans about your family background. We'll just have to think of something else."
"I don't think we will, mon Colonel," said LeBeau. He had been fussing around the stove, preparing a tisane for Carter. Without thinking, he had pulled a small handful of white cotton out of his pocket. He was now staring at it with an expression of awe slowly dawning on his face.
He held it up between his thumb and forefinger; Carter's glove, the one Madame Rochaud had removed from his injured hand, and given to LeBeau so casually. And as LeBeau now lifted it by the middle finger, a small decorated cylinder dropped out into his hand; a silver repoussé lipstick case.