"Okay, Hogan, I'll buy it. If you say it'll work, I'll bet my life on it."
Hogan had found Morrison, after a brief search, in a small room at the end of a passage behind the stage. It was scarcely bigger than a broom closet, and had apparently been meant for such a purpose, although much of the space was now taken up with an odd assortment of dilapidated stage props. Morrison, relaxing on a gilded Egyptian throne in front of a flat depicting Dresden by moonlight, looked quite at ease. One thing had to be said for him; he was adaptable.
"That's exactly what it comes down to, Morrison," replied Hogan, who was seated with equal composure on a large mushroom, painted red with white spots. "I think we can pull it off, but it's going to require split-second timing. And whatever happens, Schultz can't be allowed to get a good look at you."
Morrison shifted, and his chair gave an alarming creak. "They sure don't build 'em like they used to," he remarked. "So, what happens once I'm at Stalag 13?"
"We hide you in the tunnel till we get a chance to get you to the coast," said Hogan. "And that could take some time. You're not an easy man to disguise, and they'll be watching for you."
"Is that going to be a problem for you? I don't want to louse things up for your operation, Hogan."
"We can handle it." Hogan stood up, and went to the door. "We got Decker out of the country, remember - and he didn't want to go."
He opened the door by an inch or so, allowing the sounds from onstage to penetrate Morrison's little sanctum.
"Say, is it just me, or are they starting to sound better?" said Morrison.
Hogan, checking the passage for possible onlookers, paused for a moment, listening. "You know, you're right. The orchestra's still all over the place, but the voices are almost good."
There was nobody in sight. "Wait here a minute, Morrison," murmured Hogan. "There's someone else wants to talk to you."
He stole quietly back down the little corridor until he was within sight of the stage. As he'd expected, Claudia Valensizi was waiting in the wings, out of sight of the stalls. To all appearances, she was absorbed in the music, such as it was. She turned her head as Hogan approached; the look of languorous amusement was gone, her eyes were open, the pupils wide in the dim light.
Without a word, he beckoned, and she followed him back along the passage. Morrison was waiting outside his little room, and even in the dim electric light, Hogan recognised the change in his expression. The signorina didn't make a sound. She went straight into his arms, and laid her head on his shoulder; and he took her into the storage room, and closed the door.
It was risky; if Valensizi was missed and a search conducted, it could be all up for Morrison. Realistically, Hogan knew he shouldn't have allowed it. But this was probably the last time they'd meet until after the war. He wasn't going to deprive them of it. He would let them have five minutes. Maybe ten.
"So, how long you been playing the old joanna, then?" asked Newkirk. Fräulein Moller gave him yet another cool scornful look, and didn't reply.
He was running out of opening lines. This bird was one of the hardest nuts he'd ever tried to crack. From his initial standpoint of just keeping her occupied, in case she was an informant, he'd progressed quickly towards a genuine wish to strike a response. Any response. It was a matter of personal pride; this stuck-up little piece wanted taking down a few pegs, and he was just the man to do it.
"See, I take a bit of a professional interest," he went on. "I'm in the entertainment business myself. London theatre scene, you know - well, music hall, anyway. I've worked with some of the best. And you know, you're not half bad, love."
A delicate flush appeared, not on her face, but at the base of her throat, and her lips twitched a little. So he'd got a reaction, anyway, though he wasn't sure what it was. She couldn't be laughing at him; he doubted she knew how. But there was definitely something.
"Mind you, you could learn a bit from Lilly May," added Newkirk meditatively. "She could keep an audience spellbound. Now, there was a really lovely bird. And talented. Played all the classics - Mozart, Brahms, Harry Lauder..."
The girl still didn't speak, but her eyelids dropped briefly, as if trying to hide something. Encouraged, Newkirk proceeded to embroider the story.
"Shame she had to retire so young," he went on. "She could have gone right to the top, you know. But once she had that nervous breakdown, and started pulling all her feathers out - well, nobody wants to pay tuppence to see a bald parrot playing the piano, do they?"
"A parrot?" She glanced at him, briefly startled out of her sulks.
Got you there, Miss Prissy! thought Newkirk smugly.
"Oh, yes, didn't I mention that?" he said innocently. "Lilly was a parrot. An Imperial Amazon, she was. Star attraction in Tommy Taverner's trained bird act at the Palais - or was it the Excelsior? No, come to think of it, it was Barnsley's Circus."
Fräulein Moller quickly regained her self-possession, and returned her attention to the stage, and a few minutes of silence ensued, as Newkirk considered his next gambit. He still had a couple of tactics up his sleeve, but the girl had apparently decided enough was enough.
"Before you waste any more time, perhaps it will save some trouble if I explain something," she remarked. "You see, there is only one thing to be said to a man like you."
"Oh? And what's that then?" asked Newkirk, disconcerted.
She didn't even look at him as she replied, with every sign of complete boredom: "The zinnias bloomed early this year."
Oh, flippin' heck! thought Newkirk. He turned his head to look at her, hiding his bewildered chagrin as best he could, and racking his brains for the correct response.
"My mother grows prize-winning petunias," he said, after a lengthy pause.
"I think you'll find it's primulas," murmured the girl with a touch of asperity.
"Primulas, petunias, what's the difference?"
"I could never really tell," she admitted. After a few seconds she went on: "Elsie Cooper, OSS. I'm told you work with Papa Bear."
Newkirk didn't answer at once; he had to adapt to a sudden shift in his ideas. "All right then," he said at length. "You're one of our lot. So, what are you doing hanging round Brunhilda? Signorina Valensizi, I mean," he added hastily.
"Probably the same thing as you," she replied. "One of our agents is in trouble, and on the run. My job is to find him, and help him get out of Germany, and my only lead is the prima donna. But time's running short. The Gestapo are on his trail as well."
"How close are they?" asked Newkirk quietly. This was a complication they didn't need.
The girl didn't answer at first, and he turned to look at her.
"A lot closer than you think," she said at last; and Newkirk felt a sudden cold chill as he followed the direction of her eyes, and found himself staring at Captain Baumann.
"Oh, that's just bleedin' marvellous," he muttered under his breath.
If she was to be trusted - which was yet to be confirmed - the Gestapo had a man right in the middle of the whole operation. In fact, he was pretty well in charge of it.
Just once, it would have been nice to get through one operation without things getting complicated. This wasn't going to be the one.