"Of course, in my day we weren't quite so forward. At least, not until the war broke out. There's nothing like a declaration of hostilities for turning young thoughts towards romance. It certainly worked for me. Several times, in fact."
Hogan need not have worried. Newkirk had the situation well in hand. If truth be told, he was starting to enjoy himself; it wasn't every day he got to flirt with the Gestapo. Not too outrageously, of course, just enough to put Hochstetter and his sidekick off balance, ready for the big surprise.
A significant tactical advantage was gained through Hochstetter's one known virtue; like so many German men of his generation, he couldn't quite bring himself to be discourteous to an elderly woman, unless he suspected her of treason. Unable to dismiss this chatty old dear with his customary impatience, he had been reduced to a state of seething frustration, and as a result had completely failed to notice Hogan going into the watchmaker's shop across the street.
With the major simmering nicely, Newkirk could spare a few moments to turn up the heat under the SS man in the blonde wig. "Dear me, you're blushing again," he said, tilting his head, and waving a playful, lavender-gloved finger. He glanced mischievously at Hochstetter. "You'll have to keep a close eye on her, young man, or some impudent fellow will steal her from under your nose."
"I very much doubt it, gnädige Frau," grated Hochstetter, his eyes flickering towards his hapless underling.
"Oh, my, I think he's serious," fluttered Frau Newkirkberger. "You're a very lucky girl, my dear. I've always had a weakness for dark, brooding, men. As a matter of fact, if you don't count my late husband - and why should you? I never did - the only man I ever really lost my heart to was the mysterious kind."
"Is that so?"
"Oh, yes, indeed. There's something irresistible about a man who looks as though he's keeping something secret. Of course, it spoils things a little when you find out that the secret is, he has a wife in Dortmund." Newkirk sighed, and folded his hands. "And another one in Münster," he added; then, almost as an afterthought: "And a mistress in Gelsenkirchen."
Hochstetter's lip curled, and his left nostril flared a little; but Newkirk disregarded the danger signals, and prattled on: "I have to say though, none of my other suitors ever wrote love letters like the ones he sent me from France, during the last war. As a matter of fact I came across them today, while I was doing my spring cleaning, and I very nearly fell for him all over again."
He opened his handbag, which for practical reasons was considerably larger than the beaded reticule he usually carried. "I have them here somewhere...I brought them along, because I thought...now, where have they gone? It's always the same, I can never find anything in here. Just hold these for a moment."
He pressed a jumble of items - coin purse, enamelled powder compact, two pencils and a lace-edged handkerchief - into the hands of the ersatz shop girl. "And these," he went on, adding a folded Japanese fan, a roll of peppermints and a bottle of sal volatile. "You see, I'd completely forgotten about them - the letters, I mean, and the other little keepsakes he left behind. I found them this morning while I was doing my spring cleaning, and I thought, I really should do what I meant to all those years ago, and hand them in to the police."
This unexpected conclusion acted on Hochstetter like a brief, low-voltage electric shock. His muscles tensed, and he fixed a piercing gaze on the old woman. "Why should the police be interested in your former lover's letters?"
"Oh, not the letters, dear, although I'm sure they'd find them fascinating. No, it's his souvenirs from the Western Front. Well, just one of them, really. He was a bit of a collector, you see, he liked to bring back something whenever he went anywhere. It got a bit tiresome after a while, all those silver teaspoons, and postcard albums, and paperweights with pictures of Heidelberg Castle. And as for his war memorabilia, well, let me just say, there are some things a lady really doesn't like to have around the house." Still rummaging, Newkirk produced another item from the apparently endless depths of his bag and gave it to Hochstetter, who accepted it automatically, only realizing what it was once he had it in his hand.
The assistant emitted a squeak, letting the old lady's possessions fall from his grasp. "That is...that is..."
Newkirk finished the sentence for him: "It's a hand grenade, dear. He brought it back from Flanders as a memento, but he forgot to take it with him when he left. I would have sent it after him, if I knew which wife he'd gone back to. As it was, I just put it away and never thought about it again, until today."
"It has a ribbon tied around it," faltered the assistant, peering at the bright pink bow with which the grenade was decorated.
Hochstetter, his eyes fixed on the deadly little package, answered through gritted teeth. "I imagine that is to prevent it from detonating, since the pin is missing."
"Oh, that fell out while I was dusting it, and what with my bad eyesight, I couldn't see where it had fallen," explained Newkirk. "So I thought I'd better just wrap something around it, just to keep everything together. We don't want any accidents, do we?"
Peering into his handbag, he clicked his tongue in displeasure. "Dear me, it seems I don't have those letters with me after all. Still, I don't suppose it matters, does it?"
"What?" Hochstetter mumbled, without looking up. His fingers had folded around the grenade, gripping it securely.
Newkirk was already gathering up his belongings from the counter where they had fallen, and returning them to his handbag. Through the shop window, he caught sight of the black van pulling up in front of the watchmaker's. It would only take a minute for Hogan to get Freischütz and Spiegelmann into the van. All Newkirk had to do was keep Hochstetter from looking across the street for those sixty seconds.
He snapped the bag shut, and gave the major a confiding smile. "I see you know how to handle a grenade. Are you a military man, by any chance? But of course you are. You have that look about you."
Hochstetter tore his gaze from the beribboned grenade, and fixed it on the old woman. For a moment, he seemed not to have understood the question; then he pulled himself together, up to a point. "A military man...yes, I suppose you could say that," he replied faintly.
"My goodness, that's what I call good luck," twittered Frau Newkirkberger brightly. "It's a long way to the police station, especially with my rheumatism. I wasn't sure my poor old legs were going to make it. And it's not really a matter for the Ordnungspolizei, now I come to think about it. They don't have the experience necessary for dealing with these little problems. It's a great comfort to know I can leave it in your hands."
"But...but you can't leave it here," protested the assistant, in a falsetto which had nothing to do with his assumed femininity.
Newkirk, with a motherly air, patted his hand reassuringly. "Don't worry, dear. I'm sure your young man knows just what to do in a situation like this. Or if he doesn't, you can always find another one." He gave a cackle of laughter. "Sorry, just my little joke."
The black van had just set off, carrying its cargo of fugitives. It was time for Frau Newkirkberger to make her exit. "Well, we've had a lovely little chat, but I'd better be on my way. Auf Wiedersehen."
"One moment," said Hochstetter. From the sound of his voice, he was having some difficulty with his vocal cords. "I regret, gnädige Frau...I would be glad to be of service...however, in this instance, I have other duties, and must insist..."
"You'd make an old lady with rheumatic knees carry a live grenade through the streets?" Newkirk drew himself up in scandalised disapproval. "Shame on you, young man. What would the Kaiser say? Good day to you, sir."
Turning on his heel, he doddered out of the shop and into the street. Hochstetter started after him, almost dropped the grenade, and came to an abrupt halt. "Geisler!"
His offsider leapt into action, completely forgetting the hazards imposed by the wearing of high heels. By the time he'd regained his feet and reached the door, the old lady, having put on a surprising turn of speed, had already gone from sight.
The van was waiting in the first side laneway. Frau Newkirkberger, trotting along at a sprightly gait, looked up and down the narrow alley, then hopped nimbly in through the back door, and slammed it shut.
"Any problems?" said Hogan.
"Went like a charm, Colonel. You should have seen the look on Hochstetter's face when I handed him the grenade." Newkirk's bonnet was askew; he tossed it aside along with the grey wig, straightened his skirt and rearranged his shawl. "I only wish I could have stayed to see how he gets out of it."
Freischütz, huddled uncomfortably at the far end of the van, and taking up far more room than was reasonable, stared at him in astonishment, but Spiegelmann uttered a snort of laughter, and Hogan's eyes gleamed. "Gentlemen, allow me to present Corporal Newkirk, one of my best men... and my best little old woman."
Footnote - the inspiration (if one can call it that) for this story came from the following news article, which appeared in the Daily Telegraph (Sydney) on 10th April 2013:
An elderly woman sparked an explosives scare yesterday when she walked into a Sydney police station carrying a hand grenade. The army bomb disposal unit was called to the Mosman police station after the woman, 84, handed in the pineapple-shaped bomb - a weapon dating back to World War I which she said she had been keeping in a cupboard... The woman, who did not want to be identified, said she inherited the grenade from her World War I veteran father more than 40 years ago. "I forgot all about it," she said.