A/N Written for the "Pick a Challenge, Any Challenge" challenge. Original challenge 165) Hogan Noir by CaptainSmirk. Still unbetaed.

Hogan, Private Eye

The champagne from yesterday is drumming in my head to the knocking on my door. I had only nipped at the offered drink, but not enough sleep and the cheap motel I reside still results in a fierce headache. Cold wind blows through the cracks in the wall and I shiver.

Another knock at the door forces me to deal with whoever desires my attention.

Massaging my head, I get up and head to the door. I sleep in my office and my office is my bedroom. It's cheaper this way but means that my door doesn't come with a nice glass panel displaying my name in golden letters. For the time being I have to settle for lower comfort.

Bleary-eyed, I open the door. A bald man with a monocle stands there, glaring at me. "Are you the best?"

I wet my lips, fixing my eyes on him. I know him. He's a powerful man in this town despite his nonthreatening appearance. "I am the best." A sufficient answer. The older man starts to fidget, so I take a step back and let him in.

The thing I lack most is a secretary taking care of mundane things and brightening my day. But there isn't much to do, and so I offer my guest the only seat I have.

"They mangled her," my guest, soon-to-be client tells me, stoically keeping the emotion out of his words even if he displays them in his expression.

With a blank face I listen to his description. It's nothing I haven't heard or seen before.

"Innocent. She was innocent. Too young to die."

I let him finish his tale, contemplating who really could be innocent in a world as dark as ours. But the bald man seems to be sure, and taking the job would ensure my survival for another week. I stare at him. He stares back. Slowly, I give him a single nod. I would take his case.

:~:~:~:

The first step in my investigation is the crime scene. I have seen the most gruesome acts but even for me this one was bad. I could feel knots in my stomach. At least there is no blood, keeping the terrible smell away. The floor around the body is strewn with splinters of wood.

The witness to this terrible crime, a young woman, stands in the corner of the room, her white dress dirty and torn and her hands bloody. Apparently she'd tried to help but touching broken wood isn't without danger. A big man with gray hair and a gentle air around him, is consoling her. He is one of the bodyguards of my client. If he'd done his job, nobody could have laid hands on the victim. A sob shocks the witness, and she buries her face in the gray uniform. I give the bodyguard a signal, and he gently leads the woman away. Her life will never be the same again.

A boy, barely out of school, appears in the room. He's too young for such a crime, or maybe I'm getting old. I focus on the victim and how she's laying so still. Small and delicate, a beauty in the right circumstance. Kneeling next to the body I inspect the surrounding area. "Did anybody touch her?"

"No, Colonel Hogan, the moment we realized what -" The young man breaks off, horror etched on his boyish face.

I ignore the sounds around me and focus on the body. The small neck is broken, almost completely torn off, and the strings are ripped away. Even the bow didn't escape the destruction, twisted and ripped apart until it was all but unusable. Having seen enough, I take the red velvet and gently covering her up. Nothing could bring her back. Never again her song and music could be heard. Besides the bald man nobody seemed to care. In a cold world her death doesn't mean much – just another body waiting to be buried.

It is time for some whiskey and a cigar. Weary from the weather and the crime, I climb back to my feet and stumble across the room. Pouring myself a big glass, I play with it before downing its content.

I can't take my eyes of the body hidden beneath the light sheet. She was just an instrument, a tool in this game, but had to bear the brunt force of violence.

Emotion. This was a crime of passion and not a carefully planned execution. Suddenly, I know where I would get my next information.

:~:~:~:

Walking around the area, my path may seem random, but I have a target. The man I am looking for doesn't have a fixed address. Rumor has it he's hiding in tunnels underground. He's a boxer, always on the move. But if there is an uprising, or any other big mess, he wouldn't be far away. Controlling much, if not everything, he would know the word of the street.

Finally, I spot him, leaning against the outer wall of one of his usual hangouts. The small one and another one of his associates in his blue suit linger near. The surrounding air smells like cheap cigarettes and I could see a small hint of blue.

As I come nearer, the boxer raises an eyebrow.

Knowing I would need time, I pull out a cigar. "Got a light?"

The wind blows across my face, but I don't take my eyes off this man. He could wring my neck with his little fingers, but somehow he respects me.

He pulls out his lighter, playing with it.

Without another word, I offer him my last cigar. He accepts it, but doesn't light it up. A cigar is something special, not smoked on the street. Instead, he takes one his cigarettes.

"Five in morning, she's crying and screaming so loud, nobody can sleep anymore." The man takes a puff. "If they'd at least closed their windows." The black man shrugs. "It was bound to happen. Sooner or later."

I nod. If she'd just stayed in her case and not getting involved with the bald man, she could still be alive. "Anybody in particular not a morning person?"

The man rolls his shoulders as if he wants to warm up for a sparring match. I heard about his boxing days and knock-outs. But I stay and wait, his two men watching me.

Finally, he says, "There's another woman, came in last week with an entourage." He indicates to the better part of their small town. "She's Russian," he says as if this would explain everything. In a way, it does. A terrible suspicion forms in my mind.

"Marya." A name like a curse. Whenever she's around, it always ends badly for me.

:~:~:~:

This town lacks a real sheriff, but there are still people believing in justice and the power of doing the right thing. I forfeit this useless hope long time ago. But the blond man in front of me still held onto his beliefs. His gloved hands expertly but gently inspects the victim.

"I don't think it was an explosion," he says slowly, his eyes focused on the mangled body.

"Bare hands?" I ask, not surprised about the violence unsupported by chemical or mechanical help.

"Maybe," he drawls, "maybe they used a tool. It's a shame. Such a beauty."

His workshop smells like gun oil. With a smile, he carefully puts the victim back into her case. "Well. This time Marya really helped us."

There is again this name I don't want to hear. I take the dead body and with a nod of thanks, I leave the master of explosive. Apparently I'm going to have to visit that woman after all.

:~:~:~:

It's the big bodyguard of my client who shows me the quarters of Marya. I know he's a big player in this town, but his connection to this woman comes as an unpleasant surprise.

"Hogan, darling!" Marya comes in with a cloud of perfume and wearing too much jewelry. "You came. I knew you'd be back."

I'd rather drive over the nearest cliff, but I'm too far away from one. "Marya." I'm proud how steady my voice sounds. "You know why I'm here."

She drops onto the couch and patted the seat next to her. Over my dead body. "It was a terrible accident," she purrs ignoring my cold shoulder. "I had no choice. It was either her or the bald man. My poor sweetheart couldn't sleep and that put him in a terrifying mood."

I shiver as I remember the touch of her hands on my skin. Did the same hands snap an innocent neck or did she sell her for just a peaceful night? I desert Marya, leaving behind the perfume and soft lips offering kisses and temptation. Her touch lingers on my skin. Her carefully chosen words left me with a clue. Had this been her plan or did I finally figure her out? Only time would tell. For now, I need to talk to my client.

:~:~:~:

"Hogan! That's nonsense!"

Startled, Hogan blinked at Colonel Klink. The story he could see so clearly playing out in his mind vanishing into thin air, replaced by the angry scowl of the Kommandant. "Yes?"

"I'm not interested in some crime novel. I want to know who destroyed my violin!"

"I assure you, sir, she didn't die in vain."

"In vain?" Klink clenched his fist. "It's a music instrument."

"Still," Hogan said, "she died to protect you." He grinned. "If she hadn't given her life, who else would they have come for to stop being called out of bed at five o'clock?"

Klink paled before he dropped in his chair. "Me, they would have come for me."

Without saying anything else, Hogan poured a drink and offered it to Klink. He needed it.

:~:~:~:

Hogan closed the door behind him. "All right fellas. Want to tell me what happened?"

"Klink's violin got murdered," Carter said.

"Good riddance," Newkirk muttered. "If I have to serve German generals I want at least to suffer in silence."

"Oui. Klink's playing is destroying my creativity. It's a miracle anybody can eat with all the noise he's making with this thing."

With a sigh, Hogan crossed his arms. "I'm not particular fond of it either. But we need Klink calm and in control, destroying his violin won't help."

Kinch stepped forward, his posture showing his boxing experience. "It wasn't us. We didn't touch the instrument."

Hogan dropped his arms. "Carter, LeBeau, you two were last in Klink's office, cleaning. Where was the violin?"

LeBeau shrugged. "On his chair. Where he put it."

"His chair?"

"Oui, his chair. Apparently he had played and then Burkhalter came and Klink rushed out to greet them."

Hogan furrowed his brows. "Marya said it was an accident." As if anything ever was one with her. He had yet to decided whether he believed her or not, but he could see it in his head – a chair, the violin, a moment of inattention and a delicate instrument was destroyed.

"I believe her!" LeBeau declared, jutting out his chin, but he was ignored.

"Maybe it was Marya's general. He seemed angry enough," Kinch said pointing out the obvious. Marya would cover up for him, needing her general for whatever her newest plan was.

Hogan nodded. Kinch usually had the best read on the men in the camp. It was time to lay it to rest and in case of Klink's violin even carry her to her grave. Nobody was innocent in a war, every decision led to consequences and the longer a war went on the more people were affected. But Klink's violin was the exception. Built by a master, played by an amateur and truly innocent of the surrounding mayhem. No human being could claim this title, they either let themselves be used, simply believing the easy answers to complex questions, or used other people for their own gain. Nobody remained innocent in a war.

"Well." Hogan clapped his hands, pushing away his dark thoughts. "For now we're safe from Klink's definition of music and best of all he can't blame it on us." It was time to return to their mission. "Did you get the microfilm?"

Newkirk just grinned and played with his fingers.

All in all, Hogan called it a job well done.

:~:~:~:

After successfully closing my case, I thought I could finally just forget about death and murders, but again a knock against my door prevented me from sleeping.

"Colonel Hogan?"

Too bad that my last job hadn't paid enough for a glass door. It would be easier to guess who is so eager to interrupt my sleep. Somebody knocks again until I quickly pull the door open. But instead of startling my visitor, he just stares at me. It was the boxer. "Bad news." Three of his associates accompany him.

I raise an eyebrow hoping he'd elaborate his statement.

"Just listen."

At first, I don't hear anything but then the unmistakable sound of a violin flows in the room, coming through the cracks like the cold wind.

"He has a new one."

Now I really need the glass door with my name on it. And a new office. It was just a matter of time until I would get called to another crime scene.

The End

A/N Thank you for reading.