"Still smarting you know," Pryce continued, "from that hiding you gave Hugh and me over the elusive Jack and his unfortunate crimes. But now we're ready to do battle with one of your more sensational cases, what.

I would think it was our turn, what do you say, with the bats?"

"At bat," Renaday said, as Hart and Pryce warmly shook hands. Tommy thought the wing commander's firm handshake was perhaps a little less so than usual.

"You say at bat, Phillip. Not with the bats. The umpire says "Batter up!" and so on and that's what gets it all started."

"Incomprehensible sport, Hugh. Not unlike your foolish but beloved hockey in that regard. Racing hell-bent around on the ice in the freezing cold, trying to whack some defenseless rubber disk into a net and at the same time avoid being clubbed nearly to death by your opponents."

"Grace and beauty, Phillip. Strength and perseverance."

"Ahh, British qualities."

The men laughed together.

"Let's sit outside," Pryce said. He had a soft, generous voice, filled with reflection and enthusiasm.

"The sun feels fine. And, after all, it's not something we English are all that accustomed to seeing, so, even here, amid all the horrors of war, we should take advantage of Mother Nature's temporary beneficence. Again the men smiled.

"Gifts from the ex-colonies, Phillip," Tommy said.

"A little of our bounty, just a small repayment for your managing to send every bungling idiot general across the seas in seventy-six, to be taken advantage of by our New World brilliance."

"I shall ignore that most unfortunate, childish, and mistaken interpretation of a decidedly minor moment in the illustrious history of our great empire. What have you brought us?"

"Cigarettes. American, minus the half-dozen it took to bribe Fritz

Number One…"

"His price, I think, has oddly gone up," Pryce muttered.

"Ah, American tobacco! Virginia's best, I'll warrant. Excellent."

"Some chocolate…"

"Delightful. From the famous Hershey's of Pennsylvania…"

"And this…" Tommy Hart handed the older man the tin of Earl Grey tea. He had had to trade with a fighter pilot, who chain-smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, to get it, but he thought the price cheap when he saw the older man's face crease into a wide grin. Pryce immediately burst into song.

"Hallelujah! In excelsis gloria! And us doomed to refusing over and over that poor tired tin of foul alleged darjeeling.

Hugh, Hugh, treasures from the colonies! Riches beyond our wildest imagination. The makings of a proper brew up! A sweet to cut the appetite, a real, honest-to-goodness cup of tea to be followed by a leisurely smoke! Thomas, we are in your debt!"

"It's the parcels," Tommy replied.

"Ours are so much better than yours."

"True, alas. Not that we prisoners don't appreciate the sacrifices being made by our beleaguered countrymen, but " "The damn U.S. parcels are far better," Hugh Renaday interrupted.

"The British parcels are simply pathetic. Foul tins of kippers and ersatz jams. Something they call coffee, but which clearly isn't.

Awful. Canadian parcels aren't all that bad, they're just a little shy of the sorts of stuff Phillip is looking for."

"Too much tinned meat. Not enough tea," Pryce said with mock sadness.

"Tinned meat that looks like it was carved from the backside of Hugh's old horse."

"Probably was."

The men laughed again, and Hugh Renaday took the chocolate and tin of tea inside the hut to brew up cups for the three men. In the interim,

Pryce lit a cigarette, leaned back, and, closing his eyes, let the smoke slowly slide from his nostrils.

"Phillip, how are you feeling?" Tommy asked.

"Nasty as always, dear boy," Pryce replied without opening his eyes.

"I take some satisfaction in the consistency of my physical state.

Always bugger-all bad."

He blinked his eyes open, and leaned forward.

"But at least this still works fine." He tapped his forehead.

"Have you prepared a defense for your accused carpenter?"

Tommy nodded.

"I have indeed."

The older man smiled again.

"You have some ideas? Fresh ideas, eh?"

"Argue for a change of venue. Vociferously. Then plan on bringing in some fancy-Dan wood experts or scientists to tear away at Hugh's man, the so-called forensic timber expert.

Why, I suspect there's really no such thing, and I damn well ought to be able to find some Harvard or Yale type to testify that way! Because it's the ladder testimony that kills us. I can explain away the gold notes, explain away the other stuff. But the man testifying that the ladder could only have been made from the wood in Hauptmann's garage so much of the case rests on that testimony."

Pryce moved his head slowly up and down.

"Continue.

There is much truth to what you say."

"You see, the wooden ladder that's what forces me to put Hauptmann on the stand in his own defense. And when he gets up there, in front of all the cameras and newsmen in the midst of that circus…"

"Deplorable, I agree…"

"And he talks in that accent… and everyone hates him.

From the moment he opens his mouth. I believe they hated him when he was accused, of course. But when that foreign accent tumbles out…"

"The case turns so much on that hatred, does it not, Thomas?"

"Yes. An immigrant. A rigid, brutish man. Much to instantly dislike.

Put him in front of that jury and it's like taunting them to convict him."

"A solitary rodent of a man. A difficult client."

"Yes. But I must find a way to turn his weaknesses into strengths."

"Not quite so easy."

"But crucial."

"Ah, you are astute. And what of the famed aviator's odd identification? When he claims to recognize Hauptmann's voice as the voice he heard in the darkened cemetery?"

"Well, his testimony is preposterous on its face, Phillip.

That he could recognize a man's half-dozen, no more, words years later

… I think I would have prepared a surprise for Colonel Lindbergh on cross-examination."

"A surprise? How so?"

"I would plant three or four men with heavy accents in different locations in the courtroom. And in quick succession have each rise, and say "Leave the money and go! "just as he claimed Hauptmann did.

The state will object, of course, and the judge will find it contemptuous…"

Pryce was grinning.

"Ahh, but a little theater, no? Playing a bit to that huge crowd of horrid reporters. Underscoring a lie.

I can see it quite clearly. Courtroom packed, all eyes on Thomas Hart, hypnotized as he wheels and produces these other men, and turns to the famous aviator and says, "Are you sure it was not him? Or him? Or him?" and the judge's gavel ringing, and men of the press racing for the telephones. Creating a little circus of your own to counteract the circus arrayed against you, correct?"

"Precisely."

"Ahh, Thomas, you have the makings of a fine lawyer. Or perhaps the devil's own assistant if we all die here and end up in Hell. But remember caution. To many of the folk in that audience, in that jury, and the judge, as well, Lindbergh was a saint. A hero. A perfect knight. One must use great caution when showing a man with the glow of public perfection about him to be a liar. Keep that in mind! Here comes Hugh with the tea. Speaking of perfection!"

The older man reached for the cup of steaming liquid, and held it close to his nose, drinking in the vapors.

"Now," he said, slowly, "if only we had…"

Tommy reached into his jacket pocket for the can of condensed milk, simultaneously finishing the older man's sentence. "… some fresh milk?"

Phillip Pryce laughed.

"Thomas, my son, you will go far in life."

He poured a generous dollop into his white ceramic cup, then took a long pull at the lip, his pleasure obvious. Then he looked across the cup at-Renaday.