They stepped in, and saw the Canadian in the process of making up his sleeping area. Tommy's modest accommodations were pushed to the wall, his law books stacked beneath the bunk, some spare clothes hung from a string between two nails. It wasn't much, but some of the starkness and painful isolation of the room had been diminished. Hugh was tacking an out-of-date calendar to the wall. The year-old date was less significant than the portrait of the scantily clad and significantly endowed, doe-eyed young woman that graced the month of February 1942.

"Can't be without February," Hugh said, as he stepped back, admiring the picture.

"She cost me two packs of smokes. I fully intend to find her after the war and propose to her perhaps ten seconds after we've been introduced.

And I won't be taking no for an answer."

"Funny," Tommy said, staring attentively and admiringly at the pin-up.

"She doesn't look very Canadian. I doubt she's ever chewed on a piece of blubber or even harpooned a seal.

And her outfit, well, it doesn't look like it would be terribly effective in the northern wintertime…"

"Tommy, my friend, I do believe you're missing the point here entirely." He laughed, and so did Tommy. Then Hugh reached out and grasped the black flier's hand, shaking it hard.

"Glad to be here, mate," he said.

Scott replied, "Welcome to the Titanic" He turned and started toward his bunk, but then stopped abruptly. For an instant, he remained rigid, then he pivoted back toward Hugh.

"How long have you been here?" Scott abruptly demanded.

The Canadian looked surprised, then shrugged.

"Half hour, maybe. Didn't take too long to unpack and stow my things.

Fritz Number One brought me over, after the South Compound's Appell. We had to stop and check something with Visser, and then with one of Von

Reiter's adjutants.

Numbers stuff" mainly. Paperwork. I guess they want to make sure they get the count straight in both camps. Don't want to go chasing about, sounding off all their whistles and alarms, looking for someone who's merely switched compounds."

"Did you see anyone when you arrived?" Scott questioned sharply.

"See anyone? Sure, there were kriegies all over the place."

"No, I mean in here."

"In here? Not a soul," Hugh replied.

"Door was shut tight.

New door, too, I noticed. But what's eating you, mate?"

"That," Scott said, suddenly pointing to a corner of the room.

Tommy pushed to Scott's side. He saw what the black airman was pointing toward instantly. Resting upright in the far corner of the bunk room was the missing wooden board that had been marked with Trader Vic's blood.

He covered the distance in a single stride, grabbing at the hunk of wood, quickly turning it over, back and forth, in his hands, examining it. Then Tommy looked up at Lincoln Scott, who remained in the center of the small space.

"See for yourself," he said bitterly.

Tommy pitched the board to Scott, who seized it from the air. He turned it over once or twice, just as Tommy had.

But Hugh was the first to speak.

"Tommy, lad, what the hell's the matter? Scott, what's with the hunk of wood?"

Scott shook his head and muttered an obscenity. Tommy answered the question.

"That's all it is, now," he said.

"Might as well toss it in the stove. This morning, it was a critical piece of evidence. Now, it's nothing. Just firewood."

"I don't get it," Hugh said. He took the board from Scott.

It was Scott who explained, as he handed it over.

"A little while ago, it was a board that Tommy discovered right outside Hut 105, covered with Trader Vic's blood. Proof in our hands that he was killed someplace other than where his body was found. But someone has gone to considerable trouble in the last few hours to steal the board from this room and then clean it of any traces of Vic's blood.

Probably poured boiling water all over it, right into every little crack and splinter, and then scrubbed it with disinfectant."

Hugh lifted the board to his nose, sniffing.

"You're right about that. Smells of lye and suds…"

"Just as if it came from the Abort," Tommy said.

"And I'll wager you a carton of smokes that we could go over to Hut 105 and find that someone has cut in a different piece of wood at the spot where I ripped this out."

Scott nodded.

"No bet," he said.

"Damn."

He smiled wryly.

"They're not stupid," he added cautiously, sadness filling every sound he spoke.

"Stupid would have been just to steal the damn board. But stealing it, cleaning it of all traces, and then returning it to this room, now, that's clever, isn't it, Mr. Policeman?"

He looked over at Hugh, who nodded and continued to inspect the board.

"If I had a microscope," he said slowly, "maybe even just a magnifying glass, I could probably find traces that the cleaning job left behind."

Tommy gestured widely.

"A microscope? Here?" he asked cynically.

Hugh shrugged.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Might as well ask for a winged chariot to carry us home."

"They're very damn clever," Scott continued, pivoting toward Tommy.

"This morning we had a piece of hard evidence.

Now we have nothing. Less than nothing. And poof!

There goes tomorrow morning's arguments, counselor. And right alongside any hope of delaying the trial."

Tommy didn't at first reply. No sense in adding words to the simple truth.

"Actually," Hugh was quick to interject, "now you've got a problem. You told MacNamara about this theft?"

Tommy instantly saw where the onetime policeman was heading.

"Yes. Damn. And now we've got a board that doesn't show what we claimed it did. That hunk of useless wood is as dangerous now as any of the evidence the prosecution does have. We damn well can't hold it up and say it used to have Vic's blood on it. Nobody would believe that for a second."

Tommy turned to Scott.

"Now we've got the board, and its presence in our possession turns us into a pair of liars."

Hugh smiled.

"But they just still might believe you if you continue to say it was stolen."

As he spoke, Hugh took the board and carefully propped it up against the edge of his bunk. Then, as his words dwindled into the air of the bunk room, he suddenly lifted his right leg and slammed it against the board. The savage kick splintered the board into two pieces. A second, equally hard kick turned it into kindling.

Tommy grimaced, shrugged, and said, "The cooking stove is down the corridor."

"Then I need to cook something," Renaday replied. He gathered the chunks of wood in his arms and exited the room.

"I guess that board is still stolen," Scott said.

"I wonder if the bastards who stole it in the first place thought ahead far enough."

"I doubt they'd anticipate us destroying it," Tommy replied.

He felt slightly uneasy at what they'd done. My first real case, he thought, and I destroy evidence. But before he had the chance to temporize about the morality of what they'd accomplished with two well-placed kicks, Lincoln Scott was speaking.

"Yeah. They were probably counting on us being honest and playing by the rules, because that's what we've been doing, right up to now. The problem is. Hart, no one else seems to be. Think about it: the carving on the door. Somebody knew that would bring me out of the room. Somebody knew I'd react the damn fool way I did, challenging everybody to a fight. K.KK and nigger. Like waving a red flag in front of a bull. And I fell for it, went dashing out front, ready to fight the whole damn camp if necessary. And, right as I'm making a fool out of myself, someone sneaks in here and lifts the only solid piece of evidence we've got. And then, as soon as my back was turned again, zip, they brought it back. But ruined as evidence. And worse, because with that board sitting in the corner, we're going to appear to MacNamara and the entire camp to be a pair of liars."