"There! I just saw a sign, but it could say Broadway and Forty-Second
Street, for all I could read. Well, so what, anyway? Let's just say it's
Edinburgh, and let it go at that. You can't see the end of your nose in
this blackout."
"No, wait!" Freddy Farmer cried out as Dave started to turn away from
the window. "It's not Edinburgh. Just some small place. I guess it must
be a signal stop. No, it's definitely not Edinburgh yet."
"Okay, that's what I said," Dawson grunted. "Haul down the blinds, and
let's put on the light. In this war, I want all the light I can get,
when I can get it."
"Half a moment!" Freddy called out, with his nose still jammed against
the window glass. "Yes, just as I thought. A signal stop. Two chaps are
getting on at the rear. Just saw them now as the train came to a stop.
See? And now we're off again!"
All of which seemed to be quite true. The train had stopped for only the
fraction of an instant, just long enough to let two passengers swing
quickly aboard. And now it was on its way again, and picking up speed
fast. After Freddy had hauled the blackout curtains down into place, and
snapped on the light again, Dave chuckled and gave a little shake of his
head.
"Now what's biting you?" the English-born air ace wanted to know.
"Nothing special," Dawson replied, and stretched out comfortably on the
cross-wise seat. "I was just thinking of how a guy does crazy things
when there's something on his mind."
"Meaning me, I suppose?" Freddy challenged with a dark scowl.
"Meaning both of us," Dave replied. "Just these last few minutes. The
train slowing down, and whether or not it was Edinburgh station. What do
we care? We don't. But we act as though the thing were of great
importance. See what I mean, pal? When you've got something big on your
mind, it's human nature to grab at something small just for a change of
scenery, you might say."
"Yes," Freddy Farmer said.
And that was all he said, for at that moment the compartment door was
rolled back and the conductor came inside, rolling the door shut behind
him.
"Travel vouchers, please, Gentlemen," he said, and held out his hand.
Both Freddy and Dave dived hands into their tunic pockets, and came out
with their respective travel voucher slips. They handed them over for
inspection, and the conductor stared at them long and hard. Finally he
lifted his eyes and looked at them each in turn.
"These aren't in order," he said with a gesture of impatience. "The date
stamped on them is too light. I can't read it."
Dawson was tempted to tell him that that was simply his tough luck. But
he decided that a train tearing through the blackout was no place for
wisecracks. And after all, the conductor was only doing his job.
"They were stamped today, sir," he said instead. "At the Air Ministry. I
saw it done myself. So did Captain Farmer. You can take them as being
all in order."
That last seemed to be the wrong thing to say. The conductor's eyes
flashed and he shot a stern look at Dawson.
"Oh, I can, can I?" he snapped. "Very nice of you to tell me, I'm sure.
But I have my orders, and I know what they are. All travel vouchers must
be in order for people to travel on _my_ train. I'll have to ask you to
come along with me and see the Company Inspector, who is in the next to
one car back. You can make your explanations to him. And if he says it's
all right, then it'll be all right for me."
"And that will be just ducky!" Dawson growled, and got up off the seat.
"Okay. If it will take a great load off your mind, my friend, then we'll
go back and see the Inspector. But on second thought, let's have the
Inspector come see us. What do you say, Freddy, huh?"
"Oh, come off it, Dave!" the English youth growled. "Why make a mountain
of it? The chap is just doing his job. So let's go back and straighten
it all out with the Inspector. Besides, a bit of a walk wouldn't do
either of us any harm."
"For that reason, I agree," Dawson grunted, and stepped through the
compartment door that the conductor had rolled open.
Leading the way, he headed for the end of the car, and, unlike in the
vast majority of English trains, the end door and passageway that
permitted travel from car to car. But just as he was stepping into the
next car a figure suddenly appeared out of nowhere directly in front of
him, and something blunt and hard was jammed against his chest.
"One sound, and there'll be a dead man under the wheels!" a voice
hissed. "Stand right where you are!"
Dave froze stiff, and then was almost knocked off balance as Freddy
Farmer came bumping into him from behind. For a split second he half
expected to hear the English youth comment volubly on the situation. But
he didn't hear a sound. He only felt his pal stiffen, and that was more
than enough to tell him that one fake conductor had unquestionably
rammed a similar blunt hard object into Freddy's back, and whispered a
few words of warning, too.
For a long moment the whole world seemed to stand still for Dave. He
knew that he was straining his eyes for a glimpse of the figure blocking
his path, but in the bad light he could see nothing but a vague
silhouette. Then suddenly he saw the figure's hand reach up and yank
hard on the emergency cord. Almost instantly the speed of the train fell
off as the engineer up ahead slammed on the brakes. The jolting and
jarring lurched Dave forward, but he was prevented from going on his
face by the blunt, hard object still digging into his chest.
"I am going to open the side door!" the voice suddenly whispered in his
ear. "Get in front of me, and, when I order, jump off the train. But do
not try to run away. I will have both eyes on you. And I am a perfect
shot, even in the dark. You understand?"
"You've still got the ball, my rat friend!" Dave grated, and took two
steps toward the edge of the platform.
The train was almost at a dead stop now, and cool evening air rushed in
through the open car door. He stared up at the few stars he could see in
the black heavens, and mentally kicked himself hard. Nobody had to send
him a telegram to explain what this was all about. He and Freddy had
walked right into a perfect trap with their eyes and ears wide open. A
neat trick, that conductor stunt. If he ever got out of this he should
keep it in mind. A stunt like that might come in handy sometime. In war
you never can tell.
But serious as the situation seemed, and unquestionably was, there was
still one very satisfying thing about it: an item to which he'd given
more than a little thought since Freddy and he had pulled out of the
London station. It was the problem of just what they could expect should
the unseen Gestapo boys get on their trail. Now he knew. That is, he
knew now that it wasn't instant death they could expect. And praise be
to the Fates for that small favor. No. Removing Freddy and him from the
picture wasn't the goal of those who were after them. It meant that the
bait had been perfect. The little play had been acted out to absolute
perfection. In short, one Freddy Farmer and one Dave Dawson were wanted
_alive_. Yes, very much alive, because it was the information that they
were supposed to possess that was wanted most.
And so it wasn't to be murder. It was to be the slightly less important
crime of kidnapping. And--
"Jump! And, remember my warning!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
_Nazi Lightning_
As the night sky suddenly seemed to explode right on top of Dawson's
head, and fill his brain with millions of spinning balls of colored
light, he had the crazy thought that the order had certainly been a
waste of words. And then he went flying out into the darkness. Instinct,
and instinct alone, caused him to fling out his hands and bend his
knees. For a long moment he seemed to hang motionless in the middle of
nothing. And then Mother Earth came up to meet him.
He hit on all fours on the track embankment, and he was too stunned to
do anything about it. He could only let his body roll over and over like
a barrel rolling downhill, until his progress was stopped short by a
heavy clump of thorny bushes. And even then he could still do nothing
about it. The balls of colored light were still spinning around inside
his head, and to add to it all a couple of hundred heavy caliber guns
were sounding off in his brain. Fighting for control of his senses, and
gasping for breath, he remained right where he was, too all in and
befuddled to care whether school kept or not.
However, he did not remain motionless for very long. Only a moment or
two after he had crashed to a full stop up against the thorny bushes,
hands of steel came out of nowhere, grabbed hold of him, and yanked him
savagely up onto his feet.
"Walk straight ahead, and do not be slow about it!" a voice snarled in
his ear. "Cry out, and it will be your last sound in this world! Move
along!"
One of the steel fingered hands let go of Dawson, though the other kept
a tight grip on the back of his neck. And almost in the same instant he
once again felt the familiar pressure of a blunt, hard object jammed
into the small of his back. For a split second he hesitated, but only
long enough for the sane side of him to point out that any show of
resistance at this point would probably be plain suicide. Where Freddy
Farmer was, and what had happened to his war pal, he did not know.
However, this was not the moment to do anything about it.
And so, choking back the words of blazing anger that rose to his lips,
and beating down the mad urge to whirl upon his unknown captor, gun or
no gun, he started walking straight ahead through the darkness. In less
than a minute his feet told him that he had reached some kind of a
country lane. His captor swerved him onto it, and gave him a hard jab
with the gun as a signal for greater speed. Dawson obeyed because there
wasn't anything else he could do. But most of the spinning balls of
colored light had faded from his brain by now, and he was better able to
take stock of the situation.
It wasn't a very pleasant picture. In fact, it was most unpleasant, and
twice as maddening. Why, not over twenty minutes before Freddy Farmer
and he had been tearing along by train toward Aberdeen, _and_
complaining of the fact that things were going along too smoothly. Well,
Freddy had surely got his wish. Things had happened, and happened with a
bang. There was no doubt, now, that Gestapo agents in London had grabbed
at the bait thrown out by Colonel Welsh, and taken it hook, line, and
sinker. So what?
So a well planned stunt had back-fired almost before it had been put
into execution. And it had been done so easily and so simply, too. That
was what made Dawson see red as the steel fingers and the business end
of a gun prodded him along a night-shrouded country lane. Nobody had to
explain to him that the two Gestapo agents had boarded the train at that
whistle stop. And nobody had to explain to him, either, that they had
timed every move to perfection. The emergency cord had been yanked at
the right moment so that the train would come to a stop at the right
place. The way in which "Steel Fingers" shoved him forward was proof in
itself that this country lane was well known to him, and a definite part
of this kidnapping escapade. Yes, it had been simple, and a cinch. Like
rolling off a log. Or better, rolling off a railroad track embankment.
At that moment the shrill sound of a locomotive whistle came to Dave's
ears. And almost immediately he heard the distant snorting and puffing
of the Flying Scotsman getting under way again. Those sounds chilled his
heart just a little bit more, and fanned into flame the smouldering
anger in his breast. He could feel his face grow hot with the shame of
having walked into this little trap so doggone blindly. He wondered how
Freddy was taking it, if his pal was pleased that his wish for action
had been granted. But more than that, he wondered how Freddy was, and
_where_ he was.
As though the gods of war had simply been waiting for him to start
wondering in earnest about Freddy Farmer, the steel fingers gripping him
by the back of the neck suddenly tightened and jerked him to a halt. He
was spun around to face the shadowy figure of his captor, but the barrel
of the gun was quickly moved from the small of his back to a point on
his chest directly over his heart. And the harsh voice spoke
again--almost invitingly, it seemed to him.
"Don't move a muscle! Not a muscle!"
Dawson remained motionless as ordered, but he strained his eyes in the
darkness for a glimpse of his captor's face. He might just as well have
tried to study a sheet of black paper at the bottom of a coal mine at
midnight. He could only see that his captor wore a snapped down brim hat
pulled low over his eyes. The face could be that of a Jap, for all he
could tell.
However, he knew that the man was not a Jap. The voice had disproved
that. Yet, at the same time, the sound of that harsh voice had built up
the fires of rage in Dave, for the simple reason that he felt sure that
his captor was _not_ a German. At least he felt pretty sure. He had the
strong belief that his captor was English. The harsh voice had the
Midlands twang, that is so much like the New England twang. Of course,
he might be dead wrong, but--
The rest of his rambling thought flew off into oblivion as two shadows
suddenly emerged out of the gloom, and he saw that one of them was
Freddy Farmer, and, right behind his pal, the man in a train conductor's
uniform.
"You okay, Freddy?" he asked quickly.
For an answer to his question the gun was practically shoved through his
ribs, and a hand smacked him across the face.
"Silence!" Harsh Voice rasped at him "One more sound _will_ be your
last!"
"I'm all right, Dave," Freddy Farmer said, almost as an echo to the
threat of violence. "I saw H-Sixty-Four drop off the train, so these
blighters won't last very long."
The last caused Dave to blink hard in the darkness. For three or four
seconds he wondered what in the world Freddy meant, and if his pal had
received too hard a crack on the head. Then in a flash the truth came to
him. And almost in the same instant it was confirmed by the one with the
harsh voice.
"What's that?" the blurred figure demanded. "Who is this H-Sixty-Four?"
Dawson leaped at the opening and chuckled softly in spite of the risk.
"You'll find out, and fast, tramp!" he snapped. "Think we would have
fallen for that conductor gag if we hadn't been expecting it, or
something like it?"
"Quite!" Freddy Farmer quickly took up the play. "And the laugh is
really on you chaps. _It's_ on its way to Aberdeen now. If you don't
believe me, then search us. And--Did you hear that, Dave?"
Dawson started to open his mouth, but a hard hand was clamped over it,
and the gun barrel felt like a knife in his chest. A voice whispered
softly, but it didn't come from the owner of the hand clamped tightly
over his mouth. It came from Freddy Farmer's captor.
"Get along with them to the place! Stohl will get the truth out of them.
If your swine makes a sound, give him one and carry him on your
shoulder. We've got to get away from here, whether they're lying or not.
I don't like it!"
"Yes, this is Stohl's business," the one with the harsh voice hissed
back. "Our job is only to deliver these two. Come on!"
And then began another walk up the night-shrouded lane, although it
could hardly be called a _walk_. Steel Fingers forced Dave along at a
rapid rate, and the gun that had returned to the small of his back was
sufficient urging to make him hold the fast pace. However, there was
just a little more joy in his heart now. Just a little, to be sure.
Freddy and he were still helpless prisoners, but Freddy's fast thinking
had at least changed the picture a little. It had put a little fear in
the minds of their captors. Or at any rate, it had caused them to
believe that their plan had not turned out exactly the way they had
expected. Obviously, their job had been to nail Freddy and himself. A
third person hadn't been counted on. And Freddy Farmer's lie had touched
off the jitters a little bit, anyway. And when your enemy starts getting
the jitters, there's no telling what can happen.
Maybe yes, maybe no! But Dawson clung hard to that tiny thread of hope
as he was shoved and prodded forward along the night-shrouded road.
Several times he was tempted to trip himself up purposely, and take his
chances of his captor tumbling down on top of him. But the thought of
Freddy Farmer and the conductor right behind curbed the crazy urge. If
just Harsh Voice and he were alone--But, of course, the conductor had a
gun, too. And besides, there was no way of letting Freddy know that it
had been no accident.
"Save it!" he told himself grimly. "Play it out the way it's going. One
thing is certain. These tramps don't _want_ to kill us. Which, of
course, means that they've received orders _not_ to. So just bide your
time--and maybe it'll come along!"
And so, with the decision fixed firmly in his mind, he let himself be
led through the night for another good ten minutes. At the end of that
time he was suddenly guided off the country lane to the right, and into
some woods. But once again it became instantly evident how thoroughly
this kidnapping had been planned. He didn't go bumping into any trees or
bushes. On the contrary, there was a winding path under his feet, and he
was guided forward at practically the same speed, as though his captor
had the eyes of a cat.
And then without warning the woods stopped and opened up into a
clearing. In the center of the clearing was a small house. Rather, it
appeared to be little more than a shack. Not so much as a pin point of
light showed anywhere, but of course that didn't mean a thing. In the
British Isles they _observe_ the blackout, and constantly.
Dawson was led right up to the front door of the shack, and then yanked
to an abrupt halt. Almost before he could realize what was taking place,
his captor whipped out with his gun and rapped sharply three times on
the door. Then the gun came right back to the small of Dawson's back.
Standing perfectly still with his gaze fixed on the night-shrouded door,
Dawson heard Freddy Farmer and his captor come panting up to a halt. And
then there was the sound of the door opening, although no light cut
through into the darkness. The door simply swung all the way back, and
an instant later the black oblong where the door had been spoke words.
"Come in, at once! Don't just stand there, fools!"
The sound of that voice in the darkness sent a little cold shiver
rippling through Dawson. It was gone in an instant, but not before he
was dead sure that the words had come from a Nazi throat. He had had the
feeling all along that his captor and Freddy's conductor were English.
Yes, English-born rats who would sell out their country for gold.
History has proved time and time again that there are rats like that in
every nation on the face of the earth. But the man who had spoken from
the darkness was one hundred percent Nazi breed. The tone of his voice
indicated as much, and Dave was sure that one look at his face, the set
of his eyes, the slope of his forehead, and the width of his jaws would
be the final proof.
And that final proof was revealed no more than twenty seconds later.
Just time enough for Freddy and himself to be herded in through the
doorway, for the door to be slammed shut, and a match touched to the
wick of an oil lamp on a table in the middle of the room. For a moment
the sudden change from pitch darkness to light threw Dawson's eyes all
out of focus. Presently, though, he was able to adjust his vision, and
get his first look at his captors.
His hunch was correct. The faces of the pair that had boarded the Flying
Scotsman at that signal stop were typically beefy British red; the faces
of men who spent most of their lives outdoors in a climate that could be
damp and clammy one day, and windy and icy the next. And the third man,
the one who had spoken from within the night-shrouded doorway, was
thoroughly German. His face had that moon-shaped, brutish look, his
eyes the look of something vile and treacherous. And the very air about
him smelled of things foul and evil.
"Good!" the man suddenly broke the silence, and smirked with pleasure.
"Those are the two. For once you did not bungle my orders. I am
delighted. Put them in those chairs, and keep your eyes on them. You had
no trouble, no?"
The two kidnappers hesitated, and glanced at each other. Then quick as a
flash Dawson laughed aloud.
"Nope!" he said. "No trouble at all--_yet_!"
The one who had been referred to as Stohl half whirled and fixed blazing
gimlet eyes on Dawson.
"Hold your tongue, swine!" he snarled. "You will speak when I order you
to. Now, you, answer my question!"
A tiny note of worry was mixed up in the snarl directed at the two
kidnappers, and hope began to surge up in Dawson. He and Freddy had been
shoved down into a couple of chairs, and they had a good look at the
beefy-faced pair. At that moment the one in conductor's uniform spoke.
He seemed to have to force the words off his lips one at a time.
"No trouble, _Herr_ Stohl," he said. Then, stabbing his eyes at Freddy,
he continued, "But that one there spoke of an H-Sixty-Four dropping off
the train. And he said, also, that something was on its way to Aberdeen
now. They dared us to search them, but we did not wish to waste time.
I--perhaps there is some place you wish me to go now, _Herr_ Stohl? I
mean--"
"I know what you mean, you swine, you sniveling dog!" the Nazi
exclaimed. "I knew you had not the courage of a snail. So you wish to
run away now, eh? You are afraid of your own shadow, is it not so? Bah!
I have no use for jellyfish like you. So _go_!"
As the last word left his lips the Nazi's hand streaked into his jacket
pocket and out with the speed of lightning. Dawson's eyes saw the
revolver with the silencer fitted to the barrel. And his ears heard the
faint _pop_ that it made. But not until the man in conductor's uniform
turned slowly around and then crumpled to the floor in a motionless heap
did his brain actually grasp what had happened.
"And _that_ for a swine dog with water for blood!" Stohl rasped, and
swung his gun to point straight at the other kidnapper's chest. "Well,
Bixby? You would like to join the swine, eh?"
CHAPTER NINE
_TNT Twins_
For five long seconds the whole world seemed to cease revolving, as the
man addressed as Bixby went white as a sheet and struggled frantically
for the use of his tongue. His eyes went mad with fear, and sweat poured
down his face. He had his own gun in his hand; but he seemed not to
realize that fact. His fear-streaked, glassy eyes were fixed upon Stohl
as though the Nazi were some kind of a powerful magnet that he could not
resist.
And then without warning the half screamed words came out with all the
turbulent fury of flood waters rushing through a broken dam.
"No, no! Please don't shoot me! Don't shoot me, _Herr_ Stohl! I am not
like him. I want to stay. I want to help. I swear it to you. Do not
shoot me, for Heaven's sake!"
The Nazi gave him a long, hard stare, and then smirked broadly.
"Good, then!" he rasped. "But see that your tongue does not make the
same mistake as did that dead fool's. Now, what about this H-Sixty-Four?
And what about something on its way to Aberdeen?"
Fear still had the man named Bixby by the throat, and the words he spoke
sounded like small stones sliding down a tin roof.
"I know nothing about it but what he said," he finally choked out, with
a gesture toward the dead man. "I don't know what it all means. Those
two, there, can perhaps tell you. I do not know."
The Nazi scowled for a moment, as though he were debating whether to
believe Bixby or not. Then he muttered something under his breath, and
half swung around to Dawson and Freddy Farmer.
"Very well, then!" he rasped out. "You will tell me what it was all
about, eh?"
Dave hesitated a moment to give Freddy Farmer a chance to say what he
might have to say. But the English youth remained silent. Dave glanced
at him out of the corner of his eye, and saw that Freddy seemed not to
have heard the question. The English-born air ace sat half slumped in
the chair, with his eyes fixed on the oil lamp of the table, and a
completely uninterested and almost vacant look on his sun and
wind-bronzed face.
"Can't you guess?" Dave snapped, switching his gaze to the Nazi's face.
"Do you think United Nations Intelligence is as dumb as your Gestapo?
Figure it out for yourself. It's simple!"