open doorway, it was akin to a blow right smack between the eyes. For
there in the doorway stood a man in the uniform of a colonel in the U.
S. Army Air Forces. He wore on his tunic the wings of a command pilot,
and there were two rows of decoration ribbons under the wings. But it
was the officer's face that stunned Dawson the most. The man _looked_
American. The clear light in his eyes, the good old U. S. A. rosiness
in his cheeks, and the friendly grin that curved his lips. And when he
spoke, spoke in perfect German, it was like the ceiling falling down on
top of Dawson.
"Ah! So the two swine traitors have come to the end of their run? That
is good. That is very good, Hans and Erich! My compliments. I shall
inform Herr Himmler of your good work. And no doubt he will tell the
Fuehrer himself. Your rewards will not be small, I can tell you."
"To serve Herr Baron and the Fuehrer is reward enough!" Erich said as
he beamed and clicked his heels. "It was so simple, too. We saw them
eating at a hotel restaurant. We recognized them at once. We could see
that they were restless and uneasy. We followed them in the car we had
waiting outside. That was easy, too, even in the cursed blackout. They
became suspicious and tried to escape us by turning down a street that
led nowhere. But we caught up with them, and captured them easily."
"And that's a blasted lie!" Freddy Farmer blurted out. "If you're this
Herr Baron they've been jabbering about, then you're balmy to believe
them. I never heard of either Karl Stoltz or Paul von Heimmer in my
life. And neither has my friend. You've made just another one of your
confoundedly stupid Nazi mistakes! You're not in Berlin now. This is
London!"
Considering the situation, all that was not exactly the thing to say,
and Dave Dawson stiffened and waited for all three of the Nazis to hit
the ceiling. Particularly the one known as Herr Baron, who was cloaking
his true identity in the uniform of an Air Forces colonel.
Oddly enough, though, Herr Baron's face did not change expression one
single bit. He looked at Freddy Farmer with the pleasant grin still
on his lips. To Dawson it seemed a little stiff. In fact the man's
whole face seemed stiff. It was almost as though his features had been
stuck on a blank area of skin. The Yank air ace peered hard, his heart
thumping against his ribs. And then suddenly something seemed to click
in his brain, and he _knew_. Or at least he was quite positive that he
knew. Knew that what he was looking at was not the true face of the
man who wore the uniform of an Air Forces Colonel. It was a mask. No,
it was even more than that. Every feature had been built up separately
and fitted over the original feature. Each bit separate but so cleverly
formed and blended in, that the whole gave the impression of a single
one-piece mask. No, it was not the true face that Dawson stared at, and
he wondered what was behind that conglomeration of make-up paste, and
putty, and whatnot.
However, he did not have much time to wonder about that. Herr Baron
took a step or two toward Freddy Farmer, his lips still smiling.
"So you have been in England so long, a traitor to the Fuehrer, Herr
von Heimmer, that you even talk like one of the swine?" he murmured in
a soft voice. "But isn't that a stupid way to try and convince me of
something that is not true? You fool! Why have your voice speak as an
Englishman, and your body wear the uniform of an American pilot?"
"Because I _am_ English, you idiot!" Freddy shouted. "You've made a
balmy mistake, and no doubt you'll end up by having your hired thugs
there shoot me. But I'll be blessed if I'll die as a dirty Nazi. I'll
die as an Englishman, and the devil to you!"
"That's telling him, kid!" Dawson cried impulsively. Then, looking at
the still grinning man, he said, "Believe it or not, he's dead right,
Herr Baron. Your boy friends have pulled a boner. I'm not Karl Stoltz,
or Karl anybody. I'm a Yank. And no matter what happens, I'm not going
to die as any Nazi, either. And just what is behind that masquerading
face of yours? Let's have a look, if it doesn't hurt too much to pull
that stuff off?"
As Dawson simply spoke words that came into his mouth he moved his
knee over slightly and gently pressed it against Freddy's knee. The
answering pressure he received started his heart to pounding harder
than ever. It meant that young Farmer understood perfectly, and wasn't
missing a single bit of the picture. In other words, doubt was closing
down on the three Nazis like a thick fog. Particularly upon Hans, and
his thick-set playmate, Erich. They stood staring open-mouthed, their
eyes puzzled, worried, and not a little afraid. Erich's hands were
hanging limp like a couple of hams at his sides. Hans was fiddling with
his gun with both of his hands, and without the slightest knowledge
that he was pointing it straight down at his feet. Herr Baron's stiff
lips were no longer smiling. The rest of his face was the same, save
for the eyes. They had suddenly clouded over, and in a crazy sort of
way Dawson had the feeling that he was looking into the eyes of a dead
man, or perhaps a ghost.
An eerie sensation rippled through him, but he shook it off. If there
ever was a time in his life when emotions and sensations were to be
ignored, this was it. Whether the three Nazis believed, or not, Freddy
and he were facing death in triplicate. Hans, Erich, and Herr Baron.
A ten-year-old child could have figured that this place was a Nazi
agents' nest in London. And although Freddy and he had proved their
true identity beyond all semblance of a doubt, it was sheer madness
to think that the three Nazis would give them a smile, an apology,
and let them go their way. Not a chance. The Nazis had the habit of
flaunting their triumphs to the four corners of the earth, and of
burying their mistakes. Sometimes they didn't bother with the burying
part. They simply left their "mistakes" where they fell. Stone dead,
but definitely! So Dawson didn't pay any attention to his emotions. He
knew just what the score was. And so did Freddy Farmer.
"Well?" Dawson said, when Herr Baron just stood there looking at him.
"Want proof? But wait a minute! Did this Karl Stoltz have any mark or
scar on him that would prove his identity to you?"
"Yes, he did," Herr Baron said slowly. "He had a saber scar on his
right arm. Near the elbow. Let me see your right arm. Come, swine
traitor! Show me your right arm, at once!"
Herr Baron barked out the last because Dawson had hesitated, and
started to shake his head. But his actions were simply to hold the
attention of the three Nazis while he once again pressed his knee
against Freddy Farmer's. Then he shrugged and stood up, and reached
over with his left hand to shove up the right sleeve of his tunic.
"All right," he said, and looked Herr Baron straight in the eyes.
"Take a good look, and see if you see any saber scar!"
Dawson drew back his right arm slightly as he pushed up his tunic
sleeve. Then when he saw Herr Baron's eyes drop from his face to his
arm, he lashed out with his clenched right fist, took a quick half step
forward and brought up his right knee. His fist caught Herr Baron a
savage blow on the side of the neck, and his knee went deep into the
man's groin. It was Commando stuff for keeps, and Dawson didn't stop
there, either. He let momentum carry him forward and down. His feet
left the floor, and like a projectile his body shot through the air
toward the wide-eyed, sagging-mouthed Hans.
The thin-faced Nazi probably didn't know what had actually happened
until Dawson's charging body slammed into him and sent him crashing
backwards against the wall. The Yank caught him in the chest with his
left shoulder, and as the two of them went crashing back and down,
Dawson grabbed hold of the Nazi's gun and twisted it free. His ears
rang with the scream of pain, and he felt Hans' trigger finger break
as it got caught in the trigger guard. But neither bothered Dawson
in the slightest. He had learned from blood and fire experience the
Commando's code. And no part of it is to feel anything but hatred for
the man you're after.[2]
[Footnote 2: Dave Dawson With the Commandos.]
The instant he had the gun in his own possession Dawson heaved himself
up onto his hands and knees and chopped down hard with the gun barrel
on the side of Hans' head. Hans was reaching for Dawson's throat with
clawing fingers, white pain and seething rage showing in his face. But
the gun smash on the side of the head nipped everything in the bud. The
Nazi made hoarse gurgling sounds in his throat, and instantly went as
limp as a wet dishrag.
But Dawson hadn't waited to see the effect of his blow. Out the corner
of his eye he had seen the thick-set figure of Erich charging at him.
Black murder was in the Nazi's eyes, and he was tugging a Luger out of
his jacket pocket. Dawson tried to spin around and pull his trigger
before the Nazi pulled him. But he half tripped over the limp Hans'
body, and the muzzle of Erich's gun seemed to loom up right in front of
his eyes like the black mouth of a tunnel.
Then suddenly there was a shot! Dawson flinched instinctively, but his
eyes saw no flame stab from the mouth of that Luger, and no white hot
spear of flame cut into his body. What his eyes did see was the blank,
slightly stupid look that spread over Erich's face. Then, as though
invisible strings holding him up had been cut, Erich fell in a heap on
his face.
"Well, thanks for letting me in on the show a little, at least!" the
words filtered into Dawson's spinning brain.
He gaped for a second at the prostrate Erich, and then turned his head
to see Freddy Farmer standing a few feet away with a still smoking
Luger in his hand. The English-born air ace was smiling, but there was
nothing but grimness in his steady eyes.
"Boy, are you a right guy to have along!" Dawson mumbled. "But I sure
didn't figure you for a gun. I counted on you to give him the old
one-two Commando stuff."
"His nibs, here," Freddy said and pointed a finger at Herr Baron, who
was face down on the floor at his feet. "I fancied all along that he
had a little gadget like this in his tunic pocket. So when you bashed
him I immediately investigated. Saves time and trouble just to shoot
the beggars, instead of knocking them about. But, good grief, Dave, you
moved so fast. You were a bit of all right, old thing. Quite!"
CHAPTER FIVE
_Satan's Pawns_
Dawson took a deep breath, and slowly got up onto his feet. Then he
grinned over at Freddy Farmer.
"I don't care how you did it, kid," he said. "Just doing it was okay by
me. And if I haven't mentioned it, thanks, pal. I was sort of close to
getting lead poisoning just about then."
"And we were both close to getting heaven knows what," young Farmer
said. His face became hard, and deadly serious. "To me it's still like
a mad dream. Imagine it, Dave! Right here in London. It just can't be
true! Balmy things like this just don't happen!"
"I know, of course not," Dawson grunted, and dropped to his knees
beside the prostrate Hans. "But Erich, there, wouldn't believe you,
Freddy. _He_ found out. Let's search these rats for anything we can
find, and then get out of here fast. I guess British Intelligence would
like to hear what we have to tell them."
"There's a phone in the next room, Dave," Freddy said, as he recalled
the fact. "The one that Erich used. Let's just tie them up, and then
get on the phone. Intelligence may want them just as they are."
"Maybe, but I'm a curious cuss," Dawson said with a dogged shake of
his head. "Truss up that bird with his belt, and then go phone the big
shots. Me, I'm going to see what these birds have on them, if anything.
I--Ye gods! Did Herr Baron's face slip!"
Dave gulped out the last as he got his first really good look at Herr
Baron's face. Freddy had half rolled the limp figure over, and at first
look Herr Baron seemed to have been hit square in the face by a pan
of soggy bread dough. His nose was over on one cheek, and his jaw was
twice as big on one side at it was on the other, his eyebrows pointed
straight up, and his lips looked twisted all out of shape.
"Good grief, the floor must have done that!" Freddy Farmer gasped as he
looked down. "Make-up paste, no less, Dave. Why--why, he hasn't really
got any real face. It's horrible!"
"Just truss him up and leave him, Freddy," Dawson said, and swallowed
hard several times. "I guess the rat was in some kind of an accident,
and did his own plastic surgery with make-up paste, or whatever that
stuff is. Sweet tripe! This thing gets screwier and screwier. Truss him
up, and then get British Intelligence over here in a hurry. We'll--Hey,
I'm nuts! We don't even know where we are!"
"That's simple, old thing," Freddy said, and lashed Herr Baron's arms
behind his back with the man's own belt. "A fine detective you'd make.
British Intelligence can simply trace my call, that's all, and be over
here in no time."
"Call me dunce, and get going, pal!" Dawson said with a sigh of relief.
"Sure, of course, kid. Boy, maybe old age is slowing me down at that."
"Not judging from what I saw just recently!" Freddy Farmer said, as he
got to his feet, and headed for the side door of the room. "Be back in
a jiffy, old thing."
Dave just grunted, completed his job of making sure that Hans would
give no trouble should he come to, and then went systematically
through the man's pockets. He collected the usual amount of personal
belongings, but the man's papers were very interesting. They were all
made out and officially stamped to identify him as a born Englishman,
by the name of John Dobbler, with an East London address.
Dawson thumbed through them for a moment, and then stuffed them into
his pocket and moved over to Erich's dead body. And what he found in
the dead man's pockets made him realize all the more to what pains Nazi
agents go. There was nothing on Erich's person to indicate that he
was a Nazi. But everything to prove that he was one Harold Cabot, an
Englishman who lived at an address in the Cheapside part of London. As
a matter of fact, Erich's papers went Hans' one better. Erich also had
identification as an Air Raid Warden.
"An Air Raid Warden, the dirty skunk!" Dawson grated, and put Erich's
papers into his pocket, too. "I wonder how many of the poor devils he
left to die under piles of bomb rubble?"
With a look of scorn and loathing for the dead man, he got to his feet
and went over to the prostrate form of the man referred to as Herr
Baron. The false face still looked the same, and the Yank air ace
tried not to look at it as he went through the pockets of the man's
uniform. What he found so amazed him and angered him that for a moment
he trembled with loathing and blazing anger. Herr Baron's papers,
all strictly official and military, showed that he was an American
colonel in the Yank Air Forces, that he was commanding officer of such
and such group, but that of recent date he was attached to Air Forces
Intelligence in England.
"The dirty--!" Dawson began, and then words failed him.
He put a hand to his forehead, and closed his eyes tight for a moment.
Like Freddy Farmer, he was almost inclined to believe that all this
just hadn't happened. That he was having a wild, crazy dream, and
that he would wake up soon to find that everything was all right.
But it wasn't a dream; it was cold, stark truth, incredible as it
seemed. Three Nazis of no less than Herr Himmler's brood, yet two
carried perfect identification as Englishmen. And the third, definite
identification as a colonel serving in the U. S. Army Air Forces.
"But it just doesn't make sense!" Dawson muttered, and stared at Herr
Baron's picture with the official Air Forces stamp imprinted on it.
"How in the world did he get away with it? If I could tell that his
face was faked, anybody else could have spotted the same thing. I don't
see how the--"
He cut the rest short as something peculiar about the man's left tunic
lapel caught his eye. He reached out a hand and felt of the lapel. His
heart leaped, and in the next instant he had whipped out his jackknife
and was slashing at the lapel seams. When he had cut an opening big
enough, he thrust his fingers inside and felt a thin inch by inch and
a half leather-covered book. He pulled it out to see that it was a
worn address and memo book that had several pages missing. And when
he thumbed through those that were left it was to discover that they
were filled with countless numbers. Some of them in groups, and some
of them but a single number. All were written in a fine hand with a
needle-sharp indelible pencil.
"Code, of course," he grunted. "British Intelligence will break it down
soon enough, and--"
Dawson stopped and sat up straight.
"Speaking of British Intelligence," he grunted, "what's Freddy doing on
that telephone? Making a date with the operator?"
As there was only one way to get the answer to his question, he got to
his feet, went over to the side door and pushed it open.
"Hey, Freddy, what--?" he began, and stopped short.
The room beyond was a well furnished bedroom. Included in the
furnishing were twin beds with a little night table between them. On
the night table there was a French phone, but the instrument was in its
pronged cradle. Most important of all, though, there wasn't hide nor
hair of Freddy Farmer. Dawson gaped for a moment as though he couldn't
believe his eyes. Then he shook himself out of his trance and leaped
into the room.
"Freddy!" he yelled, and looked wildly about. "Hey! Where are you,
Freddy?"
Four walls sent back the echo of his voice, and that was all. There was
no other reply to his yell. He noticed what was obviously the bathroom
door on the other side of the room, and to the right of the twin beds.
In three leaps he crossed the room and yanked the door open. It led to
the bathroom right enough, but there was still no Freddy Farmer to be
seen.
"What the heck?" he gasped, and his heart started to chill slightly.
"Where is the guy, anyway? He couldn't have just disappeared through
solid walls. Ah!"
The last slipped off his lips as a blast of cool night air blew against
his face, and he saw that the window over the bathtub was open. A
split second later he saw the prints of more than one pair of feet
on the edge of the bathtub. One look and he was up on the edge of the
bathtub himself, and sticking his head and shoulder out the window.
For a moment he couldn't see a thing because of the darkness of night.
Even the light that poured through into the bathroom from the bedroom,
and out the opened window, didn't reveal anything in those first few
seconds.
Then as his eyes quickly adjusted themselves he saw that there was a
flat roof some four feet below the level of his eyes. It was really the
main roof of the building; the apartment he was in being the English
conception of a penthouse. To the right and left were the motionless
darker shadows of chimneys and building ventilation vents. He opened
his mouth to call out Freddy's name when suddenly off to his right came
the scuffing of feet on the gravel-topped roof, and then the clear bark
of a gun and a sharp cry of anger or pain.
The bark of the gun was still ringing in Dawson's ears as he went head
first through the opened window and landed heavily on all fours on the
gravel roof. He paused a second to get his breath; then, with Hans'
Luger clutched in his hand, he went sneaking silently forward toward
the spot whence had come the scuffing of feet, the sharp cry, and the
shot. He bumped into a vent pipe that he didn't see in the darkness,
and almost went to his knees. As he fought to maintain his balance he
plainly heard running feet a short distance off to his right. He jerked
his head around in time to see a running shadow etched against the
London sky. He whirled and brought up his gun.
"Hold it!" he rasped out. "Hold it, and get your hands up!"
The running shadow ducked down, and in practically the same instant the
night stabbed red flame, and a wasp of death whined by Dawson's face
almost before he heard the crack of the shot. He ducked instinctively,
and lost the running shadow before he could return the fire.
"Keep low, Dave!" he heard Freddy Farmer's voice to his left. "Two
of the beggars, and they are both armed. Keep low and watch the fire
escape on the rear side. Only way they can get off--"
If Freddy Farmer said any more Dawson didn't hear it. He was in the
act of turning and moving toward the rear of the building roof when
something moved in front of him, and a thunderbolt slashed down out of
nowhere to hit him on the head. As his knees turned to rubber, and
buckled, he flung out his arms in a desperate effort to grab hold of
something that would help him remain on his feet. But there was nothing
but thin air there to grab hold of, and he fell headlong on the roof.
Whether he was hit by another thunderbolt, or it was just hitting the
gravel-topped roof, he didn't know, but in the next second he had lost
consciousness of everything. Everything, save that he was spilling down
into a huge bottomless hole that was filled with pitch darkness and
utter silence. And then even that was no more.
CHAPTER SIX
_When England Stood Alone!_
A thousand little demons romping through Dave Dawson's head with
sharp pointed spears gradually dragged the Yank air ace back to
consciousness. He opened his eyes, and then instantly closed them as
the sun itself seemed to be perched on the end of his nose. He groaned
and sucked air into his aching lungs.
"Steady, Dave, old fellow," he heard Freddy Farmer say. "You got bashed
a good one that time. Anybody else's head would have been caved right
in. But just take it easy. Everything's all right now."
"Yeah, everything's just dandy!" Dawson heard his own voice mutter.
"What happened? Did I jump without my 'chute, or--Hold everything!"
Dawson choked out the rest, opened his eyes, and forced them to stay
open until the so-called sun perched on his nose didn't bother him any
more. It was then he found himself stretched out on one of the twin
beds, with the ceiling light directly overhead. Freddy Farmer, whose
uniform looked as if it had been passed through a meat chopper in a
terrible hurry, was seated on the edge of the bed with a damp towel in
his hands. Dawson started to sit up, but Freddy pushed him on the chest
to force him back, and then put the damp towel across his forehead.
"Stay put, Dave," he said. "I guess you didn't hear me tell you to keep
low."
"Sure I did," Dawson grunted as the cool towel on his forehead seemed
to drive most of the little demons from his brain. "But some guy was
keeping even lower, and he let me have it. But, look, I'm okay. I've
got to sit up. That ceiling light is burning holes in my face. No,
Freddy. I'm really okay. I'll feel better if I just sit up. Gosh, I
wonder what that lug used, a sledge hammer?"
Despite Freddy Farmer's disapproving look, and his restraining gesture,
Dawson sat up on the bed, and struggled silently for a moment until the
room stopped going around. Then when he could see clearly he looked at
his flying pal.
"Okay, what's the story?" he said. "And what bunch of cats did that
clawing job on your uniform? Boy, you sure look like you'd been through
something!"
"More than I could handle, blast it all!" Freddy Farmer said, as a red
flush started up his neck. "I had just made my phone call to British
Intelligence at the War Office when I saw that bathroom door move. I
yelled and told whoever was there to come out, or I'd fire. Silly, of
course, but the blasted words just popped off my tongue."
Young Farmer paused for a moment for breath. The redness was in his
face by now.
"Of course, whoever it was didn't oblige," he continued bitterly.
"I heard scraping noises beyond the door, and leaped over to it gun
in hand, and all that sort of cinema hero stuff. I kicked open the
door just in time to see some chap's hand disappear from the bathroom
window sill. I pulled the door shut to cut off the light in here, and
scrambled out the window myself. Nothing happened for a bit, and then
I heard two voices whispering. Couldn't make out what they said, or
in what language they were saying it. I leaped in that direction and
bumped square into a blasted chimney. Then I heard running feet to my
right. Rather than bother calling out I just gave a snap shot in the
general direction. I hit one of them, because I heard a yelp of pain.
And--"