to pull out the little black leather book he had taken from the inside
of Herr Baron's tunic lapel. "I felt it in his tunic lapel, sir," he
said. "But I clean forgot to mention it. Here, sir. It's all in code, I
think."
Dawson held it out and Colonel Fraser practically pounced on it like a
tiger upon a hunk of meat. He flipped through the pages rapidly, and
the look in his eyes got brighter and brighter.
"Praise the powers that be you didn't forget any longer than you did,
Dawson!" he snapped. Then, with a quick shake of his hand, "I'm sorry
for that, old man. I apologize. You went through enough to make a man
to forget 'most everything. It's just that I'm so excited to get hold
of this."
"That's all right, sir," Dave said with a smile. "I should have thought
of it sooner. You think you can break down that code?"
"With ease," the colonel said, and reached out a hand to press one of a
row of buttons on the edge of his desk. "It's one of the numbers codes.
The Nazis go all out for that type of code, for some unknown reason.
Naturally, though, we're grateful to them for that, because they are so
simple to break down. I remember once when--"
But the side door opened to admit a rather tired-eyed lieutenant, and
the colonel didn't continue. He turned and handed the little black book
to the officer.
"Get everything out of this, Wilson," he said. "Put two or three on it,
if you have to. I want it as soon as possible. By the way, anything yet
on the other business?"
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant said. "I was about to ring you when you
buzzed. Henderson just called in. Both John Dobbler and Harold Cabot
are listed in Records as having been killed during the blitz. Neither
has been seen at the address given since then, sir. Fact is, sir,
Henderson says Dobbler's block was completely destroyed, and nothing's
been put up there as yet."
"Thank you, Wilson," Colonel Fraser said with a nod of dismissal. "Now,
get right at that thing, there's a good chap."
"Quite, sir," the junior officer said, and hurried out of the office.
Colonel Fraser turned to the other and clenched his fists in a helpless
gesture.
"If only we could devise some means of civilian identification that
couldn't be stolen by Nazi scoundrels!" he said bitterly. "No doubt
that Hans and that Erich have been walking around London bold as brass
and posing as poor Dobbler and Cabot ever since the Blitz! It's enough
to make a man weep."
"I wonder how they got hold of the papers." Dawson murmured.
"A hundred different ways," Colonel Fraser said. "Took 'em off the poor
devils as they lay dead in the bomb rubble. Or when they were in a
casualty station, or a hospital. Things were very much in a stew during
blitz nights, you know. Everybody was helping everybody else, and
nobody was asking the next chap why he was there, or what he was doing.
There wasn't any time for that, or any need. London was in a desperate
state, and little things didn't matter at all. No, they simply got
hold of the papers somehow, and then steered clear of those addresses.
Civilians carried no pictures on their papers for identification, you
know. That is, save an important few in charge of Air Raid Defense
work."
"Well, that's one satisfaction, at least," Freddy Farmer said grimly.
"That beggar, Erich, will steal no more papers. We sent that blighter
where he belongs."
"You mean, _you_ did," Dawson corrected with a grin. "And saved my hide
at the same time!"
Freddy Farmer shrugged that off and looked at Colonel Fraser.
"There's something I'd like to ask if I may, sir?" he said.
"Who has a better right, Farmer?" the senior officer smiled. "Go right
ahead."
"That Hans and Erich drank a toast to the Fuehrer's secret weapon,
sir," Freddy said. Then, with a little embarrassed smile, "I know the
Nazis have been putting out a lot of silly scare propaganda, now that
we're blasting their cities. Threatening to use a secret weapon, and
all that sort of thing. But--well, frankly, sir, is there anything to
this secret weapon business, that you know of?"
The British Intelligence officer didn't reply to the question for a
moment. He drummed his fingertips on the desk, and pursed his lips as
though he were carefully selecting the words to speak.
"Propaganda, or not," he finally said slowly, "we are firmly convinced
that the Nazis are arranging some kind of a surprise for us. Fact is,
we've felt that way for some time now. Just what it is, we frankly do
not know. I know for sure that British Intelligence hasn't obtained
sufficient information as yet to give us so much as an inkling as to
what it is. But what about you, Major? Has Yank Intelligence got wind
of anything of that sort?"
"Yes and no, sir," Major Crandall said with a crooked little smile.
"Like you, we've received some confirmed reports from inside Germany
that something is brewing. I mean, that Hitler has become so desperate
that he's going to take a desperate gamble, and play his final cards.
But whether it will be against the Russians, or against us, or both,
we don't know. Nor do we know if it's a new plane, a new gun, a new
kind of tank, or what. But it's pretty certain that the Nazis are not
going to take the terrific air beating they are now receiving without
striking back with something very special they've been saving until
they were forced to use it."
"You speak of confirmed reports, sir," Dawson spoke up. "Just what do
you mean by that? Confirmed reports of what, may I ask?"
"Of unusual things taking place inside Germany, and inside Occupied
France," the major replied. "As an example, we have received a report
that a certain factory making landing gear parts has suddenly become a
very hush-hush place. No one can get within a mile of the spot without
being shot. The working force has been doubled, and no worker is
allowed to leave that area. They eat, sleep, and work there. Why? We
haven't the faintest idea. We've known since the very beginning of the
war that that particular plant made landing gear parts. Nothing secret
about it at all. One of our agents even went through the plant. But he
can't get within a mile of it now. Nor can anybody else, without the
proper authority. And that plant is but one of at least a dozen that of
late have become forbidden ground, you might say. By itself, the report
means nothing, but when added to other scraps of information we have
been able to collect, it all points to the Nazis working up something
very special. For the want of a better word, we call it a secret
weapon."
"And the little item that gives it even greater importance now, Major?"
Colonel Fraser said, and smiled knowingly.
"Yes, very much so," the other said grimly. Then he looked at Dawson,
and tapped the picture of Colonel Frank Bowers. "This," he said.
"Rather, that rat, Herr Baron, who posed as Colonel Frank Bowers. Both
English and Yank Intelligence have been able to find out that the
man called Herr Baron was directly connected with whatever is taking
place in these suddenly double guarded factories. Don't ask me, Herr
Baron who, because I don't know. Nobody seems to know. Not even in
Germany, or the occupied countries, where he seems to be feared as much
as Himmler, if not more so. Obviously he is a skilled actor, and an
expert quick change and make-up artist. Also, he is clever, and has a
heart of stone. But that's about all we know. At least, all that Yank
Intelligence knows. Perhaps, Colonel, you can add to--"
But Major Crandall didn't get the chance right then to finish the
question. The side door opened, and Lieutenant Wilson came hurrying
in. In one hand he held the little black book. And in the other he
held two sheets of paper, and Dawson could see that they were both
filled with closely typewritten lines. And Dawson could also see that
Lieutenant Wilson was striving hard to be typically English, and not
let his wild excitement show on his face.
CHAPTER EIGHT
_Sixteen Kholerstrasse_
As Lieutenant Wilson quickly crossed over to the desk Colonel Fraser
turned his head and looked at him in mild surprise.
"What is it, Wilson?" he asked. Then catching his breath, "Good grief,
you've done it so soon, man?"
"Yes sir," Wilson replied. "A very simple numbers code. Matter of fact,
sir, I fancy it's one he made up for his own use. I've decoded and
typed out everything, sir. Mostly personal notes for his own use. It
seems like the chap didn't care to trust to memory, so put it all down
in code. But most, _most_ interesting, sir!"
"Thank you, Wilson, and jolly quick work," Colonel Fraser said, as he
took the little black book, and the two sheets of typewritten lines.
Then, with an apologetic smile at Major Crandall, and Dawson, and
Farmer, he murmured, "Excuse me, Gentlemen, while I glance through
this stuff, will you?"
All three replied that that was all right, but even though they had
shouted, "No!" in a loud chorus it wouldn't have made any difference,
for the colonel was already giving his concentrated attention to the
reading matter. Dawson tried to be polite and not stare at the man,
but when Colonel Fraser suddenly gasped sharply, muttered something
under his breath, and a look of angry bewilderment flooded his face,
neither Dawson or the other two could possibly keep their eyes off him.
It was almost comical, the picture. Major Fraser, Dawson and Freddy
Farmer were like three eager dogs who were having the dickens of a time
controlling themselves until they received the signal.
Eventually Colonel Fraser slapped the papers down on the desk with an
oath, and didn't even bother to apologize. His face was flaming red,
and his eyes glittered like ice cubes in the sun.
"Incredible, unbelievable!" he finally exploded. "Good heavens! There's
almost as much information about things here in England as we know
ourselves. That Herr Baron is a devil, I swear. He's--he's almost
superhuman, the rascal!"
"Information about what, sir?" Major Crandall asked, after he had
waited a polite moment.
Colonel Fraser slapped a hand on the little black book.
"About American and R.A.F. forces in England!" he cried. "The location
of every drome, the types of planes, the commanding officer, signal
codes and--everything! Why, I can hardly believe it! It must have taken
his agents months of blastedly clever work to gather all that data!"
The colonel suddenly cut himself off short. A lot of the anger and the
red faded from his face, and in the next moment he actually smiled.
"But not too clever, I fancy," he said. "The Nazi is a strange
creature. He can make himself perfect in all things except one. I mean
that in his make-up there is always one very strong failing. And that's
why they never win in the end, because they always make one costly
slip. The weak link breaks, you might say, and all the rest goes to
pot. In Herr Baron the weak link was his tendency to put details down
on paper. As Wilson said, the chap didn't care to trust to memory.
Listed here are the names and addresses of every one of his agents in
England. He even has listed the contact points that his agents use to
get across the Channel to Occupied France."
"You unearthed a gold mine for the colonel, Dave!" Freddy Farmer cried
excitedly. "Now British Intelligence can throw out a dragnet and catch
every--No?"
Young Farmer checked himself and spoke the last as Dawson made a wry
face and shook his head.
"No, Freddy," Dave said sadly. "Unless Herr Baron is a complete dope,
which he sure isn't. You're forgetting that the rat got away from us,
Freddy. He'll discover that his little book is gone, and the first
thing he'll do is to make sure his agents clear out and clear out fast.
Am I right, Colonel?"
"I'm afraid you are, Dawson," the senior officer agreed with a heavy
sigh. "He'll do just that, unquestionably. Now, if only we had captured
him with this little book, then--But we can't expect everything to
go in our favor. But let me continue with what is perhaps the most
important item in this little black book. This will interest you
particularly, Major. There are several references to Number Sixteen
Kholerstrasse!"
Major Crandall sat up straight, as though he had been shot.
"No?" he gasped. "You mean--?"
"Exactly, Major," Colonel Fraser interrupted. "Number Sixteen
Kholerstrasse in the city of Duisburg, Germany. He has listed here
certain dates when his agents are to report to Number Sixteen
Kholerstrasse. And the last date, which he has underscored several
times, is the twenty-fourth of this month!"
"So the rats are all going back to the same hole!" Major Crandall said
softly, as though he couldn't believe his own words. "But--but to tell
the truth I've been doing a little thinking about Sixteen Kholerstrasse
lately. Four of the mystery factories are located in the Duisburg area.
The nerve of those rats! Using the very nest we thought we'd smoked out
for keeps. Right now I don't know whether that's being clever, or being
damn fools, to tell you the truth."
"It was being blasted clever, until Dawson got hold of _this_!" Colonel
Fraser said, and held up the little black book. "Frankly, I'd never
have suspected that they would use the same place again. But that's
the Hun for you. They are very likely to do the totally unexpected,
ingrained as they are with routine. But they're a queer race, anyway."
"And one the world could well do without!" Dawson said grimly. "But is
it permitted to ask questions at this point, sir?"
"Quite," the colonel smiled. "But don't bother, because I'll explain.
All this certainly must sound like so much gibberish to you two. Well,
Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse, in Duisburg, Germany, was for a long time
the Western Germany Headquarters of Himmler's Gestapo, and the German
Intelligence, and secret police. The clearing house, you might say,
for all of the occupied countries, as well as the British Isles. Well,
a few months ago we got wind of its existence. Also word that Himmler
himself, and several of his important key men, were going to meet at
Number Sixteen--for a little discussion of policy, no doubt. Anyway,
it gave us a very bright idea, though the idea failed to turn out one
tenth as bright as we had hoped. To make a long story short, we formed
a sort of Commando squad of British, American, and Russian agents
operating in Germany, plus a few members of the French Underground. The
idea was, of course, to storm the place and wipe out Herr Himmler, and
several others, and perhaps capture valuable papers and such."
The colonel paused for a moment, and a look of bitterness and sadness
came into his eyes.
"The raid was made, but luck was not with us," he presently continued
in a low voice. "Something went wrong. Nobody seemed to know just what,
or why. But it appeared that the Huns had been tipped off. Neither
Himmler nor his key men were there at the time of the raid. Our men
killed a few of the lesser lights that were present. But five of our
men died, and not one slip of paper of any value was obtained. Hand
grenades and rifle fire made a mess of the place, so the report stated.
But that's about all the raiding party accomplished. It was just
another one of those rotten bits of luck that couldn't be helped. Like
the time the Commandos raided Marshall Rommel's Headquarters in Libya,
only to find that the Desert Fox had flown to Germany the day before
for a meeting with Hitler. No, we are not very proud of the Sixteen
Kholerstrasse affair. The Hun beat us at every turn that time. And now
the beggars are obviously using it again. _That_ is indeed interesting."
"And four of those mysterious factories are in the Duisburg area,"
Major Crandall murmured. "Don't forget that, sir. I'd like to make a
bet that Number Sixteen is the nerve center of whatever the Nazis are
cooking up for us."
"And I wouldn't take that bet, Major, because I quite agree with you,"
Colonel Fraser said firmly. "And here's one more thing. Not only has
Herr Baron underscored the date when the last agent is to report to
Number Sixteen, he has also referred to it as Der Tag. The big day for
whatever it is they are preparing."
"And it will be a blow against the combined American and British air
forces in England," Freddy Farmer murmured. "Unless, sir, there's more
in the little black book than you've told us?"
Everybody looked at young Farmer in puzzled surprise.
"What's that?" Colonel Fraser echoed. Then, with a shake of his head,
"No, there's nothing else here. Just his agents, the dates they are to
report to Duisburg, and the data on our air forces in England. But what
makes you think, it's to be a blow against our air forces?"
"A hunch, Dawson would call it, sir," Freddy Farmer replied. Then,
leaning forward with a very earnest expression on his face, he
continued, "On the face of it, sir. I mean, all his agents are to
report to Duisburg at certain dates. Very well, it's obvious that he
can't rely on his memory. He has to put details down on paper. In
code, true, but still down in black and white. Well, doesn't it strike
you that Herr Baron planned to go to Duisburg, too, and that _his_
report will be _complete_ information on our air forces in England that
he and his agents have collected? _If_ there is any secret business
being prepared for us at Duisburg, doesn't it seem logical that it will
ultimately be directed at our air forces? Is there anything that we
have that the Nazis would rather smash than our air power? Of course, I
may be all wrong to--"
"But you're not all wrong, far from it!" Major Crandall broke in. "I
think you've hit the nail right on the head. Now that you've put it
that way, a lot of things seem to check. And one item is something that
it hurts to mention. It's that I haven't been able to contact a single
one of my men posted in the Duisburg area for over a month. I am afraid
they're dead. They found out the secret, but paid with their lives
before they could get word through to me."
"Farmer must be right!" Colonel Fraser said, tight-lipped, as though he
were speaking to himself. "Both Hall and Perkins were to have reported
from that area days ago. And there hasn't been a single word from
either of them."
Silence settled over the room as the Colonel's words were lost to the
echo. Presently Dawson opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think
better of it, and reddened and closed his lips. A few moments later,
though, he gave a little stubborn shake of his head.
"Would it help if Farmer and I took a crack at it, sir?" he asked.
Colonel Fraser looked at him in frowning bewilderment.
"A crack at what, Dawson?" he demanded.
Dave hesitated, and his face was fiery red when he spoke.
"Getting to Duisburg, sir," he said slowly, "and trying to find out
just what's to happen on the seventeenth of this month."
The colonel blinked, looked just a trifle annoyed, and opened his mouth
to speak. However, he changed his mind and smiled faintly.
"I admire your courage, and your splendid offer, Dawson," he said. "But
it would be impossible, old man. You just couldn't bring it off, though
not through any fault of yours, mind you. But the whole place is double
guarded, as Major Crandall explained. And, not to take away one bit
from the splendid services you have rendered Intelligence in the past,
both the major's men and mine were the very best in the game. They
have been there on the spot for weeks, and have obviously failed, and
paid with their lives. Heaven knows I'd grab at your offer if I so much
as thought there was the ghost of a chance, but--Well, you see, old
man?"
The colonel smiled kindly, and gestured with his two hands, palms
upward. Then he blinked as Dawson smiled back at him, and shook his
head.
"No, sir," he said, "I don't see it your way. I don't mean that Farmer
and I would walk right into Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse and find out
what was what. Chances are that we might neither of us get to within a
mile of the place. However, if those mysterious factories are linked up
with Number Sixteen, then maybe we could do something about it. Learn a
little something, anyway."
"Eh?" the colonel murmured. "I--I don't quite think I follow you. Do
you mean, get a look at what's in those factories? But, good heavens,
my dear chap! How on earth--?"
"Something like that, sir," Dawson interrupted quietly. "But not,
perhaps, the way your agents, and Major Crandall's agents, tried it. I
wouldn't be so conceited as even to begin to think that I could walk in
their footsteps and accomplish something they failed at. And I know
Farmer isn't that conceited either."
"Oh, definitely not," Freddy said. "But what in the world are you
driving at, Dave?"
"Yes, Dawson, speed it up, will you?" Major Crandall said with a frown.
"What's it all about?"
Dawson hesitated and drew in a deep breath like a man about to make a
high dive into icy water.
"Briefly, this, sir," he finally said. "Two Luftwaffe pilots fighting
off an R.A.F.-Eighth Air Force raid on Duisburg are shot down. They
bail out and come down close to one of those mystery factories.
They seem to be injured, and are probably taken inside the factory
to be given first aid. Or maybe they just stumble in like dazed men
not knowing where they are going. Anyway, they get inside and they
certainly see something of what's going on inside. Well, those two
Luftwaffe pilots will be Farmer and myself."
"My word!" Colonel Fraser almost choked, as Dawson paused. "But--but
it's too utterly fantastic, Dawson!"
"I don't know, sir," Major Fraser broke in quickly. "Maybe he's got
something there. Yes, maybe he _has_ got something there."
"But, my dear Major!" Colonel Fraser exclaimed, and stopped. Then,
beginning again, he said, "Assume, if you like, that they can float
down by parachute as Luftwaffe pilots. Assume that one of them does get
into a factory. What then?"
Major Crandall didn't reply. He looked at Dawson instead.
"Well, what about it?" he asked quietly.
"If we get in as wounded or fight-dazed Luftwaffe pilots," Dawson said
with a shrug, "the chances are that we can get out, too. After all,
Farmer and I read, write, and speak German. Also, we've been in that
part of the world before. Of course, I'm giving just a brief outline
of the set-up. It will take some thinking over, and planning. But I
sincerely believe we'd stand a fair chance for success. As you well
know, after an air raid things are in pretty much of a confused state.
During that confusion we might be able to cash in. We might even be
able to get a look at this Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse."
"But about getting back to England, Dawson?" Colonel Fraser said, as
the look of disbelief began to fade from his eyes. "How would you get
back?"
"That would take some thinking over, too, sir," Dawson smiled at him.
"But, offhand, I'd say there were a couple of ways that might work.
One, a Yank or R.A.F. plane could make a night or early dawn landing at
a certain spot near Duisburg at a prearranged time, and take us aboard.
Or we might cross the border into one of the Occupied countries and get
in touch with the Underground, and have them send us home through the
usual channels."
"Or even contact one of my men, if any are left, and let him get you
out," Major Crandall murmured, as though to himself. Then, looking at
Colonel Fraser, he said, "Dawson is dead right, sir, when he says that
it requires a lot of thinking over and planning. But, frankly, I'm
convinced more than ever that he really has got something workable. And
after all, time is short, and we've got to do something at once. The
twenty-fourth is Friday, you know, sir."
The senior officer didn't reply at once. He turned his head and looked
at Freddy Farmer.
"What do you think about it?" he asked. "Would you want to go on such a
mad mission?"
"Even if I didn't want to, sir, and I most certainly do," Freddy
replied, "I'd go along anyway to make sure that Dawson didn't blunder
into any trouble."
"I was misunderstood!" Dave cried. "This would be strictly a solo
venture. I couldn't possibly meet with success, if I had to carry
Farmer around on my back, too!"
Colonel Fraser looked at him, then switched his gaze to Major
Crandall's face, and smiled faintly.
"Maybe that is the secret of their past successes, Major," he said.
"The ability to pull each other's leg, when actually death is staring
them in the face. Well, I suppose that settles it. Only it seems too
utterly impossible. It--"
"Just a minute, sir, if I may?" Dawson interrupted. "That job you sent
us on in Nineteen Forty was also a parachute over enemy territory job.
What did you honestly think of our chances then, sir?"
"Frankly," the senior officer replied gravely, "very slim indeed."