carefully, though actually he hardly gave them more than a glance. The
idea was to make the German sweat it out for a bit, and that's just
what the Nazi did do. When Dawson finally tossed the folder of papers
on the desk and looked at the man, Herr Krumpstadt was practically
dripping sweat from every pore. His face was flushed like a sunset,
and he kept "washing" his hands as he stared at Dawson out of very
frightened eyes.
"There is something wrong, _Herr Leutnant_?" he asked in a quavering
voice when Dawson simply looked at him and through him. "But I do not
understand! What have I done that someone should see fit to report me?
I swear that I am a loyal Nazi. Heil Hitler!"
"The report made about you is our affair," Dawson said sternly. Then,
with a wave of one hand toward the closed door, he went on, "You were
in conference with them? Do you take me for a fool? Several of those
who were here in this room are swine French dogs! What is a good German
doing talking with Frenchmen? Frenchmen are only for work. A little
conference, eh? Perhaps you made a slip-up there, Herr Krumpstadt?"
The German was so eager to talk that the words spilled off his fat lips
like flood waters over a broken dam.
"But of course, _Herr Leutnant_!" he exclaimed. "The swine French are
for work only, and that is why they are here in my factory. Over a
hundred of them, _Herr Leutnant_. Sent here by the Ministry of War
Production. And it is necessary to hold a conference every now and then
to explain the work that I wish them to do. They are swine French, yes,
but they are expert welders. And if I am to produce what I have been
ordered to produce, then I must have them work for me."
Dawson acted as though he were giving the German's explanation careful
thought. His heart was beginning to pound against his ribs, and the
blood surged through his veins as he realized that he was very, very
close to learning the guarded secret of this mysterious factory. If
only Freddy Farmer were there with him. Freddy, among other things,
was very clever with words. Freddy would make this fat-faced German
talk, without realizing that he was saying a thing. But Freddy wasn't
there. For a brief instant, as sharp grief and bitter despair ripped
through Dawson like a two-edged knife, he almost lost the grip he had
on himself. With a mighty effort, though, he forced thoughts of Freddy
Farmer to the back of his brain and once more fixed Herr Krumpstadt
with a cold stare.
"French welders, eh?" he murmured. Then, with a sharp ring in his
voice, he snapped at the German, "And what are these French welders
making for you, Herr Krumpstadt?"
For one fleeting second the German hesitated, and almost made as though
to shake his head and refuse to answer. However, the terrible fear
that every German has of the Gestapo was too much for him. Perhaps his
orders from the Ministry of War Production had been to let no word
pass his lips to an outsider. But a member of the Gestapo? That was
something very, very different.
"They are making the metal cylinders for the American and British
planes, _Herr Leutnant_," the German finally said. "And they also make
repairs on landing gear parts that are shipped to us. They are swine
dogs, all of them, but they are expert at welding. If I could get a
hundred more of them I could double the output of my factory."
Dave Dawson didn't allow a single change of expression to come into his
face, but inwardly he was all on fire. And considerably puzzled and
confused, too. Metal cylinders for _American and British_ planes? What
in heaven's name had the Nazi meant by that? And the Frenchmen also
made repairs on landing gear parts that were shipped to this factory?
At the moment it made no sense at all to Dawson, but although a hundred
questions hovered on the tip of his tongue, he didn't voice a single
one of them. He didn't because once again he knew that he was skating
on very thin ice. His little Gestapo act had filled Herr Krumpstadt
with terror, but he could very easily overplay his part and plant the
seed of shrewd suspicion in the man. After all, as a member of the
Gestapo seemingly come to make a check on Herr Krumpstadt, it would be
only natural that he would know all about what was taking place in the
German's factory. To ask too many leading questions might prove very
disastrous.
And then suddenly Dawson was hit by a very bright idea. Instead of
asking questions here in Herr Krumpstadt's office, why not take a look
for himself, and perhaps obtain the answers to his questions that way?
So he nodded curtly, pursed his lips, and stood up.
"I know, Herr Krumpstadt," he said. "I know all about what you are
doing here. It is not what you make, but those who make it, that
interests me. I have been meaning to pay you a little visit before now,
but other things were more important. But now that good fortune brought
me down here by parachute, I might as well take care of the matter."
Dawson paused, and for a moment cocked a thoughtful eye at the far
wall, then quickly switched his gaze back to the Nazi's face.
"There is one French dog that we want very much," he said. "He probably
goes by a hundred different names, but his real name is Pierre Duval.
You have perhaps in your records a man by that name?"
"It is not familiar to me, _Herr Leutnant_," the German said with a
frown and a slow shake of his head, "but I will look in my war prisoner
file and make sure. One minute, please, _Herr Leutnant_."
Dawson simply grunted and watched Krumpstadt walk over to a wall filing
cabinet and pull open one of the drawers. He studied its contents for
several minutes and then turned back to Dawson with another shake of
his head.
"No, _Herr Leutnant_," he said. "I have not one of them listed by the
name of Pierre Duval."
"I did not expect that you would," Dave grunted with a shrug. "The dog
would naturally not be that much of a fool. The man may even be dead by
now. We do not know for sure. But as I am now here I will check them
over and make sure. Herr Krumpstadt! Conduct me about your factory and
I will take a look at these French swine."
"But of course, _Herr Leutnant_!" the German beamed. "It will be an
honor and a pleasure."
"But one word of caution, Herr Krumpstadt!" Dawson snapped, and leveled
a stiff forefinger at the man. "The one you will conduct through your
factory is a Luftwaffe pilot shot down in battle. He is your guest, and
you are doing him a slight honor. There will be no mention by sign or
word of who I really am, or the reason for my little visit here. I hope
you understand me, Herr Krumpstadt?"
"Oh, yes, yes, _Herr Leutnant_!" the German made haste to reply, and
bobbed his head violently. "My lips are sealed. Why, I wouldn't dare,
_Herr Leutnant_!"
"I'm sure you wouldn't," Dawson said dryly. "Very well, let us take a
look around."
Herr Krumpstadt nodded, beamed, and led the way to his office door.
It was almost two hours later before Dave Dawson found himself back
again in that very same office. There was a faint frown on his face,
and it wasn't entirely for Herr Krumpstadt's benefit. On the contrary,
it actually reflected the turmoil going on within him. In other words,
he was more mixed up and confused now than he had been before. The
factory was five floors high, and Herr Krumpstadt had conducted him to
every floor, and had pointed out every French war prisoner performing
slave labor. To keep up his part Dawson had keenly studied each new
face, but he actually gave more attention to what each man was doing
than to his face. And they were almost all doing spot welding on metal
cylinders that varied in size from some that were a foot long and
three inches through to others that were six feet long and two feet
through. One end of every cylinder was left open. And try as he would
to convince himself that Farbin Factory Number Six was turning out bomb
casings, Dawson knew that they were not. At least, he was as sure they
weren't as he could possibly be sure of anything.
Yes, the French war prisoners were working mostly on the spot welding
of varied sized cylinders, but there were a few who were working on
aircraft landing gear parts. And it was that work that puzzled and
confounded Dawson far more than the cylinder welding. The landing
gear parts were all stripped down, but even at that he was quite
sure that he recognized certain parts that were definitely of either
British or American make. Repairing British and American plane landing
gears in Farbin Factory Number Six? The question seemed to hang in
Dawson's brain in letters of fire a foot high as he traveled with Herr
Krumpstadt from floor to floor. And he would have given anything he
ever hoped to possess if he could but have obtained the answers to the
questions that crowded his thoughts.
And now he was back in Herr Krumpstadt's office, more confused than
ever. And with a sense of frustration that flooded through him like a
dank fog. Information; information of goodness knew what value right
at his fingertips, and yet he couldn't pick it up without running the
risk of falling through the very thin ice over which he was skating.
Herr Krumpstadt had regained considerable of his composure, and Dawson
could tell without being told that a certain "Gestapo agent" was fast
wearing out his welcome at Farbin Factory Number Six. Herr Krumpstadt
kept looking at his watch, and there was a faint gleam of annoyance in
his close-set pig-like eyes.
"Well, I guess he is not working in my factory, _Herr Leutnant_,"
the German suddenly said with an undertone of impatience. "But I did
not think so in the first place, as the Ministry of War Production
carefully checks every prisoner worker they send to me. And now, is
there anything else I can do for _Herr Leutnant_?"
Dawson scowled in deep thought, and then tried a cold stare or two
for Krumpstadt's benefit, but it didn't seem to change anything. Time
was running out fast, and Dawson knew that to linger any longer might
result in growing suspicion on Krumpstadt's part. The Nazi was over
his original fright. Nothing had been charged against him, and some of
the arrogance that is a typical German trait was coming back into his
manner and speech. And so Dave Dawson made his decision. His decision
to get out of Farbin Factory Number Six, and to get out as quickly as
he could.
"Did you say you had a car, Herr Krumpstadt?" he suddenly snapped.
"That is so, _Herr Leutnant_," the Nazi replied. And then, with just
the faintest of frowns, "You wish to be driven some place? To your
Staffle Headquarters?"
"Yes, but not to my Staffle," Dawson said. "There is one to whom I must
report in Duisburg. Order your car, Herr Krumpstadt, and you can drive
me there. And I mention it again. My friend who is high in the Party
will hear of the courtesy and consideration that you have shown me."
That accomplished what perhaps threats would have failed completely
to achieve. Herr Krumpstadt was suddenly all smiles again, and eager
expectancy showed in his eyes. After all, it was not every day that
one's name was mentioned to one in high authority. All in all it
pleased Herr Krumpstadt very much.
"At once, _Herr Leutnant_!" he said. "And of course I will drive
you. No one else here is permitted to leave the area. As you know,
there are guards all about. But with me it is different. Holding the
position I do, I am permitted to come and go as I wish. No questions
are asked of me."
It was all Dawson could do to refrain from heaving one great big sigh
of relief. How he would pass through the cordon of guards had been a
problem to be faced. But not any more. With Herr Krumpstadt he would
obviously sail right on through, and even get saluted on the way by
Hitler's soldiers.
"Of course," Dawson said, and even favored the Nazi with his first
smile. "Let us leave at once. Heil Hitler!"
"Heil Hitler!" Herr Krumpstadt fairly screamed, and whacked his arm up
in a rigid Nazi salute. "Follow me, _Herr Leutnant_."
Fifteen minutes later Farbin Factory Number Six, and its ring of
guards, were far behind the rear wheels of the Benz touring car that
Herr Krumpstadt guided toward Duisburg in the distance. It had been
absolutely comical to see the soldiers manning the guard posts to
stiffen and salute as the Benz rolled by them. However, Dawson kept his
face expressionless, returned each salute in the mechanical Nazi way,
and simply smiled inwardly.
"This address where you wish me to drive you, _Herr Leutnant_?" the
Nazi behind the wheel presently broke the silence between them.
Dawson hesitated, and then made his decision.
"Kholerstrasse," he said. "It is on the east side of the city. You can
drop me off as soon as we reach it. I will walk to my destination from
there."
Dawson was not sure, but he thought that the Nazi stiffened slightly
and gave him a quick side glance. But perhaps that wasn't so. Perhaps
to Herr Krumpstadt, Kholerstrasse was just the name of a street in
Duisburg. Perhaps it meant no more to him that just that.
"Yes, I know where it is," the Nazi replied a moment later. "I will go
straight there. And I thank you again, _Herr Leutnant_, for speaking to
your friend."
"I will not forget," Dawson grunted.
And that was that between them until Herr Krumpstadt swung the car into
a long, broad street and rolled to a stop at the curb.
"May good luck follow you, _Herr Leutnant_," the German said as Dawson
climbed out. "And may we have the pleasure of meeting again soon. If
one by the name of Pierre Duval should come to my factory, I will
instantly inform the nearest Police Post. Heil Hitler."
"Good, and a reward will be yours, Herr Krumpstadt," Dawson replied
gravely. "Heil Hitler!"
The German smiled, shifted gears and drove away from the curb and on
down the street. Dawson watched the car disappear and then slowly took
his German cap that he had stuck under his belt and put it on his head.
A moment later he turned and started walking along the street. He
carried himself like a soldier, but his heart was heavy as lead in his
chest. He felt as though he were the last person alive in the world,
and it was a battle to keep back the tears when thoughts of Freddy
Farmer kept crowding back into his head. Good old Freddy gone! He
apparently hadn't bailed out soon enough, and the finger of Death had
touched one of the finest persons ever to be born. Freddy gone, and--?
"But it can't be!" Dawson told himself fiercely. "It just can't be. Not
Freddy! He wasn't born to go out that way. Yet--!"
He let the rest go unspoken and groaned softly. It was as though his
own life were slowly trickling out of him, leaving little more than
a dead man to carry on. But that was the thing. Carry on he must,
in spite of everything. But how? What next? Getting inside one of
the secret factories had seemed so important once. But now? Well, he
had been inside Farbin Factory Number Six, and so what? French war
prisoners spot welding metal cylinders, and repairing landing gear
parts, some of which he was certain had been made in the U.S.A., and in
England.
So what? What good was that knowledge to him now as he walked aimlessly
along Kholerstrasse? Freddy was gone, and he was alone in Duisburg.
The day after tomorrow, by arrangement, a British Recco plane would
land at a certain spot and pick him up and take him back to England.
The day after tomorrow. But tomorrow was the twenty-fourth of the
month. The day when Herr Baron's last agent in England would report to
Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse. Or would he? Would Herr Baron change all
his plans the instant he learned that he didn't have his little black
book any more? And the secret weapon Hans and Erich had toasted with
schnapps? What secret weapon? Spot welded metal cylinders, and stripped
down landing gear parts? In the name of--!
"I think I'm just going stark, raving nuts!" Dawson breathed, and
clenched his two fists helplessly. "It's all mixed up. No part of it
makes any sense at all. Oh, dear heaven, if only Freddy were here.
If only Freddy were still alive. I can't believe that he is gone. I
can't!"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
_Sinister Silence_
Night had come again to the German city of Duisburg. As yet the air
raid sirens had not given their terrifying warning that the R.A.F. was
on the prowl once more, but the streets of the city were practically
deserted. Many of the inhabitants had gone underground to spend the
night there whether there were bombs dropped on Duisburg or not.
Only a scattering of soldiers and patrolling guards were to be seen
on the streets. One of them, though, was an officer. An officer of
the Nazi Luftwaffe, as a matter of fact. At least he was dressed
that way, and being a Luftwaffe officer none of the patrols stopped
him for questioning. Or if they did they instantly saw his rank, his
decorations, and gave him a snappy salute, and a loud "Heil Hitler!" in
the very next breath.
All afternoon, and during the early evening, that "Luftwaffe" officer
had strolled about the Kholerstrasse section. Every now and then
he had stepped into a restaurant for a bit of food. And in Duisburg
a _bit_ of food was just about all that one could get at a sitting.
Whether private soldier, or field marshal, it didn't matter. There just
wasn't enough. But after going into several spots Dawson was able to
get filled up. Getting filled up, however, was not the entire reason
for his many visits to Duisburg restaurants and food shops. Into each
one he walked with the burning hope that he might see Freddy Farmer
trying to fill that perpetually hollow leg of his. But it was all in
vain. There was no sign at all of Freddy Farmer. His English-born
flying mate and dearest pal had simply vanished from the face of the
earth. Or rather, vanished from the face of a dawn sky where Dawson had
last seen him alive.
And now with the darkness of night closed down over Duisburg, he was
standing in what was left of the doorway of a bombed out house directly
across Kholerstrasse from Number One Fifty-Six. Several times during
the afternoon and evening he had passed by Number Sixteen in the faint
hope that he might be able to see or hear something that would help
him in deciding his next move. Once again, though, his hopes were in
vain. From the outside Number Sixteen looked as though it hadn't been
occupied since the start of the war. All of the window shades were
drawn down, and half of the window shutters had been closed and bolted.
The front door, which contained no window, was closed and locked.
And not once had Dawson seen a single person go up or down the short
flight of stone steps. If Number Sixteen was Intelligence headquarters
in Duisburg, one certainly would not guess it from the looks of the
outside of the building.
Eventually convinced that he would gain nothing by parading past Number
Sixteen, and having finally given up hope of spotting Freddy Farmer
in any of the Kholerstrasse section eating places, Dawson had fallen
back on his final and last hope. If this hope proved to be false and no
good, then he was at the end of his rope. His mission to Germany would
end in failure right there on the streets of Duisburg.
And so he was playing his final card. From a good vantage point he
was carefully studying the building that was Number One Fifty-Six
Kohlerstrasse. The address of Major Crandall's agent, who was believed
to reside there under the name of Heinrich Weiden. But did he? That
question taunted Dawson as he surveyed the place, and half a hundred
times he was tempted to go boldly over there, bang on the door of
Number One Fifty-Six and demand of whoever answered that he be shown to
Herr Heinrich Weiden's rooms at once. A tiny voice of caution warned
against that move. For one thing, after two solid hours of watching the
place, he had not seen anybody go in or come out. There wasn't so much
as a single crack, of light showing, but of course that was probably
due to the strict enforcement of the blackout regulations.
In other words, Number One Fifty-Six was pretty much like Number
Sixteen. No sign whatsoever that anybody occupied the place. Just
the same, Dawson made no move to go over and find out for himself.
He told himself that such a thing was silly. That he could probably
wait all night, and not see a single thing of interest. And yet there
was something that made him determined not to leave his place of
concealment. Silly? Perhaps. But how was he to know if real Gestapo
agents weren't watching the place? Ten days ago Heinrich Weiden had
sent word through to Major Crandall that his old address was not good,
and that he should be contacted at a new one. Ten days ago, but what
had happened since?
As a matter of fact, it was a mounting conviction that he was not
the only one who was hiding in the darkness and watching Number One
Fifty-Six that caused him to stay where he was. No proof. Nothing
tangible. It was just that a few times he would have sworn that he saw
shadowy movement across the street. Maybe it had been his imagination,
the strain on his eyes. But maybe not. It was almost as though he could
actually feel somebody over there on the opposite side of the street.
And so he remained hidden and watching as another hour dragged itself
off into the eternity of forgotten time.
But by the end of that hour he had reached the limit of his endurance.
Gestapo agents or no Gestapo agents, he just had to go over there
across the street and find out for sure if Number One Fifty-Six was
occupied or not. If it wasn't occupied, then--
He gave a little shake of his head in the darkness and wouldn't let
himself complete the rest of the sentence.
"It's my only hope!" he whispered fiercely to himself. "As things are
now, I'm right up against a brick wall. Weiden's _got_ to be living
there, and _I've_ got to contact him. He's the only one who can
possibly help me now. Come on, Lady Luck, give us another little break,
please."
For a moment he bowed his head as though in prayer, and then, silent as
the very darkness of night itself, he moved out of his place of hiding
and started across the street to the other side. When but halfway
across the street he heard a faint sound ahead of him that made his
heart stop beating, and his hair practically stand up on end. It was
just a sound, one of a million different kinds of sounds that anybody
might have heard. Maybe it was a door closing, or someone taking a
step, or knocking against something accidentally in the dark.
The sound had come and gone before he could even begin to figure what
it might have been. But as he froze motionless in the street, with
his service Luger clutched tightly in his free hand, he was convinced
beyond all doubt that the sound had been made by a human being. There
were no stray dogs or cats in Duisburg to go around nights making
sounds. They had long since disappeared, and no doubt more than one
German housewife, who had stood in front of the butcher shop all day
only to learn that there wasn't a scrap of meat left, could tell where
those stray dogs and cats had "gone"!
No, the sound had been made by a human form, a human being. And in a
crazy sort of way Dawson expected to see the night spurt flame, and to
hear the bark of a gun in his ears, expected his body to feel the sting
of a bullet from the gun of some Gestapo killer who had mistaken him
for one Heinrich Weiden. It was perhaps a completely mad thought, but
in that instant Dawson experienced more cold fear than he had in all
his life before.
However, no unseen gun spat flame and sound, and presently Dawson got
his pounding heart and jangled nerves under control and started moving
forward silently again. Then presently he had reached the opposite
sidewalk, and the front door of Number One Fifty-Six was not over
fifteen feet away. He could actually see the little metal frames made
to hold name cards, but there were only the frames, and no name cards.
It was obvious that if anybody did reside at Number One Fifty-Six he
was not announcing it to the chance passer-by.
And then suddenly, as Dawson moved toward a little clump of scrub
bushes that had been planted to take the place of the iron fence that
had long since gone into Hitler's melting pot, he sensed rather than
heard movement. Movement came from the other side of the bushes. For
a fleeting instant his keyed up nerves snapped, and he was undecided
whether to take to his heels as fast as he could go, or to jerk up his
gun and pump bullets through the clump of bushes.
He didn't do either, however, because in the next moment there was
swift movement right behind him and the muzzle of a gun was jammed into
his back.