hatred. But his gaze soon fell before Dave's steely one. He bobbed
his head, mumbled something, and hurried away. Dave turned back to
the table and picked up his cup and looked at Freddy Farmer. Suddenly
he was convinced that it was do or die now, or never. He held the cup
native style between his two hands, and leaned forward toward Freddy
Farmer and opened his mouth to speak. But what he was about to say died
in his throat. It died because in that same instant the front door of
the Devil's Den was suddenly slammed open and two Singapore policemen
came bursting into the room.
"_Brenti!_" one of them screamed.
It was the Malay word for "Halt!" and every man in the room, including
Serrangi, himself, froze stiff in whatever position he happened to be.
CHAPTER EIGHT
_The Secret Message_
Like a pair of killers who would love nothing better than to blast
away in all directions with the police pistols they clutched, the two
Singapore policemen stood straddle legged, their black eyes seeming
to focus on every face at the same time. The Devil's Den was suddenly
filled with pin-dropping silence. It was more the silence of sudden
death. Dave's heart slammed like a trip-hammer against his ribs, and he
was sure that the sound carried throughout the room like a booming drum.
Here was something that Air Vice Marshal Bostworth hadn't so much as
mentioned as a bare possibility. A raid on Serrangi's place by the
native police. Supposing they were all dragged in? What would he and
Freddy do? How would they be able to get out of the clutches of the
local law? True, they could establish their true identities in short
order. Sure, and probably be released with a thousand heart felt
apologies! But a fine lot of good that would do them! Their opportunity
would then be gone forever. Be gone because there were certain to be
listening ears at police headquarters. Ears that would hear what they
said. And a tongue or two that would take a warning back to Serrangi's.
No, if they left the Devil's Den with the native police for questioning
they would never enter Serrangi's again. They both would be dead before
they could get both feet inside.
Yet the alternative was just as bad. Perhaps worse. If they posed as
coming from a torpedoed boat headed for Australia their stories would
be checked within the hour by police officials ... and be found as full
of holes as a rusted sieve. As a result they would be thrown into a
jail cell in nothing flat, and be kept there until they rotted before
they could convince their jailers of the truth. Yes, it was something
that Air Vice Marshal Bostworth hadn't even dreamed of, to say nothing
of themselves. A choice of two things ... and both evil and spelling
bad luck, or worse.
And so Dave's heart pounded even more furiously against his ribs as the
two policemen seemed to focus their attention on Freddy and him. Was
this the moment? Was this the end of something that had hardly had a
beginning? Those questions and others burned through Dave's brain like
liquid fire. He wanted to look at Freddy to see how his pal was taking
it, but he didn't dare take his eyes off the two policemen.
Then suddenly the pair started walking slowly down the length of the
room. Whenever they came to a man who was dead to the world, and had
not lifted his head at their arrival, one of them would grab him by
the hair, jerk up his head and glare at the man's face. One swift
scrutinizing stare and then the man's head would flop down on his
folded arms again, or sag chin down on his chest and roll from side to
side like a toy balloon in a gentle breeze.
Eventually the two Singapore policemen came abreast of Dawson's table.
For one horrible moment he lived and died a thousand times over. Then
the policemen passed on to the next table to the rear. In time they
reached Serrangi standing by the coffee urns. Dave heard the soft sound
as the pair spoke, and the harsh nerve-grating replies from Serrangi's
lips. But he didn't understand the tongue. And then, finally, when
Dave's nerves were almost ready to fly apart in all directions,
the two policemen wheeled about, stalked back to the front door and
disappeared.
Dave held his breath waiting for the babble of sound to come from the
many tongues in the place. But he was doomed to disappointment if he
expected the coffee shop customers to show any excitement over the
visit. They simply relaxed in their chairs, shrugged slightly at their
next table neighbors, and continued on doing whatever it was they had
been doing when the policemen burst into the room.
To cover his own almost overwhelming sense of relief Dave slumped over
the table edge and cupped his chin in both hands and stared down at the
still untouched cup of smudgey brown coffee. It was then he suddenly
realized that the dirty native was no longer seated at the adjoining
table. The man had disappeared as though by magic. Dave blinked at the
empty chair and then quickly lowered his eyes.
"Our pal has scrammed," he breathed just loud enough for Freddy to
hear. "Did he go through the floor or just evaporate in the smokey air?"
"Neither," came the hushed reply. "He slid along in back of the two
bobbies. Talking with Serrangi, now. Steady! Here he comes back again."
"Don't ever miss a trick, do you!" Dave murmured and reached for his
coffee cup. "Well, I'm going to pull the code words this time. I'll go
plain bats if this suspense keeps up much longer. Luck to us, pal."
"And we'll probably need it, Dave. Right-o. Fire away!"
Dave waited until the shadow of the passing native fell directly across
the table. Then he started the coffee cup to his lips and looked at
Freddy.
"_Der Fuehrer's Tag!_" he grunted and put his lips to the vile smelling
cup.
"_Ja, ja!_" Freddy Farmer grunted in reply. "_Der Fuehrer's Tag._ It
cannot come soon enough to please me!"
Both spoke in pure German, and both held their breath as the shadow
of the passing native seemed to linger a second on the table. Then it
passed on by, and it was all either of them could do to refrain from
turning around and staring directly at the man. With an effort though,
they remained seated as they were. And with a thousand times greater
effort they forced themselves to sip a little of the most horrible
liquid they had ever tasted in their lives. It took every ounce of
Dave's will power not to spit it out. Instead, though, he forced it
down and had the sensation of a couple of red hot coals dropping clear
down to the pit of his stomach. He waited a full minute before he dared
to speak.
"Are you still alive, Freddy?" he whispered. "I'm not sure just how I
feel."
"I think, so," the English youth whispered back. "At any rate, I can
still talk, and see and hear. But I think we'd better not talk much,
Dave. Serrangi is taking interest in us again. It's possible that he
might be a lip reader."
"Or has eyes in the back of his head like you seem to have," Dave
murmured. "How you can look two ways at the same time, I'll never be
able to.... What's up?"
Dave cut himself off and asked the last as he saw Freddy's hand resting
on the table suddenly stiffen. The English youth didn't reply for a
moment. Then he spoke loudly in bad French.
"Those cigarettes!" he exclaimed. "Do we get them, or must we go
someplace where they don't steal a poor man's money?"
As the English youth spoke he glared at the native waiter who was busy
about something over on the other side of the room. Then as he slouched
back in his chair again he flashed Dave a warning look.
"Serrangi just nodded to somebody in back of us!" he breathed behind a
hand that pawed at his mouth. "To some one in back of us! Our little
friend, of course. I wonder what it means?"
"I wouldn't know," Dave grunted. "But I sure am hoping like blazes. For
the best, I mean. Oh-oh!"
The native had suddenly appeared at Dave's elbow. But the man didn't
stop. He glided on by toward the rear of the room. As he passed,
though, Dave caught the quick motion of one hand, and saw the tiny
pellet pop from the man's fingers, and roll across the table to come to
a stop not three inches from Dave's cup of coffee. Freddy saw it, too,
and sucked in his breath in a soft hiss of excitement. Dave didn't look
at him, or at the little pellet resting on the table. Instead he stared
unconcernedly at the front door, and absently dropped one hand down
over the pellet.
For a couple of minutes he seemingly took no interest at all in
anything, but as a matter of fact his heart was thumping, and the
pellet, which was a wadded up bit of paper, seemed to burn like a hot
coal under his hand. At the end of two minutes, which passed like an
eternity of taunting suspense, Dave drew his hand off the table, and
brought the little pellet of paper along with it. Another couple of
seconds and he had both hands in his lap, shielded from all eyes by
the edge of the table, and was feverishly smoothing out the wadded
paper with his fingers. He knew that Freddy Farmer was watching him out
the corner of his eye every instant of the time, but to all appearances
the English youth was taking a cat nap.
Finally Dave had the paper smoothed out. He didn't glance down at it
right away, though. It was as though he were almost afraid to read
whatever was written on the paper. It was as though he would read there
his death warrant, or something. As a matter of fact, a million wild,
crazy thoughts surged through his brain, and he could feel the little
beads of cold sweat that broke out on his forehead. With an effort he
shrugged the maddening thoughts aside, took a deep breath and glanced
down at the paper in his hands. The scrawl was in French, and almost
impossible to read. Dave had to study it hard for a few seconds before
he could make out the words. When he finally did read the message his
heart did nip-ups in his chest. The message was short and right to the
point.
It read,
_In five minutes' walk through rear door._
The message was unsigned. Just those seven words, but at the moment
they constituted the most exciting seven words Dave Dawson had ever
read in his life. He swallowed hard as a means of pushing his looping
heart back down into place. Then he leaned one elbow on the table, and
reached out under the table with the other hand that held the message.
"A little love note," he murmured to Freddy. "Take a look. We're
getting action, pal ... maybe!"
Three minutes later Freddy Farmer had the message in his hands and
had read it. His face didn't change a hair save for a tiny white spot
that appeared in each cheek. Many, many times had Dave seen that sign
in his friend. It meant that Freddy Farmer was well nigh on fire with
curiosity and excitement.
"It worked, Dave, it worked!" finally came the faint whisper to
Dawson's ears. "It's going along just as we hoped it would."
"As far as that door, anyway," Dave grunted, as a familiar eerie
tingling sensation came to the back of his neck. "But what happens on
the other side of that door is in the lap of the gods, if you get what
I mean. I.... Hey! Serrangi isn't around any more!"
"No, I know it," Freddy said. "While you were reading the note his nibs
went through the door we're supposed to go through."
"Yeah?" Dave echoed and scowled down into his coffee cup. "I sure hope
he didn't go out to sharpen up his knife. I think I would have liked it
better if Serrangi had acted as postman instead of that throat slitting
customer. I never did like a middle man in things; a go-between.
However, there's nothing that can be done about it, now. We follow
through, of course?"
"Of course!" came the English youth's quick reply. "I wouldn't miss
this for the world!"
Dave smiled in spite of himself. The remark was typical of Freddy
Farmer. He was the kind who might jump ten feet if a mouse should
suddenly pop out of its hole at him, but he would step right up and
paste Death right on the nose without giving it a second thought.
Yes, indeed, Freddy Farmer was a man in a million to have around when
you got into a tight corner. He was better than a whole regiment of
soldiers on occasion.
"You would!" Dave chuckled. "Well, if a knife comes singing along,
don't forget to step in front of me, mate. Or maybe you'd better step
in back of me. It might come that way. Well, I guess it's five minutes.
Let's go take a look at what's on the other side of that door. Luck,
kid!"
"I've got my fingers crossed," the English born R.A.F. ace murmured and
pushed his cup of coffee to one side with a dissatisfied motion, and
got up onto his feet. "Here we go."
Slouching and weaving along so as to attract the minimum of attention,
Dave and Freddy made their way past the other coffee drinkers to
the rear door. In front of it Dave paused and glanced back over his
shoulder at Freddy. The English youth acted as though he were more
or less walking in his sleep. That is, save for a tiny spark of wild
excitement that burned deep in each eye. Dave winked, half grinned, and
then turned front and pushed open the door.
He stepped into a room that was pitch dark save for the faint shaft of
light that cut through from the coffee shop. But in a split second or
even less it really was pitch dark. Dave sensed swift movement, and the
door was closed quickly in back of Freddy Farmer. Almost at the same
time Dave felt a tiny prick of pain in the left side of his neck. And a
voice hissed softly in his ear.
"You will stand still while you are searched! Move one muscle and my
knife will plunge in deep. Do not move!"
The instructions were quite unnecessary as far as Dave was concerned.
The instant he had felt the pin prick of pain in his neck he had frozen
stiff. Even his heart seemed to stop beating. Like a man carved out of
stone he stood there in the darkness while fingers seemed to ripple
all over his body from head to toe. And not for a single instant did
the needle point tip of the knife leave the side of his neck. He sensed
rather than saw or heard the second figure there in the pitch darkness
who was searching Freddy Farmer.
Then suddenly the pin prick of the knife point was gone and steel
fingers closed over his right arm at the elbow.
"Come with me!" the hissing French voice said. "It is but a short
distance."
It was at that. Dave didn't take more than a dozen steps before his
"guide" halted him, turned him to face the right, and pushed open a
door. Before Dave could blink, and focus his eyes to the sudden change
of light, he found himself in a dimly lit room that at least smelled a
little less obnoxious than the coffee room up front. It was furnished
as a sort of combination sleeping quarters and business office. There
was a bed in the corner, a table, a desk and a few chairs. Posters
quoting market spices and coffee prices hung on the wall. And scattered
about here and there were empty packing boxes and cartons that had the
names of shipping ports on them from all over the world.
Dave gave all the trimmings but a fleeting glance. What caught and
riveted his attention was Serrangi seated in a grease-smeared
over-stuffed chair. The Sumatran looked more hideous than ever in the
pale light, and the brown paper wrapped cigarette he was smoking was
all of five inches long. He stared at the youths out of eyes that were
expressionless as those of a dead fish. He made no move, nor sign, nor
said anything. He seemed not to hear the rapid jumble of a Far Eastern
tongue that hissed over Dave's shoulder. Nor did his eyes follow two
figures as they glided out of the room, and softly closed the door.
He simply stared unseeing at Dave and Freddy, and Dave could feel the
cold sweat begin to form in his armpits and trickle down his ribs. It
was as though he and Freddy had been left standing like a couple of
wooden Indians staring unspeaking at a dead man with a live cigarette
in his long claw-like fingers. It was an awful feeling. Dave wanted to
yell, or jump up and down. Anything to shake the evil looking Serrangi
out of his trance, or whatever it was.
Suddenly an idea came to Dave. For a moment he was afraid to try it,
but when Serrangi continued to stare at them out of almost sightless
eyes he did so out of sheer desperation. He clicked his heels together,
stiffened rigid, and flung up his right arm to the horizontal, and
shouted,
"_Heil Hitler!_"
He heard the gasp of startled amazement from Freddy Farmer's lips, but
he didn't waste time looking at his friend. He kept his eyes riveted
on Serrangi's face, and in the next second he received his reward. The
owner of the Devil's Den relaxed outwardly. Most of the fishy look left
his eyes. He nodded his head slightly, and what probably was meant for
a smile caused one corner of his mouth to twitch.
"You took long enough, comrade," he said in a voice that sounded like
ashes sliding down a tin roof. "_Heil Hitler!_ And what brings you two
here to the Devil's Den? I have received no word that you were to be
expected!"
The man spoke perfect German, and Dave had the sudden feeling that
Serrangi had spent a long time in Berlin, as well as in a lot of other
places. The Sumatran was hideous to behold, and his clothes looked not
one bit cleaner nor more costly than those of any one of his coffee
shop's customers. Yet, somehow, the certain something that lurked
deep in the one good eye gave one the impression that the shaven, sun
blackened, egg shaped head contained a brain that was as quick as a
steel trap. And as deadly, too. Yes, Serrangi, of the Devil's Den,
might look like the dope filled fool, but he was undoubtedly the
direct opposite.
"Well?" he suddenly snarled like a Prussian officer when neither of the
boys spoke. "Have you tongues? Or is it perhaps the look of my face you
do not like, _hein_?"
"The fortunes of war, is the answer to your question, _mein Herr_,"
Freddy Farmer spoke up. "We were traveling by boat for service to _Der
Fuehrer_ in Australia. However, the boat was torpedoed and sunk. We
were two of the few saved. By a fishing boat. It put us ashore here at
Singapore. We had no choice in the matter. Our first task was to avoid
the police. We...."
"You fools!" Serrangi rasped and thumped one clenched fist on the arm
of his chair. "So you came here, to the Devil's Den? To the place the
swine police inspect nightly, and raid at least twice a week! Have you
no brains in your heads? What brand of stupid swine is _Herr Himmler_
enlisting in his precious Gestapo these days. _Gott!_"
"We are sorry, _Herr_ Serrangi," Dave began.
"You mean you are _lucky_!" Serrangi cut in. "Lucky that those
policemen tonight were searching for a pair of petty thieves. Had it
been one of their regular raids you would now be behind bars, and your
hides not worth a Reich mark!"
The Devil's Den owner made a savage little gesture with one hand for
emphasis. Then he leaned forward slightly and the dead fish look
virtually leaped back into his eyes.
"So you came to the Devil's Den?" he murmured in a soft yet deadly
tone. "And how did two on their way to Australia know of the Devil's
Den? Perhaps somebody told you here in Singapore, eh? Told you that old
Serrangi would look out for you, so?"
"So, there appear to be three, not two, fools in this room!"
Freddy Farmer's voice was like a machine gun going off. Dave started
violently inwardly, and he watched for the look of blind rage to rush
over Serrangi's ugly face. But no rage appeared. Instead the Devil's
Den owner glanced at Freddy with a new interest. A new interest, and
just the slightest touch of respect in his eyes.
"With a tongue like that, you must have been close to death many times
in your life, my friend!" the Sumatran grunted. "But perhaps I do not
understand the meaning of your words, eh?"
"The meaning was plain enough!" Freddy Farmer snapped as he thrust
his chin out. "We of the Gestapo who serve the Fuehrer, and the
Fatherland, unto the death, do not go about revealing who we are by
stupid questions. _Mein Gott!_ Do you think the Devil's Den is not
known beyond the borders of Singapore? Do you think that in Berlin
the name, Serrangi, has no meaning? Do you think we do not plan ahead
for all eventualities? _Himmel!_ We were put ashore with our money,
our forged papers, and everything we carried, lost! Would you have us
sit on the beach and cry great tears, and hope for the miracle of a
boat coming along to pick us up and take us southward to Australia? Of
course not! There was but one thing to do. We did it. We came here and
identified ourselves so that we could talk with you."
"I see, I see," Serrangi murmured in an almost apologetic tone. "But
more than one poor fool has thrown away his life out here because of
his tongue. However, you convince me that you are not of that type.
Torpedoed, eh? And going to Australia? What was to be the nature of
your work in Australia?"
The Sumatran looked at Dave as he asked the question, but the Yank born
R.A.F. Flight Lieutenant was not to be caught off guard that easily. He
dragged down one corner of his mouth and gave Serrangi a hard stare.
"In Berlin there is one _Herr Himmler_," he said. "If you communicate
with him perhaps he will be good enough to tell you of the work we were
to do in Australia."
The Devil's Den owner grunted, and then his thin body shook with silent
laughter.
"So!" he finally exclaimed. "So much for my curiosity, eh? It would
seem that there are _no_ fools in this room. And at least two who are
well trained members of the Gestapo. But I am still interested about
your unfortunate affair at sea. Tell me about it. Perhaps I have sailed
on the same ship. Perhaps I even know her captain. Tell me about it."
CHAPTER NINE
_The Gods Smile_
Serrangi of the Devil's Den made the request in a very matter of fact,
friend to friend tone. But it sounded alarm bells inside Dave. He
suddenly knew that the next few moments could well mean life or death
for Freddy and him. Their faked story had to be good. It had to be
better than that. It had to be perfect. One little slip-up, one tiny
flaw, and Serrangi would pounce on it like a striking vulture. It was
obvious that the man was going to check and double-check every little
detail with what he himself knew. And because of the high position
that Serrangi undoubtedly held in the shadier circles of Singapore,
he probably was well informed on everything about everything. Yes,
here was the test. Here was the test of presenting the ship torpedoing
knowledge with which Air Vice Marshal Bostworth had acquainted them.
Dave shrugged, made a little gesture, and without asking Serrangi
permission he casually dropped into a vacant chair.
"It was not something one likes to remember," he grunted. "However, if
you like to hear of such things, I see no reason why we should not tell
you."
Dave shrugged again and swiveled around to look at Freddy who had
followed his lead and also dropped comfortably into a chair.
"Do you wish to tell him, my friend?" Dave asked. "I was unconscious
for a bit, you know. From the explosion. Perhaps something happened
during that time that I miss."
"If it did, I do not remember," the English youth replied in a bored
voice. "No, go ahead and tell him all about it. Then, perhaps, we can
get on with more important things."
Dave made a face, hunched a shoulder, and swiveled back to face
Serrangi. He scowled for a moment as though collecting his memory
thoughts, then he launched into a detailed torpedoing at sea. It was
really a masterpiece of description. In fact, it was almost as though
Dave and Freddy had actually lived through it! Serrangi listened
eagerly, and every now and then he interrupted with a pointed question.
However, through the grace of God, and Dave's quick wits, the Yank was
able to give a satisfactory answer to each and every question. Finally,
when he was sweating inwardly from pent up nervousness, he came to the
end of his bogus tale.
"And so we are here," he grunted. "And next time I hope we can go
by airplane. I am not one who is happy on the sea. Any sea! So, now
you know all about it. Consider yourself fortunate that you were not
aboard. It was not pleasant, and we were not saved through any efforts
of our own. I shall always believe that it was the great invisible hand
of _Der Fuehrer_ that reached out and protected us. It is not the first
time in my life that I have felt that way, either."
"It was at least the will of our leader, that you should be saved,"
Serrangi said with almost a reverent note in his ashy voice. "But just
the same it was unfortunate."
The Devil's Den owner stopped and scowled at the ash of his cigarette.
For a long time he didn't say anything. Dave and Freddy, believing
that silence was their best bet, didn't so much as utter a peep. They
sat perfectly still looking at Serrangi with their fingers mentally
crossed, and a prayer in their hearts. They had driven in the opening
wedge. It was now up to Serrangi to make the next move ... if any. And
that was the point! That was the thought that so completely filled
their heads they felt ready to explode from the pressure.