But Hank, unruffled as ever, said calmly, "Easy does it, Jim. Why, Mr.
Grimper, I jest come back to gather up the stuff in my locker an' desk.
It won't take me long."
Grimper said sourly, "We-e-ell, all right. But I'll have to go along
with you. We can't afford to give strangers the run of the mill
nowadays. Constant vigilance is our only defense against saboteurs and
espionage agents, and there are valuable military stores within these
gates."
"Strangers!" I spat disgustedly. "You've got a hell of a nerve,
Grimper. Hank Cleaver volunteered his talents to this concern before
you ever knew it existed--"
"Services," said Grimper coldly, "which ended today. And I should not
be surprised, Mr. Blakeson, if yours were to be terminated soon. Well,
come along."
* * * * *
So we entered the plant. And of course it was black as a whale's belly
in there, but do you think Dopey Joe would let us turn on any lights?
Oh, no! He had ideas about _that_, too. He was fuller of ideas than
a Thanksgiving turkey is of chestnuts. He commanded, "You will use a
flashlight, please. One never knows what prying eyes may be upon us."
"There are a couple of eyes," I glared, "I'd like to pry--with doubled
pinkies. Hurry up, Hank. Get your things and let's scram out of here.
There's a bad odor around here, and it's not oil fumes."
Hank emptied his desk drawers, and we picked our way down darkened
corridors, through the machine-shop and turning room, toward the
lockers. We had but one more room to cross: the drafting-room, wherein
were stored all the blueprints and testing-models. We were halfway
across this, our tiny flashlight beam a dim beacon before our stumbling
feet, when--
Out of the gloom, suddenly, terrifyingly, a voice!
"_Halten Sie sich!_ Not a move! Otto--get them!"
* * * * *
Don't ever ask me about the next few minutes. I was there in body only.
My mind was as blank as a Fourth of July cartridge. I remember seeing
figures--two, three, or twenty--darting toward us; I remember yelling,
ducking, and punching with one and the same motion; I remember hearing
guttural voices snarling commands that ended mostly in "geworden sein"
so it must have been German. I remember feeling, with satisfaction,
a spurt of sticky warmth deluge my knuckles as I hit the jackpot on
something spongy that howled.
I remember, too, hearing Hank gasp, "Judas priest--German spies!" just
before his lanky length toppled under the impact of an accurately
wielded blackjack. And I remember my last conscious thought: that when
I got a chance I must offer an apology to sour-puss Grimper. Because
that thin, hawk-nosed stencil of superiority-plus was--what-ever else
his faults--a bang-up fighting man in a pinch! With a fury incredible
in one his size and build, he was laying about him like a demon. One
Heinie was peacefully slumbering at his ankles already, a second was
bawling for assistance.
Then three, or four, or a thousand of them rushed me at the same time.
I remember something playing "Heavy, heavy--what hangs over your head?"
above my cranium--then that's all I do remember. A bomb exploded in my
cerebrum and I went to beddy-bye.
I had a nice little dream, then. I dreamed I was in Spain during the
Inquisition, and a black-robed priest had me fastened to a windlass.
As he murmured pious paternosters in my ears, he was gently screwing
the instrument tighter, and I was gasping with pain as my arms slowly,
grindingly, withdrew from their sockets.
I wriggled, emitting a muffled howl, and awakened to find the dream
based on cold, brutal fact! My mouth was full of cotton waste--slightly
the worse for wear--explaining my muffled tones. My arms were tied
together with a short scrap of hemp; this length had been passed
through the draw-chain of a skylight, and thus, securely locked, I hung
dangling like a pendulum with my toes barely scraping the floor.
Nor was I the only trussed duck in this tableau. My pal Hank was
swinging from another skylight chain a few yards away, while Grimper
made it three-on-a-ratch. The government agent was the luckiest of us
all. He was out cold, and so he didn't have to listen--as did Cleaver
and I--to the gleeful chucklings of the saboteurs.
And chuckling they were, like the hooded villains in a Victorian
meller-drammer. Apparently one or two thousand of them had gone home,
because there were now only a half dozen, but these six were the
nastiest looking Nazis I ever hope not to see again. Beetle-browed
thugs, fine examples of the pure Aryanism Herr Shickelgruber is always
bragging on.
* * * * *
They had been rifling the plant as we happened in, I guess, because the
floors were strewn with a litter of papers and blueprints, diagrams,
schematics, formulae. As my bleary eyes opened, one of the foragers was
complaining to the chief rascal:
"--nothing here, Schlegel. This has a search of no value been."
"And you," I piped up rather feebly, "a nest of rats are! What's the
big idea? Untie us, or--"
The ringleader turned, grinning unpleasantly. "Or," he sneered, "what
_schweinhund_? So, Karl, nothing we can use there is here? Very well;
it matters not. When we leave, we shall the plant make useless to the
_verdammt Amerikanisch_."
He called to others of his cohorts, scattered around the room. "You are
ready? When I give the word--ignite!"
Polecat No. 2 jerked a dirty thumb in our direction.
"And how about them, Schlegel?"
Schlegel's grin would have congealed hot toddy.
"We leave them here."
"Of course, but--" The other man fingered a blunt-nosed automatic
hopefully--"would it not be safer to--?"
"_Nein!_" chuckled Schlegel boastfully. "We shall not make bulletholes
in their carcasses. That the cleverest part of my plan is. That is why
we tied them thus. The same fire that destroys them will devour the
ropes around their wrists, dropping their bodies to the floor, leaving
no evidence. The investigators will believe _they_ started the fire,
and so will not search further for _us_."
He laughed coarsely and poked me in the ribs. "That amusing is, _nichts
wahr, mein Freund_?"
"Yeah," I answered grimly. "It's a howl. Just like kidnapping Polish
girls and executing innocent hostages. You filthy--" I wrestled
savagely with my bonds, but my efforts just sent lancets of pain
burning through my already groaning armpits. I glanced at Hank, but
he was still hanging quietly from his chain, his eyes closed, his
head loud forward upon his chest. He, like Grimper, was blissfully
unconscious.
Now came an end to the German's taunts. He swung to his aides, rapped
swift commands. Matches scratched, flared, were thrust instantly into
heaps of piled rubble. Tongues of flame rose, wavering; strengthened;
licked hungrily higher as the inflammable material ignited.
* * * * *
For the first time, a sense of real fear filled me. Up till this moment
the whole affair had seemed so fantastic, so maddeningly unreal, that
it had been a sort of wild dream. Now I realized belatedly, suddenly,
completely, that this was really happening to _me_, here in the heart
of the U.S.A. This was War! We had met the enemy in battle--and had
lost!
[Illustration: Horsesense Hank was suspended over the blazing debris.]
I realized, too, that something more vital than just our three lives
was in danger. This building--up the wooden walls of which angry
rivulets of fire were now creeping--was an important cog in Uncle Sam's
total war effort. Destroyed, it meant loss of precious materiel to the
Allies, hundreds of eager hands restrained from putting into employment
the tools which forged the weapons of Democracy, thousands of tanks and
guns and aircraft withheld from fighters who needed them.
But we were helpless! The more so, now, because our captors were
scurrying from the room like rats from a sinking ship. As the gloom
lighted to ochre, they hurried to a door, slipped through it--and the
_clank!_ of metal upon metal meant they had dropped the lockbar into
place behind them.
Trapped! Trapped to die like moths in a flame. But a moth had wings; we
had none. Our hands were pinioned to an inaccessible pillory. I writhed
again, a moan wrenching from my lips as my shoulder-muscles strained
and tore. And then:
And then a calm, familiar voice speaking to me! The voice of Horsesense
Hank.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you, Jim. 'Twon't help none, an' it may
jest make matters wuss."