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.Hefound 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.
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—"
"And that was just about the time I reached the roof," Dave Dawson said as Freddy ran out of breath. "One of them fired at me. Then you called out. And then, bingo! One of them must have circled around to my side somehow, and let me have it on the head. Then what?"
"Then the very unsatisfactory ending," Freddy Farmer said gloomily. "I heard them both at the rear of the roof. I went toward there as silently, and as fast as I could. I bumped into you. While I was trying to find out if you were dead, both of the blighters went down the fire escape and lost themselves. The only thing for me to do then was to get you back through the window and in here where I could have a look at you. And that took some doing. You weigh a ton, Dave. I sincerely recommend a strict diet. Lord, but you're heavy when you're unconscious."
But Dawson wasn't listening. He was scowling at his scratched and dirty hands, and at his own uniform that was almost as badly torn as Freddy's.
"I wonder who they were?" he presently said aloud. "You didn't get a look at either of them?"
"Only that one chap's hand," Freddy replied. "The rest was just moving shadows. It was my fault for making a mess of it, Dave. I shouldn't have let that chap get out the bathroom window. How—?"
The fuzzy note of the front door buzzer stopped the rest of Freddy Farmer's sentence. Both boys looked at each other, and then got up off the bed in a hurry.
"The guys from British Intelligence!" Dawson said, and headed for the living room door. "From the time it took them to get here, this joint must be up in Scotland!"
"Well, we'll soon know where it is, anyway, thank heaven!" Freddy Farmer breathed as he followed Dawson through the door into the living room. "I certainly—oof!"
Young Farmer's lungs were emptied of air as he plowed face first into Dawson, who had pulled up to an abrupt stop. With an effort Freddy held his balance and stared past Dawson.
"What—?" he began. Then, with a gasp, "I say, Dave, what did you do with them?"
"I didn't!" Dawson mumbled, and stared popeyed at the completely vacant living room. "I—They—I mean, one was dead, and the other two were trussed up for keeps. But theyaren't here, Freddy! They've gone! Doggone it! That guy, Erich, was dead, I tell you. But he's upped and walked away. Away where?"
The door buzzer rang again, more insistently this time, but neither of the youths paid any attention to it. Like men struck dumb they gaped at the living room floor where the figures of three Nazis should have been, but where actually there were only some bloodstains to mark where they had once been.
"I think I'm going nuts!" Dave mumbled, and drew a hand across his forehead. "Stark raving nuts. Now you see it, and now you don't. I—Hey! The buzzer!"
With a yelp Dawson snapped out of his trance, raced to the foyer door, went through it and hurried to the front door and unlocked it. And just in time, too. A British colonel out in the hallway was just stepping back, service revolver in hand, preparatory to shooting out the lock. The officer lowered his gun the instant he saw Dawson, but his eyes widened at what he saw.
"What the devil's going on, Captain?" he demanded. "We traced a phone call from this apartment. We're British Intelligence."
The officer nodded to a captain and a lieutenant standing just behind him. Dawson swung the door open wider and stepped to one side.
"Yes, sir, I know," he said. "And plenty's happened. You'd better come in, sir."
"Quite," the colonel grunted, and walked into the foyer, followed by his two junior officers. "Where to now?"
"This way, sir," Dave said as he led the way toward the living room. "But I guess there's some explaining to do first."
Dawson was continuing talking, but decided not to and led the way into the living room. Marked relief showed on Freddy Farmer's face as he saw the snappy British uniforms. He stiffened and clicked his heels, but did not salute as he did not have his hat on. Then suddenly his dirtied face cracked in a glad and welcoming smile.
"You, sir!" he cried. "Did you take my call, sir? But it's so long, sir, that of course I wouldn't have recognized your voice."
"What's that?" the colonel said sharply. Then his jaw dropped and his face lighted up. He looked from Farmer to Dave Dawson, all smiles. "Well, bless me!" he cried. "It has been years and years, hasn't it? And what you've two done for the cause since then!"
As the colonel grasped Freddy Farmer's outstretched hand Dave looked at him in puzzled amazement. Then memory came rushing back in a hurry.
"Well, knock me for a—!" he gulped, and then checked himself. "Colonel Fraser, Chief of British Intelligence! Gee, sir, but it's good to see you. Why—why, it was way back in Forty that you sent us on that show at Antwerp, wasn't it?"
"Absolutely, Dawson!" the colonel said as he shook hands. "And a splendid job you two did. My word! Fancy meeting you two. I heard you were with the Yanks and going great guns. But let me introduce my officers. Captain Small and Lieutenant Faintor, I want you to meet two chaps who did an awful lot for England back in the dark days. Captains Farmer, and Dawson."
There was hand shaking all around, and then Colonel Fraser got right down to cases again.
"But what's all this?" he demanded, and waved a hand at their torn uniforms. "What happened? You said something on the wire about catching three Nazi agents, and needing help at once. We came hopping it across London, but the blasted blackout, and the detours, took time. Now, what's it all about?"
"That's the sad part of the story, sir," Dawson said, making a wry face. "But we'll give all of it to you that we can."
Some ten minutes later Dawson and Freddy Farmer had finished their combined word picture of their crazy adventure. Colonel Fraser and his two junior officers listened in wide-eyed silence. By the time the two U. S. Army Air Forces aces finished speaking a strange look had come into Colonel Fraser's eyes, and his face was noticeably paler and more strained than it had been when he arrived. He stared at them for a moment without speaking, then put out his hand to Dawson.
"Mind letting me see those papers you say you took from them?" he said.
"Sure, of course, sir," Dave replied, and fished them from his torn tunic pocket and handed them over.
Colonel Fraser spent a good five minutes going through them while the other four in the room waited with mounting impatience plainly stamped on their faces. Finally, Colonel Fraser stacked them all together and stuck the lot in his pocket.
"The rotters!" he said in a withering voice. "The dirty rotters. But that Herr Baron is a clever devil, blast his black heart. I'd give my crown and pips to lay that one low. And you had him right here all tied up? What rotten luck!"
"I could cut my throat for not making sure he was trussed up for keeps!" Dawson said bitterly. "But as a matter of fact I was so sure that he was there to stay put."
"Well, I feel even worse because I tied up the beggar," Freddy Farmer said. Then, with a little gesture of one hand, he added, "But I wonder?"
"Wonder what?" Colonel Fraser asked when the English youth didn't continue.
"I wonder if he did get loose by himself?" Freddy said with a frown. "After all, we know that there were two more of them on the roof. Perhaps there were others. Others who sneaked in here and freed the two live ones, and helped cart the dead one away."
"No soap on that, I'd say," Dawson said slowly. "I mean, I don't think they'd have lighted out without finishing us off first."
"No, I think you're wrong there, Dawson, old chap," Captain Small said with an apologetic side glance at his superior. "I don't think they bothered about you two because they knew the jig was up. I mean, you see, they knew that Farmer had phoned us, and that we were on the way. I fancy that their first thought was to get away from here as soon as possible."
"But why take the dead man?" Dave argued.
Captain Small shrugged and smiled.
"You have me there, old chap," he said. "But no doubt, it was so that we wouldn't be able to obtain positive identification of the beggar."
"But how they did it, and where they went, is really the important part," Freddy Farmer said with a frown. Then, looking at Colonel Fraser, he said, "If I may make a suggestion, sir, why not have this whole building searched? There's no telling what you might gather up."
"Ahead of you there, Farmer," the senior officer said. "I have men doing that very thing right now. They are going from floor to floor, and checking up on everybody. They'll be up here to report before long, I expect."
"Do you mind a direct question, sir?" Dawson suddenly asked him.
"Why, no, not at all. Fire away, Dawson."
"About this Karl Stoltz, and Paul von Heimmer, sir," Dave said. "Do you know if your department has ever heard of either of them?"
The colonel smiled broadly, and nodded.
"I've been waiting for that question," he said. "Yes. We know all about Herr Karl Stoltz and Herr Paul von Heimmer. They arrived in England about six months ago. By parachute from a German night reconnaissance plane. But they didn't get very far because we had been informed by one of our own agents in Germany of their coming. They were given a military trial, and shot. Unfortunately, though, we were unable to learn anything of the work they planned to do in England. However, it undoubtedly was to have something to do with the American Air Forces, because they were both dressed as captain pilots when we gathered them in."
Colonel Fraser paused, and a slow smile curled his lips.
"And you need not ask the next question," he said. "I'll answer it for you now. Stoltz and von Heimmer bore a very startling resemblance to you two. I can quite readily see how Herr Baron and his two henchmen mistook you for them."
There was a moment of stunned silence; then Dave burst out laughing and looked at Freddy Farmer.
"Well, what do you know!" he chuckled. "Here I've been palling around all these years with a guy who has a mug like a Nazi's. No wonder my best friends wouldn't tell me! And me worrying because I was afraid it was B.O.!"
"Very, very funny!" Freddy snapped, and then looked at Colonel Fraser. "Von Heimmer was rather a good-looking chap, wasn't he, sir? And Stoltz had a face like a jammed bomb bay door?"
The senior officer looked puzzled for a moment, and then raised both hands in protest, and shook his head.
"Now, none of that, Farmer!" he said with a laugh. "I can see that you two haven't changed much in that respect. Oh, no! I'm jolly well not going to let you drag me into this thing. Fact is, I've quite forgotten what either of them looked like. So don't either of you try to trap me into being on your side."
"Speaking seriously for a moment, sir," Dawson said, "what about this Herr Baron? You spoke as though you knew quite a bit about him, too."
"I know a lot about that cunning devil!" the colonel said as his face darkened. "But how much is truth, and how much is fiction, I must confess that I do not know. I do not even know what his real name is. No doubt it is one of the dozen or more that we have in his file at the office. But which one I don't know. However—"
The sound of the door buzzer interrupted the colonel. Everybody looked startled for an instant; then Colonel Fraser nodded at Captain Small.
"Haines, no doubt," he said. "Answer it, will you, Small?"
"Yes, sir," the captain said, and went out into the foyer.
He was back in a moment or two with a slightly disappointed frown on his face.
"It's Haines reporting, sir," he said to the colonel. "Save for this apartment the entire building is vacant. They forced entrance into all of them. Not so much as a stick of furniture, sir. They found a Daimler in the garage, and Haines has detailed a man to watch it. The rear door was open, and there's an alley that leads to the street in the next block. No doubt our little friends made their exit that way, and there was a car waiting."
"Of course," Colonel Fraser nodded gloomily. "Too late, again. But I'll lay that blighter by the heels some day soon. Very well, Small. Tell Haines to keep searching around. Might come across something that will help us. I think you'd better lend a hand. I'll be at the office if you want me."
"Very good, sir," Captain Small said, and went out again.
As the man closed the door behind him, Dawson glanced at his wrist watch, and started. The hands showed that the time was well after midnight.
"Migosh!" he gasped. "We've been here for hours. We'll never make that Kingston train, Freddy."
"Don't worry about the Kingston train," Colonel Fraser said, before Freddy Farmer could open his mouth. "I want you two with me for a spell. I'll phone your C.O. and explain. Right now we're going down to my office. There's a chap whom I want to hear your story. All right, let's be off, eh?"
Some five minutes later Dawson, Farmer, Lieutenant Faintor, and Colonel Fraser were out in front of the building on the sidewalk. Dawson looked back up at the place where death had whispered by so close, and then looked up and down the blacked out street in a half-hearted effort to determine what part of London they were in. He saw nothing but shadowy outlines and silhouettes that didn't tell him a thing.
"Just where is this place, sir?" he asked the colonel as Lieutenant Faintor slid in behind the wheel of a car at the curb.
"Out Golders Green way," the senior officer replied. "Get into the car, you two."
"Golders Green?" Freddy Farmer gasped as he climbed in back. "The start of the Midlands Road? Lord! They did give us a ride, didn't they?"
"Well, this night has spared me one thing, at least," Dave Dawson grunted, as he sank down on the leather cushion beside Freddy.
"What, I'd like to know?" the English-born air ace demanded.
Dawson looked at him and grinned in the blackout.
"I don't have to worry about explaining the jokes in that show to you now," he said gently.
Freddy Farmer didn't even comment. He simply kicked Dawson in the ankle as though it were accidental, but omitted an apology.
The long ride back to the War Office Building was made more or less in silence. And when Colonel Fraser ordered Lieutenant Faintor to put the car away, and led Dawson and Freddy Farmer up to his huge office, he simply waved them to comfortable chairs and promptly disappeared into an adjoining office.
Dawson looked at his own uniform and then at Freddy's.
"Boy, I hope he's gone to call a tailor!" he said. "Come the light of day and we'll be picked up by the first M.P. who spots us."
"Frankly, I hope he's gone to get us something to eat," Freddy replied. "I'm absolutely famished."
"You always are!" Dawson grunted. "Even at the time you're just paying the check. But that reminds me, Freddy. Remember the funny hunch I had at dinner tonight? Maybe the old feeling wasn't so far off at that, eh? Me, I must be psychic, huh?"
"Perhaps!" Freddy snapped. "But you're also a whole lot of other things that we won't bother to mention here."
"I'll ignore that crack, and simply take it from whence it comes," Dawson said loftily. "But would you like to make a bet, my little man?"
"A bet about what?"
"Never mind about what," Dawson said. "You want to bet?"
"No!" Freddy said firmly. "I'm too tired to be roped into anything by you. By the way, though, how is that cast-iron head of yours? You're certainly acting chipper enough."
"We Dawsons can take it," Dave grinned. "But lay off unpleasant memories, will you? So you won't bet, huh? Well, just the same, I'll bet you anything you like that we don't go on to Kingston from here. Or back to the Squadron, either. Now, what do you think of that?"
"I think you're balmy!" Freddy snorted.
"Okay, so he thinks I'm balmy," Dawson said, and waved a hand. "But I'm just telling you, that's all."
"Another one of your wonderful hunches, I suppose?" Freddy growled.
"Call it that if you like," Dawson shrugged. "But it's really a certain look in Colonel Fraser's eyes that makes me feel as I do."
"And just what do you feel, if I may be so bold as to ask?" young Farmer snapped.
Dave put a forefinger alongside his nose, winked, and nodded very mysteriously.
"The colonel has something cooking," he said. "And you can take it, or leave it!"
And no more than five seconds later Colonel Fraser came into the room followed by an orderly with a tray bearing a tea pot, cups and saucers, muffins, Army issue jam, and, miracles of miracles, some of those English midget-sized country sausages.
"Well, for once you were right, Dave," Freddy murmured softly. "He did have something cooking. And do those sausages smell good!"
"On the desk there, Parks," Colonel Fraser said, and then turned to Dawson and Farmer, smiling.
"A little spot of tea and food to appease the inner man, Gentlemen," he said. "Pull up your chairs to the desk, here. I've called your commanding officer and explained that I'm borrowing you for a bit. I've also called the chap I want you to meet. He'll be along shortly. But first, a little refreshment, what?"
"By all means, sir!" Freddy Farmer exclaimed, and moved his chair over to the desk.
For the next few minutes there was an absolute minimum of conversation in the colonel's office. All three of them truly were hungry, and they fell to, to do something about it. Then eventually the colonel began to ask questions about what the two air aces had seen and done since their last meeting. And Freddy and Dave told him, though every instant of the time questions of their own hovered on the tips of their tongues. It was evident to them, though, that the colonel had put the night's doings to one side for the moment, so they continued to let their questions hover on the tips of their tongues unspoken.
Then, about fifteen minutes later, there came a knock on the outer door. The colonel bade whoever it was enter, and an American Air Forces major came into the room, smiled, and saluted the colonel.
"Good evening, sir," he said. "I came as fast as I could."
"Come in, come in, my dear Major," Colonel Fraser said as he stood up. "We're just having a spot of tea. Won't you join us? Plenty of fresh tea, you know."
"Thank you, but no, sir," the major said, and let his eyes flick across Dawson's and Farmer's face. "I had some about an hour ago. Full up as it were, Colonel."
"Right you are, then," Colonel Fraser said. And then, gesturing a hand toward Dawson and Freddy Farmer, he said, "Let me introduce Captains Dawson and Farmer. Gentlemen, Major Crandall, of your Air Forces Intelligence."
Both Dave and Freddy shook hands with the major and murmured their pleasure at meeting him. His grip was firm, and his smile genuine, as he replied:
"The pleasure is really mine, Captains. I've heard so much about your fine work that this is really a red letter day for me. Or should I say, red letter night?"
Everybody laughed, and the major pulled up a chair and sat down.
"Positive you won't, Major?" Colonel Fraser said, and motioned to the tea pot.
"Positive, thank you just the same, sir," the Yank Air Forces Intelligence officer replied.
"Right-o, then," the colonel said. Then, his face becoming grave, he continued, "Let's get on with it. I didn't give you any facts over the phone, Major, because I thought it best for you to hear it all first hand. Tell them all you told me, you two chaps. And then we'll see what's what."
For the second time that night Dawson and Farmer related their experiences, from supper at the Savoy Hotel up to Colonel Fraser's arrival, with his men, at the apartment building out near Golders Green. Major Crandall listened attentively, but with no other expression on his good-looking, sun-bronzed face. And when Dawson and Freddy Farmer came to the end of their story the major arched one eyebrow slightly, but gave no other indication as to whether he was impressed or unimpressed.
"And here are the papers Dawson took from them, Major," Colonel Fraser said, and pushed the pile across the desk. "My man is right now checking on the two so-called Englishmen. And I imagine that your office will want to check on the Yank Air Forces colonel that Herr Baron pretended to be."
"Yes, we'd like to, sir," Major Crandall said as he took the papers. "We can do it very easily, too, as we—"
The American Intelligence officer cut his sentence off in the middle, and his face went white under his heavy tan. Dawson, watching him closely, saw the major's hand holding the papers shake a little. And he also saw that it was Herr Baron's picture on the top paper that made the officer pale.
"Colonel Frank Bowers?" the officer suddenly bit off. "Why, the low-down, dirty skunk! Posing as old Frank Bowers! Poor old Frank. I wonder just what did happen? We never heard a single word. And I personally asked Swiss Red Cross to check and double check."
"Obviously you knew him, eh, sir?" Freddy Farmer murmured politely, when the other made no effort to explain, but simply stared fixedly at the picture.
"What's that?" he suddenly said, raising his eyes. "Knew Frank Bowers? Of course I knew him. Like a brother. He was one of the best friends I, or any other man, ever had. He's been gone now almost a year."
"Do you mind telling us about it, Major?" Colonel Fraser asked quietly.
"Not at all, sir, though there's not much to tell," the Yank Intelligence officer replied quickly. "Frank Bowers was the C.O. of a Flying Fortress Group. And the right kind of a C.O., too. I mean that he flew on just as many raids as anybody else, and did his paper work as C.O. to boot. I knew him back home in Detroit, where we both hail from. Always crazy about flying, and when the big chance came he soon showed his worth, and went up the promotion ladder fast. Well, it was May of last year to be exact. I believe the date was the seventeenth. He led a Fortress raid on Lorient, in Occupied France. Flak and enemy fighter opposition that day were extra heavy. We lost several planes, Frank's among them. Pilots who got back reported that his ship suffered a direct flak hit. The thing went down in pieces. One pilot said that he saw some parachutes float down from Frank's plane, but he wasn't positive, as there were a lot of our boys going down by parachute that day. Well, we received no word at all about the fate of Frank and his crew. I gave their names to Swiss Red Cross, but they reported that they could locate none of the fellows in any of the German prison camps. That was that. A man who was as fine a leader as he was a pilot was gone forever, with all the members of his Fortress crew. But—"
Major Crandall stopped, tapped the picture with a finger, and looked questioningly at Colonel Fraser. The British Intelligence chief nodded slowly.
"Quite, Major," he said quietly. "Perhaps your friend was killed, but the Naziswere ableto get hold of his papers. But tell me, Major? Would you say that those papers were the property of the real Colonel Bowers?"
"Definitely," Major Crandall said, and held one up. "All but this one. This one stating that he was of recent date attached to Air Forces Intelligence is faked. Frank wouldn't have served with Intelligence, unless by Presidential order. He wanted to get out into the open and fight. He was that kind of a man."
"And to think I let that stinking, no-faced Nazi slip through my fingers!" Dave Dawson groaned. "I should be sent to the rear rank for that blunder!"
"Oh, no, not at all, Dawson," Colonel Fraser said. "After all, had you not gone out on the roof after Farmer, he might have met with a very nasty finish. There were two of them, you know, and—"
The colonel suddenly choked off the rest and gaped wide-eyed at Dawson. And well he might, for Dave's face had suddenly become the color of a four alarm fire, and he looked for all the world like a man seeking a hole into which he could crawl before pulling the hole in after him.
"Good heavens, man, what's wrong?" the colonel cried, and started up from his chair.
"Me, sir!" Dave replied with a grimace. "I guess I should be broken and sent back to the rear rank. I clean forgot. Funny, too, considering I remembered everything else so clearly. Maybe it was that smack on the head."
"Forgot what?" Colonel Fraser demanded. "Come, come, Dawson! What the devil is this all about?"
"This, sir," Dave said weakly, and fished a hand into his tunic pocket 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,youdid," 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.
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,mostinteresting, 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 ofthis!" 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.Thatis 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 thathisreport will becompleteinformation on our air forces in England that he and his agents have collected?Ifthere 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 hehasgot 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."
"But we were lucky enough to get back, sir," Dawson said quickly. "So why shouldn't we be just as lucky this time?"
"No reason at all," Colonel Fraser said. "Only you put it wrong when you speak of luck. With you two luck plays only a minor part. Very well, then, let's get down to thinking out this thing, and planning the operation right down to the minutest detail. I have here all the latest maps and Recco plane photographs of that area."
The sun had long since burned through London's early morning overcast when Lieutenant Faintor drove Dawson and Farmer to a hotel and secured rooms for them. He hung around until they had downed a good breakfast and were tucked away in bed. Then he grinned, gave them the V salute and went his way.
"Well, did I win my bet, or did I win my bet, pal?" Dawson yawned, and pulled the covers up around his neck.
"Eh?" Freddy Farmer mumbled. "Oh! That we wouldn't go to Kingston, or back to the Squadron, because the colonel had something in mind for us? Well, you lost it!"
"What do you mean, lost it?" Dave demanded.
"Quite!" Freddy said sleepily. "It was you who had something cooking for us, not the colonel. And now that we're alone, old thing, let me say that you are definitely mad, and absolutely balmy. But I'm quite used to that side of you by now. So don't feel hurt. And go to sleep, will you?"
Maybe it was intentional, or maybe not, but the comment Freddy Farmer received on his words was a gentle snore.