Dave Dawson on the Russian Front Part 8

If your swine makes a sound, give him one and carry him on your shoulder. We've got to get away from here, whether they're lying or not.

I don't like it!"

"Yes, this is Stohl's business," the one with the harsh voice hissed back. "Our job is only to deliver these two. Come on!"

And then began another walk up the night-shrouded lane, although it could hardly be called a _walk_. Steel Fingers forced Dave along at a rapid rate, and the gun that had returned to the small of his back was sufficient urging to make him hold the fast pace. However, there was just a little more joy in his heart now. Just a little, to be sure.

Freddy and he were still helpless prisoners, but Freddy's fast thinking had at least changed the picture a little. It had put a little fear in the minds of their captors. Or at any rate, it had caused them to believe that their plan had not turned out exactly the way they had expected. Obviously, their job had been to nail Freddy and himself. A third person hadn't been counted on. And Freddy Farmer's lie had touched off the jitters a little bit, anyway. And when your enemy starts getting the jitters, there's no telling what can happen.

Maybe yes, maybe no! But Dawson clung hard to that tiny thread of hope as he was shoved and prodded forward along the night-shrouded road.

Several times he was tempted to trip himself up purposely, and take his chances of his captor tumbling down on top of him. But the thought of Freddy Farmer and the conductor right behind curbed the crazy urge. If just Harsh Voice and he were alone--But, of course, the conductor had a gun, too. And besides, there was no way of letting Freddy know that it had been no accident.

"Save it!" he told himself grimly. "Play it out the way it's going. One thing is certain. These tramps don't _want_ to kill us. Which, of course, means that they've received orders _not_ to. So just bide your time--and maybe it'll come along!"

And so, with the decision fixed firmly in his mind, he let himself be led through the night for another good ten minutes. At the end of that time he was suddenly guided off the country lane to the right, and into some woods. But once again it became instantly evident how thoroughly this kidnapping had been planned. He didn't go b.u.mping into any trees or bushes. On the contrary, there was a winding path under his feet, and he was guided forward at practically the same speed, as though his captor had the eyes of a cat.

And then without warning the woods stopped and opened up into a clearing. In the center of the clearing was a small house. Rather, it appeared to be little more than a shack. Not so much as a pin point of light showed anywhere, but of course that didn't mean a thing. In the British Isles they _observe_ the blackout, and constantly.

Dawson was led right up to the front door of the shack, and then yanked to an abrupt halt. Almost before he could realize what was taking place, his captor whipped out with his gun and rapped sharply three times on the door. Then the gun came right back to the small of Dawson's back.

Standing perfectly still with his gaze fixed on the night-shrouded door, Dawson heard Freddy Farmer and his captor come panting up to a halt. And then there was the sound of the door opening, although no light cut through into the darkness. The door simply swung all the way back, and an instant later the black oblong where the door had been spoke words.

"Come in, at once! Don't just stand there, fools!"

The sound of that voice in the darkness sent a little cold s.h.i.+ver rippling through Dawson. It was gone in an instant, but not before he was dead sure that the words had come from a n.a.z.i throat. He had had the feeling all along that his captor and Freddy's conductor were English.

Yes, English-born rats who would sell out their country for gold.

History has proved time and time again that there are rats like that in every nation on the face of the earth. But the man who had spoken from the darkness was one hundred percent n.a.z.i breed. The tone of his voice indicated as much, and Dave was sure that one look at his face, the set of his eyes, the slope of his forehead, and the width of his jaws would be the final proof.

And that final proof was revealed no more than twenty seconds later.

Just time enough for Freddy and himself to be herded in through the doorway, for the door to be slammed shut, and a match touched to the wick of an oil lamp on a table in the middle of the room. For a moment the sudden change from pitch darkness to light threw Dawson's eyes all out of focus. Presently, though, he was able to adjust his vision, and get his first look at his captors.

His hunch was correct. The faces of the pair that had boarded the Flying Scotsman at that signal stop were typically beefy British red; the faces of men who spent most of their lives outdoors in a climate that could be damp and clammy one day, and windy and icy the next. And the third man, the one who had spoken from within the night-shrouded doorway, was thoroughly German. His face had that moon-shaped, brutish look, his eyes the look of something vile and treacherous. And the very air about him smelled of things foul and evil.

"Good!" the man suddenly broke the silence, and smirked with pleasure.

"Those are the two. For once you did not bungle my orders. I am delighted. Put them in those chairs, and keep your eyes on them. You had no trouble, no?"

The two kidnappers hesitated, and glanced at each other. Then quick as a flash Dawson laughed aloud.

"Nope!" he said. "No trouble at all--_yet_!"

The one who had been referred to as Stohl half whirled and fixed blazing gimlet eyes on Dawson.

"Hold your tongue, swine!" he snarled. "You will speak when I order you to. Now, you, answer my question!"

A tiny note of worry was mixed up in the snarl directed at the two kidnappers, and hope began to surge up in Dawson. He and Freddy had been shoved down into a couple of chairs, and they had a good look at the beefy-faced pair. At that moment the one in conductor's uniform spoke.

He seemed to have to force the words off his lips one at a time.

"No trouble, _Herr_ Stohl," he said. Then, stabbing his eyes at Freddy, he continued, "But that one there spoke of an H-Sixty-Four dropping off the train. And he said, also, that something was on its way to Aberdeen now. They dared us to search them, but we did not wish to waste time.

I--perhaps there is some place you wish me to go now, _Herr_ Stohl? I mean--"

"I know what you mean, you swine, you sniveling dog!" the n.a.z.i exclaimed. "I knew you had not the courage of a snail. So you wish to run away now, eh? You are afraid of your own shadow, is it not so? Bah!

I have no use for jellyfish like you. So _go_!"

As the last word left his lips the n.a.z.i's hand streaked into his jacket pocket and out with the speed of lightning. Dawson's eyes saw the revolver with the silencer fitted to the barrel. And his ears heard the faint _pop_ that it made. But not until the man in conductor's uniform turned slowly around and then crumpled to the floor in a motionless heap did his brain actually grasp what had happened.

"And _that_ for a swine dog with water for blood!" Stohl rasped, and swung his gun to point straight at the other kidnapper's chest. "Well, Bixby? You would like to join the swine, eh?"

CHAPTER NINE

_TNT Twins_

For five long seconds the whole world seemed to cease revolving, as the man addressed as Bixby went white as a sheet and struggled frantically for the use of his tongue. His eyes went mad with fear, and sweat poured down his face. He had his own gun in his hand; but he seemed not to realize that fact. His fear-streaked, gla.s.sy eyes were fixed upon Stohl as though the n.a.z.i were some kind of a powerful magnet that he could not resist.

And then without warning the half screamed words came out with all the turbulent fury of flood waters rus.h.i.+ng through a broken dam.

"No, no! Please don't shoot me! Don't shoot me, _Herr_ Stohl! I am not like him. I want to stay. I want to help. I swear it to you. Do not shoot me, for Heaven's sake!"

The n.a.z.i gave him a long, hard stare, and then smirked broadly.

"Good, then!" he rasped. "But see that your tongue does not make the same mistake as did that dead fool's. Now, what about this H-Sixty-Four?

And what about something on its way to Aberdeen?"

Fear still had the man named Bixby by the throat, and the words he spoke sounded like small stones sliding down a tin roof.

"I know nothing about it but what he said," he finally choked out, with a gesture toward the dead man. "I don't know what it all means. Those two, there, can perhaps tell you. I do not know."

The n.a.z.i scowled for a moment, as though he were debating whether to believe Bixby or not. Then he muttered something under his breath, and half swung around to Dawson and Freddy Farmer.

"Very well, then!" he rasped out. "You will tell me what it was all about, eh?"

Dave hesitated a moment to give Freddy Farmer a chance to say what he might have to say. But the English youth remained silent. Dave glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, and saw that Freddy seemed not to have heard the question. The English-born air ace sat half slumped in the chair, with his eyes fixed on the oil lamp of the table, and a completely uninterested and almost vacant look on his sun and wind-bronzed face.

"Can't you guess?" Dave snapped, switching his gaze to the n.a.z.i's face.

"Do you think United Nations Intelligence is as dumb as your Gestapo?

Figure it out for yourself. It's simple!"

The n.a.z.i didn't like that, and the savage, animal look that leaped into his eyes made Dave just a little bit sorry that he had been so flip with his reply. This n.a.z.i was obviously the kind of snake who could take so much, and then would go off the deep end, regardless of the consequences of his hair trigger temper. However, the German held his boiling rage under control, and did no more than take a bead with his silencer fitted revolver on a point squarely between Dawson's eyes.

"Your tongue is begging for your death!" he said in a voice trembling with suppressed rage. "Speak again that way, and it will be granted!

Now, take your choice!"

Dave Dawson looked straight into the muzzle of certain death, and at the same time forced a grin to his lips.

"Maybe it's _you_ who has the choice, _Herr_ Stohl," he said slowly and deliberately. "Your agents have letters and numbers to identify them, don't they? Well, so do our agents. And if that doesn't mean anything to you, here's the tip-off. What you want, my pal and I _were not carrying on us_. H-Sixty-Four had it, see, Stohl? _But_ if anything happened to us, H-Sixty-Four was to pa.s.s it on to a _fourth_ person on that train, and come to our rescue. That's right! I said _rescue_! In case you don't know, British Intelligence thinks there are too many of your kind on this island. They are doing something about it. And so--"

Dawson didn't finish the rest. He had the sudden fear that he had spoken too much nonsense already. So he left the rest hanging in thin air. The n.a.z.i bored him with his eyes, and in those eyes Dawson saw clearly the shadows of worry, doubt, and frank disbelief. And as frank disbelief gradually blotted out the other two Dawson realized that death was coming closer and closer. This Stohl was no fool. What Dawson had said had worried him at first, but now he was beginning to see through it and recognize it as just so many useless words. Which it was.

"A very good try, _Herr_ Captain Dawson!" the German suddenly barked.