scream of rage. Half-a-dozen times, in brutal and rapid succession, he struck Schaffer across the face with the palm and back of his hand. “Where is that key?”
“Easy on, easy on!” Thomas caught Carraciola's hand. “Don't be such a damned fool. You want him to talk, don't you?”
“The key. Yes, the key.” Schaffer hoisted himself wearily to his feet and stood there swaying eyes half- closed, face ashen, blood trickling from both corners of his mouth. “The batteries there, I think I hid them behind the batteries. I don't know, I can't think. No, wait.” The words came in short, anguished gasps. “I didn't. I meant to, but I didn't.” He fumbled in his pockets, eventually located the key and brought it out, offering it vaguely in Carraciola's direction. Carraciola, the beginnings of a smile on his face, reached out for the key but, before he could reach it Schaffer abruptly straightened and with a convulsive jerk of his arm sent the key spinning through the open end of the station to land in the valley hundreds of feet below. Carraciola stared after the vanished key in total incredulity then, his suffused and enraged face mute evidence of his complete loss of self-control, stooped, picked up Schaffer's fallen Schmeisser and swung it viciously across the American's head and face. Schaffer fell like a tree.
“Well,” Thomas said acidly. “Now that we've got that out of our systems, we can shoot the lock away.”
“You can commit suicide with ricochets—that door's iron, man.” Carraciola had indeed got it out of his system for he was back on balance again. He paused, then smiled slowly. “What the hell are we all thinking of? Let's play it clever. If we did get through that door the first thing we'd probably collect would be a chest full of machine-gun bullets. Remember, the only people who know who we really are have bloody great doses of Nembutal inside them and are liable to remain unconscious for a long time. To the rest of the garrison we're unknowns—and to the few who saw us arrive, we're prisoners. In both cases we're automatically enemies.”
“So?” Thomas was impatient.
“So, as I say, we play it clever. We go down in this cable-car and play it clever again. We phone old Weissner. We ask him to phone the Schloss Adler, tell him where Smith is and, in case Smith does manage to get down to the village on the other cable-car after us, we ask him to have a reception committee waiting for him at the lower station. Then we go to the barracks—they're bound to have a radio there—and get in touch with you know who. Flaws?”
“Nary a flaw.” Christiansen grinned. “And then we all live happily ever afterwards. Come on, what are we waiting for?”
“Into the cable-car, you two.” Carraciola waited until they had boarded, walked across the floor until he was directly under the smashed skylight and called: “Boss!” Schaffer's silenced Luger was in his hand.
On the roof above Smith stiffened, handed the trembling Carnaby-Jones—his eyes were still screwed shut— over to the care of Mary, took two steps towards the skylight and stopped. It was Wyatt-Turner who had said of Smith that he had a built-in radar set against danger and Carraciola's voice had just started it up into instantaneous operation and had it working with a clarity and precision that would have turned Decca green with envy.
“Schaffer?” Smith called softly. “Lieutenant Schaffer? Are you there?”
“Right here, boss.” Mid-west accent, Schaffer to the life. Smith's radar-scope went into high and had it been geared to warning bells he'd have been deafened for life. He dropped to hands and knees and crawled soundlessly forward. He could see the floor of the station now. The first thing that came into his vision was a bank of batteries, then an outflung hand, then, gradually the rest of the spread-eagled form of Schaffer. Another few inches forward and he sensed as much as saw a long finger pointing in his direction and flung himself to one side. The wind from the Luger's shell rifled his hair. Down below someone cursed in anger and frustration.
“That's the last chance you'll ever have, Carraciola,” Smith said. From where he lay he could just see Schaffer's face—or the bloody mask that covered his face. It was impossible to tell whether he was alive or dead. He looked dead.
“Wrong again. Merely the postponement of a pleasure. We're leaving now, Smith. I'm going to start the motor. Want Schaffer to get his—Christiansen has the Schmeisser on him. Don't try anything.”
“You make for that control panel,” Smith said, “and your first step into my line of vision will be your last. I'll cut you down, Carraciola. Schaffer's dead. I can see he's dead.”
“He's damn all of the kind dead. He's just been clobbered by a gun butt.”
“I'll cut you down,” Smith said monotonously.
“Goddam it, I tell you he's not dead!” Carraciola was exasperated now.
“I'm going to kill you,” Smith said quietly. “If I don't, the first guards through that door surely will. You can see what we've done to their precious Schloss Adler—it's well alight. Can't you guess the orders that have gone out—shoot on sight. Any stranger, shoot on sight—and shoot to kill. You're a stranger, Carraciola.”
“For God's sake, will you listen to me?” There was desperation in the voice now. “I can prove it. He is alive. What can you see from up there?”
The signal strengths of Smith's danger radar set began to fade. He said: “I can see Schaffer's head.”
“Watch it, then.” There was a thud and a silenced Luger bounced to a stop a few inches from Schaffer's head. A moment later Carraciola himself came into Smith's field of vision. He looked up at Smith and at the Schmeisser muzzle staring down at him and said: “You won't be needing that.” He stooped over Schaffer, pinched his nose with one hand and clamped his other hand over the mouth. Within seconds the unconscious man, fighting for the air that would not come, began to move his head and to raise feeble hands in the direction of his face. Carraciola took his hands away, looked. up at Smith and said: “Don't forget, Christiansen has still that Schmeisser on him.”
Carraciola walked confidently across to the control panel, made the generator switch, released the mechanical handbrake and engaged gear, pushing the lever all the way across. The cable-car leapt forward with a violent jerk. Carraciola ran for it, jumped inside, turned and slammed the door of the cable-car.
On the roof above, Smith laid down his useless Schmeisser and pushed himself wearily to his feet. His face was bleak and bitter.
“Well, that's it, then,” Mary said. Her voice was unnaturally calm. “Finish. all finish. Operation Overlord—and us. If that matters.”
“It matters to me.” Smith took out his silenced automatic and held it in his good left hand. “Keep an eye on Junior here.”
“No!” For perhaps two dazed, incredulous seconds that were the longest seconds she had ever known, Mary had quite failed to gather Smith's intention: when shocked understanding did come, her voice rose to a scream. “No! No! For God's sake, no!”
Chapter 10
Smith ignored the heart-broken voice, the desperate clutching hand and walked to the end of the flat section of the roof. At the lower edge of the steeply sloping roof section the leading edge of the cable-car had just come into view: a cable-car with, inside it, three men who were exchanging delighted grins and thumping one another joyously on the back.
Smith ran down the ice-coated pitch of the roof, reached the edge and jumped. The cable-car was already seven or eight feet beyond him and almost as far below. Had the cable-car not been going away from him he must surely have broken both legs. As it was, he landed with a jarring teeth-rattling crash, a crash that caused the cable-car to shudder and sway and his legs to buckle and slide from beneath him on the ice-coated roof. His injured right hand failed to find a purchase on the suspension bracket and in his blindly despairing grab with his left hand he was forced to drop his Luger. It slid to the edge of the roof and fell away into the darkness of the valley below. Smith wrapped both arms round the suspension bracket and fought to draw some whooping gasps of air into his starving lungs: he had been completely winded by the fall.
In their own way, the three men inside the cable-car were as nearly stunned as Smith himself. The smiles had frozen on their faces and Christiansen's arm was still poised in mid-air where it had been arrested by the sound and the shock of Smith's landing on the cable-car roof. Carraciola, predictably, was the first to recover and react. He snatched the Schmeisser from Christiansen and pointed it upwards.
The cable-car was now forty to fifty feet clear of the castle and the high wind was beginning to swing it,
