“Two o’clock,” he muttered. “We must wait fifteen minutes.”
Stan almost showed his relief. There was still time! At that moment someone in the street above began shouting and screaming. Car brakes ground and there was a crashing noise. The blackout had claimed another victim of blind driving. Involuntarily the eyes of Herr Naggel and his men turned toward the door.
Lightning thought brought lightning action to Stan Wilson. It was no planned or prepared action, just wild, whirlwind action that was launched in the flicker of an eye-brow.
With one hand Stan clamped down upon Herr Naggel’s Luger; he lunged in close to the squat Nazi. In the same movement he sent a right smashing across to the jaw of the spy. Herr Naggel let out a gusty grunt and rocked back on his heels, then went down in a limp pile on the floor.
Jerking the Luger free, Stan swept it upon the two rats. “Down on your faces,” he gritted. “Flat on the floor or I’ll shoot!”
Stark fear leaped into the eyes of the two men and they tumbled flat on the floor, sprawling there with faces covered. Then Stan saw Herr Naggel pulling himself slowly up to the table. A wild, crazy light flamed in the eyes of the spy. Stan made a lightning decision.
It made his flesh creep to think of shooting these men, but he dared not leave them in the cellar, and there was nothing to bind and gag them with. If he left them, they might get away and send word through the vanished radioman to the Jerry squadrons awaiting the zero hour.
He was saved from any solution of his own planning by Herr Naggel. The spy reached over, after getting to his feet, and grasped the grenade. Jerking out the pin he hurled the grenade at Stan’s head. Stan ducked and the bomb struck the wall and bounded back. It spun around and came to rest a few feet from the door.
“We all die. The plan shall not fail!” Herr Naggel screamed hoarsely.
Stan leaped over the grenade and halted before the door. He jerked at it but it was locked. There was no time to get a key from the men. Behind him he heard Naggel’s insane laugh. He brought the Luger down and blasted away at the lock. It shattered and the door opened.
Stan dived into the blackness outside, kicking the door shut as he went out. He had stumbled only one step when the whole wall of the basement burst outward and he was hurled up the steps and sent sprawling out into the street.
Stan swayed, sagged forward, then pitched on his face upon the hard street. A trickle of blood ran from the corners of his mouth. His eyes closed slowly, glassily. He lay still, a twisted, inert bundle of flesh.
A few minutes later car brakes screeched and a black roadster with hooded lights came to a halt. Two police officers jumped out. The dim lights were fixed upon the body of a man lying face down in the street. They lifted Stan to his feet and revived him after a few minutes of work.
Stan blinked his eyes and took one big gulp of air. He began talking in jerky sentences, repeating over and over.
“Get me to M Section of the Royal Air Force.”
“That’s as close as any first aid station,” one of the officers said as he looked at Stan’s uniform. “And I’m thinking he belongs there.”
They helped Stan into the car and sped away. Stan wiggled his arms and legs and decided he had been hit a hard jolt in the back which had knocked the breath out of him and shocked him badly, but otherwise he was all right.
CHAPTER XI
PLENTY OF TROUBLE
Stan Wilson followed by O’Malley and Allison barged into Wing Commander Farrell’s office. Before them marched Arch Garret with a Luger shoved into the small of his back. The O.C. leaped to his feet. He had been nodding in his chair and thought he must be dreaming. He quickly changed his mind.
Stan told his story in brief, clipped sentences. Farrell did not interrupt. When he had finished Garret broke in before the O.C. could say anything. He was not the defiant and arrogant lieutenant he had been. Fear showed in his eyes and his voice was shaking.
“I’ll talk if it will save me from a firing squad,” he begged.
“I may try but I do not think any power will save you,” Farrell said sternly. “But you had better talk for the sake of your own conscience.”
“They had me where they wanted me. My father was in Germany, in a concentration camp. I had to do what they ordered.” Sweat was standing out in big drops on Garret’s forehead. “I was straight and did my job until they got to me.”
“That’s why you got where you are and why you were not released after your first bad report. Your past record was fine.” The O.C. dropped back into his chair. He jerked a phone from its cradle. He was looking intently at Garret as he clicked the receiver. “Go on, talk. I’ll do what I can for you.”
“The radioman is at 30 Elm Inn,” Garret babbled. “He is to wait there for word from Herr Naggel. When Naggel gives the word, all will be clear for the attack.”
“Naggel won’t send any messages,” Stan said grimly, remembering the terrible explosion which had blown him clear out into the street.
The O.C. had gotten his man and was barking into the phone. He kept on putting through calls and talking to Stan and Allison and O’Malley at the same time.
“Get a guard, O’Malley, and turn Garret over to him. Wilson, stand by. Allison, get back to the mess and see that all of the men stand by ready for action.”
Stan watched the O.C. with admiration. He was a demon for getting things done in a speedy and effective manner. Stan handed his Luger to O’Malley. The Irishman prodded Garret with it.
“Get a move on, ye skulkin’ hyena,” O’Malley growled.
They moved out of the room with O’Malley telling the wilted Garret what he thought of him.
“We can get a crack at them before daylight, if headquarters will let us pull an immediate raid.” The O.C. held the receiver jammed to his ear with one hand while he fished into a drawer with the other. He found a cigar and bit the end off, then clamped the cigar between his teeth. Speaking out of the side of his mouth, he went on.
“How did you come to bag Garret?”
“I found him in the mess, sir. He was sitting there waiting for the call to action he was sure was coming. He had warned all of the boys against loose flying. They had strict orders to stick close to him,” Stan said.
“This is one raid they won’t put over, thanks to you, Wilson.”
“We can blast them at their bases,” Stan said eagerly. “They’ll be grounded and waiting, saving their gas and getting ragged nerves while they wait.”
“Ragged nerves?” The O.C. had his man on the phone and began barking at him, arguing furiously. He waved his cigar and pounded the desk and bellowed. Five minutes later he clamped the receiver into place and swung around to face Stan. Wiping the sweat from his face, he said:
“That was the Air Ministry.”
Stan grinned. “I take it you convinced them, sir.”
“Convinced them? I routed them!” Farrell found a match and lighted his frayed cigar. Getting to his feet, he added. “We’re off for those bases and this time I fly myself. I have been wanting to see how this show stacks up with the last one, and now I’m going to find out.”
Stan followed him out into the night. After that things happened with lightning speed. Stan lost track of all the things they did and the places they went.
First of all, the radioman was caught with all of his equipment. The hunchback cracked when faced with the grim prospect of facing a firing squad within a half-hour. His code book revealed a complicated mass of information which was deciphered at once, with some assistance from him. Exact locations were charted and objectives laid out. All of it was done on the run.
Before the officers were through with the radioman, a message was sent out to the Nazis holding up the attack until further instructions were given. The message was in code and properly sent so that it would be received by the enemy as an order from their key man in London. Herr Naggel’s secret code number was signed to it.
