“We already have the radio equipment where he can use it. We have made a careful study of the habits of Lieutenant Jones. You see he was knocked a bit out of his head and talked a great deal about his home and about his career in the service while he was in the hospital.” The colonel leaned back. “I, Colonel Glotz, had no small part in this and will earn an advancement. Heil Hitler!” He snapped the words out sharply.
“And you intend to shoot me?” Stan said.
“Perhaps, unless you can give us some information regarding this new fighter craft you were flying.”
Stan’s eyes narrowed. He was sure Colonel Glotz’s orders did not call for shooting him on the spot. He would have a little time to plan an escape. His chances would be desperately slim, he knew that, but he had faced death many times before and had always cheated the final pay-off.
“Well?” Glotz asked.
“I don’t know what I could tell you,” Stan said, pretending to be debating with himself.
“We’ll give you a few hours to think it over. I have some important messages to dictate.” Glotz rang a bell and two guards appeared. They stepped up beside Stan and nodded toward the door.
Stan was marched out into the hall and down a few doors to a small room. He was shoved inside and the door was locked. There was a cot and a table in the room. A small light bulb dangled from a cord. Its feeble light was necessary because the room was an inside one without windows. Except for a barred transom over the door, there was no means of ventilation.
Stan sat down on the cot to think. He had to get away and warn the Eighth Air Force of the trap being baited for them. That matter was more important than saving his own neck.
CHAPTER X
SPY
Stan lay on the cot for several hours, looking up at the dangling light bulb. He had been able to think of no plan of escape that seemed likely to succeed. But after careful thought he was convinced Colonel Glotz had been merely showing off. Stan felt certain Glotz would have to wait for orders from his superiors before he did anything. Those orders, however, could come through very quickly.
His thoughts were disturbed by the rattling of the iron bar across the outside of his door. The door creaked open and a man in civilian clothes entered. Stan heard the shuffle of feet outside in the hall and knew armed guards were waiting. The civilian was a slender man with a big nose and a very small chin. He looked at Stan out of little eyes set close together.
“Sorry to disturb your rest, Lieutenant Wilson.” The man bowed stiffly. “I am Domber.” He said it as though Stan ought to know him once he had mentioned his name.
Stan nodded and remained seated on his cot. Domber rubbed his hands together and smiled.
“You will go with me,” he said. “We will have a nice long talk.”
Stan got to his feet. Domber stepped to the door. He frowned at the two armed guards waiting for them.
“The military have odd ways. They always have guards about.”
“They are funny that way,” Stan agreed dryly.
They walked down the long hall and entered a small office. Its one wide window looked out upon a tree-lined street. There were no bars on the window and one of its side wings stood open. Stan saw people walking up and down the street. An expanse of smooth turf lay between the window and the sidewalk. Stan turned back to Domber, who had seated himself at a desk.
The office had nothing military about it. There were no war maps on the wall. The only picture was one of Hitler, hung back of the desk. There was an adding machine, two sets of files, several large cabinets with steel doors, and a desk with a typewriter on it. Stan smiled at the little blonde seated before the typewriter. She returned his smile with a severe and steady look out of her gray eyes. No help there, Stan thought.
“Be seated,” Domber said, pointing to a chair beside the desk. He fished out a box of cigars, flipped the lid open, and extended the box toward Stan. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks,” Stan said.
Domber selected a cigar after turning several over. “Such poor cigars. I’ll be glad when the war is over and I can again import some of my favorite Tampa Perfectos.” He snipped the end off the cigar with a gold clipper, then jabbed a full inch of the end into his mouth and rolled the cigar around as though tasting its flavor. “Now,” he said, “we will get down to business.”
Stan leaned back and waited.
“I went to considerable trouble to get this chance to talk with you. The colonel is a bloody old coot. All he thinks of is shooting people. I have other interests besides killing men. My hobby is planes.” Domber bent forward.
Stan was instantly on the alert. He noticed the stenographer had placed a sheet of notes on a rack and was clicking away on her typewriter, but he did not think she was copying from her notes. He was sure she was going to record what he said.
“You have had a chance to work with many new ideas. You’ll be with us until after the war, so I see no reason why we shouldn’t have a chat about new wrinkles.” He smiled and rolled his cigar.
“I understood I was to be shot as a spy,” Stan said.
“The military is bent upon it, but I have much influence. I could have you designated a prisoner of war. Tomorrow I will see the Fuerher himself.”
“What do you want to know?” Stan realized this was a chance to stay alive for a time. If he could interest Domber without giving away any secrets, he might be given a chance to escape.
“You were flying a P-51, a Mustang, the British call it.”
“Yes.”
“This ship has some very interesting equipment on it, some typically American improvements.”
“Just what features do you mean?” Stan asked.
“I operate a plane factory. We have been experimenting with a supercharger. The one on the P-51 is something new. If you can recall some of the details....” Domber leaned forward.
“You haven’t captured one intact yet?” Stan asked.
“No, and the possibility seems quite remote. You Yanks have been very clever in fixing it so that that particular piece of mechanism is always smashed when a ship lands.”
“I’m not an instrument man. I just fly planes,” Stan said. “But I have had general instructions on the new dual supercharger.” Stan spoke slowly.
“You might, perhaps, be able to suggest repairs for one that is partly destroyed?” Domber asked eagerly.
“I have patched together some badly hashed ships,” Stan answered.
Domber rubbed his hands together. “I think we shall have a very pleasant time working upon a P-51,” he said.
“Don’t get your hopes too high, I’m no expert,” Stan said.
“When one is sure to be turned over to Colonel Glotz as a spy, one is apt to be quite successful as a mechanic, what?” Domber beamed.
“If I don’t make good on this I’m to be shot?” Stan looked Domber squarely in the eye.
“I’m afraid so. It would be very painful to me, I can assure you. I do not like to see men shot. But we won’t think of that. We’ll have lunch and then we’ll get at the job.” He turned and spoke to his secretary in German, then shot a glance at Stan.
“He wants to see if I understand German,” Stan thought. He did not show any interest and Domber smiled broadly.
“We will go out to lunch now,” he said.
Outside the door the two guards fell in behind them. Stan smiled as he thought of the appearance they made. Domber was dressed in a natty suit. He wore spats and carried a small cane, which his secretary handed him as he walked out. There was a red feather in the bow on his snap brim felt hat. Stan was dressed in a wrinkled and soiled
