outfit that was streaked with mud.
They walked out of the building and entered a big car. The guards got in with the driver and the car pulled away. Stan noted looks of hate and fear on the faces of the Dutch people in the street as they watched the car slide past. He had a hunch Domber was known to these people; he also had a hunch the plane maker was hated and feared by them. They stopped outside a big house where four guards stood watch over the entrance. The guards saluted as Domber got out. He puffed up like a pouter pigeon and shouted:
“Heil Hitler!”
They walked up the steps and entered the house. A man met them in the vestibule. He took Domber’s hat and cane and stared at Stan.
“See that Lieutenant Wilson is furnished a complete outfit of clothing. Show him to the east room.” Domber spoke in English.
“Yes, Herr Domber,” the man said and bowed.
“Run along with Herman,” Domber said. “I’ll be having a brandy in the library.” He turned away at once.
Stan followed Herman up a wide stairway and into a large room. It was furnished in a luxurious manner. Herman bowed at the door.
“You will wish me to draw hot water for a bath?” he asked.
“Thank you, Herman, I will take a hot bath. See that there’s plenty of soap.” Stan grinned.
Herman drew water in the bathroom and laid out snowy towels. Coming out of the bathroom, he said:
“I will lay out clothing for you.”
Stan lost no time in getting into the tub. He splashed and built up a mountain of suds, then wallowed in them. As he lay there he suddenly began to laugh. This was the oddest experience he had ever had. Yet there was something sinister about it. Domber had a fishy coldness about him that was chilling. Stan decided it was the way he looked out of his little eyes. There seemed to be a smoldering hate back of the light in those eyes.
Herman had laid out clothing, a business suit which was very close to Stan’s size, fresh linen, a shirt, a tie and a pair of dress shoes. Herman was nowhere in sight.
Stan dressed slowly. The shoes fit well and so did the shirt. Herman was an expert man’s man. He had sized Stan up correctly. As he knotted the tie, Stan walked to a wide window overlooking a garden. There were no bars on the window and the garden was deserted. No guards paced back and forth. Stan began to wonder if he was not supposed to escape again.
Walking to the door he opened it. The hallway was empty. Stan walked toward the back of the house and found a balcony with a flight of steps leading to the garden below. He wondered what would happen if he walked down those steps and into the garden. With a grin on his lips he did just that.
Stepping off the last step he strolled into the garden. No one challenged him, so he walked around the house. He was standing looking out into an alley lined with trees. Suddenly a man stepped out from behind a wall and bowed to Stan.
“Luncheon is ready,” the man said in perfect English.
Stan noticed, as the wind whipped open the man’s coat, that he was wearing a heavy shoulder holster. He smiled. The man reminded him of a Chicago gangster he once had seen captured.
“I was just going in,” he said. Turning about he entered the house. Herman appeared at once and bowed. Stan followed him into Domber’s library. A table had been set before an open fire. Domber was seated in an easy chair, puffing on a cigar.
“Have a pleasant stroll in the garden?” he asked.
“You certainly requisitioned a nice place for yourself,” Stan remarked.
“Oh, I have owned this for years,” Domber said. “This is my home.”
That accounted for the hated looks the people on the street had given Domber as he passed. He was a Dutch Quisling, a traitor to his own country. Domber seemed to read Stan’s thoughts.
“I always have been credited with having brains enough to take care of my business and my own comforts,” he said dryly. Then he smiled. “But sit down. We will see what we have for luncheon.”
The common people of Germany might be eating poorly and tightening their belts, but Herr Domber’s table gave no hint of lack of supplies. There was real coffee, strong and black, fruit, fish, fresh vegetables and a roast squab for each diner. Stan put aside all unpleasant thoughts and ate heartily.
While they ate, Herr Domber kept up a steady conversation. He talked about fighter planes. Stan was surprised at the things Domber revealed in a casual way. He gave a very good description of the new secret rocket which was doing so much damage to the Forts and Libs, even telling Stan how it was handled. Once in a while he would ask a question. Each time Stan matched wits against the traitor to keep from telling him anything important.
After a while Stan was convinced Domber was so sure he would never live to repeat what he had heard that he felt no need to be careful about what he told the Yank.
“I have had many guests, Dutch, Norwegian, British and now an American.” Domber beamed. “I have enjoyed each of them, and I am sure they never complained of my hospitality.”
Back of the genial manner Stan felt the cold threat of death lurking in the way the traitor looked at him. Domber was very sure of himself and of his power. Stan resolved that he was going to be one guest who fooled the Dutch Quisling.
After dinner Domber showed Stan his collection of war trophies and his laboratory and workshop. The laboratory was far more elaborate than the workshop. Stan was fascinated by the plants and animals Domber kept there. Domber laughed softly.
“I experiment much,” he said. Then he added, “I have done much with poison gas as well as with rare drugs.”
“You plan to use poison gas?” Stan asked.
“If our plans work out well, yes,” Domber said frankly. “If Minter’s work is well done and we are able to smash a large part of the British and American air power, we will launch gas attacks upon the principal English cities and later make an invasion.” He smiled slightly.
“You have the planes?” Stan asked.
“For one big blow. First we smash the air power, then we attack. We have endured much bombing to save air power for this.” Domber had ceased smiling and for the first time his hate came to the surface. He shrugged his shoulders suddenly. “But we waste time. We will have a look at the P-51.”
CHAPTER XI
MUSTANG
Herr Domber led the way from his shop and laboratory to the street entrance where a car was waiting. He scowled at the guards outside his door and shouted, “Heil Hitler!” Then he marched down the walk to the car. This time no uniformed guards went along. There was just the driver, Domber, and Stan.
Stan was beginning to get the idea that the Dutch Quisling disliked the military. But he was not fooled into thinking Domber did not have his own henchmen. The driver of the car was a powerful fellow with beetled brows and scowling face. As soon as they pulled away from the curb, another car slipped in behind them and never left them until they parked outside a walled enclosure.
They were getting out of the car when a German military machine roared up and stopped. Two officers got out and moved stiffly toward the spot where Stan and Domber stood.
“Heil Hitler,” Domber said. Then he opened up with an angry flow of German.
The officers snapped back at him and a heated argument raged. Stan gathered the officers were angry because Domber had taken Stan out without a proper armed guard. Apparently Domber won the argument. The officers saluted and made off.
“Such fools. They fear you would escape,” Domber explained. “I have told them you would not get a hundred yards before you would be killed. No one has ever escaped from the Bloodhound.”
“Bloodhound?”
“That is a pet name my Dutch friends have given me.” He smiled at Stan. “But come, we are being
