An hour passed and a tall soldier came into the room. He beckoned Stan to follow him. They walked down a hall and entered another room. Here Stan was served a bowl of potato soup. It was watery thin, but it was hot. His jailer sat watching him as he ate. When he had finished, the man nodded and got to his feet. Stan followed him down the hall again and into a room furnished as an office. A fat German colonel sat at a desk. His bloated cheeks puffed out and he burst into a hearty laugh when he saw Stan. His fat stomach heaved as he laughed, and his bristling mustache made Stan think of a walrus he once had seen in a zoo.
Stan stood waiting. For the life of him he could see nothing so funny about his personal appearance. He looked the colonel over with a critical eye. The colonel ceased laughing and regarded Stan closely.
“Lieutenant Stan Wilson, Eighth Air Force, U.S.A.,” he said softly. “But for my purposes a spy, caught creeping up on one of our outposts dressed as a German farmer.”
Stan jumped in spite of himself. The colonel knew his name. That was bad. He said nothing, knowing the colonel would explain more in detail.
“You American swine are such fools, so easy for the German mastermind to handle. But you are the prize dummer of all. We gave you a chance to escape along with your friend Lieutenant O’Malley, and you had to get caught in spite of us.” He leaned back and laughed loudly.
“Sim Jones was a spy?” Stan shot the question at the colonel.
“Sim Jones is no spy, but Herr Egbert Minter is a spy and a very clever one. He fooled you men into thinking he was Jones. You were trapped by a very clever actor, Lieutenant.” The colonel patted his stomach and smiled broadly. “I have been given a complete file upon the case along with orders to put you out of the way.”
“Why should you let us escape?” Stan asked.
“As you will not live to tell about it, I may as well enlighten you.” The colonel fairly beamed. “When Herr Minter and the redheaded lieutenant reach England, as they will, Minter will send us information as to a big raid we are sure you are planning. After Lieutenant O’Malley and Herr Minter tell your High Command how near collapse Germany is, they will make the raid with everything they have to knock us out of the war.” The colonel bent forward. “We were careful to stage many little scenes for your benefit. I am sorry only that this O’Malley person is to get through to tell how weakened Germany is within her own borders. You would have served much better.”
Stan stared at the German and his teeth clamped shut hard. “A very clever set of tricks, Colonel,” he said coldly. “But they won’t get you any place. Minter won’t be able to get a message out in time.”
“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.