“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 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.”