Stan paused beside the sleek roadster. The officer opened the door. Stan stepped inside. The officer walked around the car. Stan leaned over the side.
“Aren’t you going to do anything about this flat tire?” he asked.
“Another flat?” the officer said in disgust. “That’s the third one this week. It’s about time I had some new tires.” He got out and started around the car.
Stan reached over and flipped on the switch. He slid under the wheel and stepped on the starter. The engine hit at once and Stan slammed the gears into mesh. The roadster leaped ahead, then stalled. Stan opened the choke and the car leaped again, its tires showering the agent with gravel.
“Stop or I’ll fire!” the officer shouted.
Stan bent down and hit a near-by corner. He did not want to have a real blowout. He wanted to get as near headquarters as he could before the British police headed him off. The car careened around the corner and headed down a tree-lined street. Dusk was beginning to settle and Stan switched on the lights. He was disgusted to see that the lights were hooded for blackout driving.
Stan knew exactly how to get where he was going, but he avoided the main road and went careening down lanes and along narrow trails hemmed in by hedges. The car attracted little attention since it was an official vehicle and clearly marked.
Just when he figured he was going to make it in spite of the dim headlights and the fact that darkness had settled, he burst out of a lane into a village. He recognized the place at once. He was just two miles from his objective, but two military cars blocked the road ahead. Stan was sure they were waiting for him. He did not drive on to find out. Cutting the switch he slid out of the car and ducked over a hedge.
The car rolled on in the darkness while Stan sprinted along the hedge. He passed through a back yard two jumps ahead of a shaggy dog and headed up an alley. A few minutes later he was hurrying down the blacked-out street.
Reaching a tavern Stan saw two bicycles shoved into a rack beside the door. One of them was locked but the other was loose. Stan slipped it out and headed up the street again. He was mounting the cycle when he heard shouts down the street and men running. Dimmed car headlights gleamed. The officers were on his trail again. Stan ducked into a narrow path and pedaled away as hard as he could.
The officers chasing him drove along the road, which ran parallel to the lane. They had a spotlight on one of the cars which they kept moving in wide circles. Finally the light passed over Stan and the men began shouting for him to halt. The light came back and held on him.
Stan sent the bike into a cross path and was out of the beam and headed away from the road. He pedaled furiously. The men were out of the cars and running after him. At the first left-hand turn Stan headed back in the direction he wanted to go and kept pumping away.
The shouting behind him died down and he began to think he had evaded his pursuers. Suddenly the lane broke out into the main road. Stan headed down the road. He could see the looming bulk of a hangar against the sky and knew that he was nearing headquarters. Suddenly he heard a car behind him. Looking back he saw that one of the cars was close upon him. He kept on pedaling but the car rapidly gained on him. It was very close when he saw a gate ahead.
With five British officers on his heels, Stan ditched the bike and sprinted for the gate. Under shaded lights he saw two Yank soldiers. He reached them ten yards ahead of the Britishers, having outrun the secret-service men. The guards barred the way.
“Get a guard and take me to headquarters,” Stan snapped.
“We turn all civilians over to the local police,” one of the guards said. He grinned at Stan. “Looks like they were right on the job, too.”
“They think I’m a spy, but I’m an Eighth Air Force officer and I have important information for Colonel Holt, my commander.” Stan spoke sternly.
The British officers closed in. Their leader said:
“Come now. You led us a hot chase but you won’t get away again.”
“Colonel Holt will vouch for me,” Stan said.
“What was the last password we used here?” the guard asked. “The one in use when you left.”
Stan grinned and stepped forward. “Port wing,” he said.
The two guards stared hard at him. “He has it,” one of them said. The other turned to the British officials. “We’ll take him to Colonel Holt. You can come along. If he’s a phony you can have him.”
“Now you’re talking sense,” Stan said.
The guard made a call and two soldiers appeared. One of the British officials went along, but it was clear they had begun to believe Stan. The guards took Stan straight to the administration building. Stan and the secret-service man were led to a small room off the operations room. Within five minutes Colonel Holt appeared.
“Wilson!” he almost shouted. “Where in heck did you come from?”
“I came in just one jump ahead of Scotland Yard,” Stan answered and grinned at the Britisher.
“Guess I’ll be running along. Sorry we took you for a Jerry,” the man said.
“You did a fine job. Stick around. We may be able to grab one of the men you are looking for,” Stan said.
“You got out of Germany?” Colonel Holt asked. “The Germans seem to be getting slack about prisoners lately. O’Malley and Jones got back a few days ago.”
“O’Malley got back but not Jones. The Jones who got here is a spy. I’ll give you the story briefly.”
Stan outlined the whole scheme. When he had finished, Colonel Holt rushed him in to the officers meeting where the final touches were being made on plans for the big raid. Stan had an audience composed of generals and other high-ranking officials for the next fifteen minutes. Then phones began to buzz. The R.A.F. was notified to hold up. Stan soon found himself out of the meeting. He headed for his barracks. Officers had been sent to round up Egbert Minter, but Stan had a hunch he might be able to locate the phony Sim Jones before the officers found him.
Stan found Splinters Wright in the Nissen hut. Splinters leaped to his feet when Stan opened the door. He had a service automatic in his hand and the light of battle in his eyes.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said and seemed disappointed.
“Who were you expecting?” Stan asked.
“O’Malley left me here to grab Sim Jones when he comes in,” Splinters explained. He grinned broadly. “You sure started a little war around this hut.”
“Where’s Allison and O’Malley?” Stan asked as he began getting out of his civilian clothes and into a uniform.
“They tore out of here like wild men. I’d hate to be Sim Jones if O’Malley locates him. We’ve all been wondering about that bird. He has acted half cracked since he got back.”
“He isn’t Sim Jones, he’s Egbert Minter, a German spy,” Stan explained. “And we have to grab him.”
“O’Malley seemed to have a clue,” Splinters said. “Bugs Monahan went with him and Allison.”
“That Sim’s locker?” Stan asked.
“Yes.”
Stan walked over to the locker and opened it. Inside hung one of Sim Jones’ uniforms and a few other things. Stan examined the uniform, then turned to the toilet kit. There was nothing there. He opened the first-aid kit. It contained sulfa pills, powder for dusting, and other medicines. Stan picked a roll of bandage out of the kit and looked at it intently. The bandage was packaged to keep it sterile. Suddenly Stan ripped open the package and unrolled a strip of the bandage. It came away freely because there were only a couple of yards of it. Under the bandage was a roll of adding machine tape. Stan whistled softly and Splinters crowded close to look.
The tape was covered with figures and fine, even German writing.
“Can you read Kraut?” Splinters asked.