The Sword and the Net

14 ARENA

Every morning, an hour or so before the dawn, Otto drew from the well, now in scoured pails from the house, the water-supply for the day. And every morning, the water drawn, he would leave the pails to stand while he made a quick scouting detour which covered a radius of perhaps a mile.

For seven mornings he did this—and never varied by more than a minute the time he took between leaving the cellar and returning to it. But upon the eighth morning it was different: he was gone upon his scouting tour for an hour and more.

For this was to be their last morning in this place, and to-morrow was the tenth and last day of the time-limit he had given Altinger; the day when he had warned that he would be in Washington.

And he was afraid. Though the Machine, for all that he had seen of it, might have been non-existent, he seemed to sense its existence all the time! He knew it, and he knew how it worked. He could feel the net which he could not see. He kept remembering the man called Bruckhaus who had deserted from the Altinger unit, not to give information to the enemy but because he had fallen out with Altinger and was afraid of him. All that was left of Leo Bruckhaus now was a picture in the files of a New Jersey paper, taken before the police had pulled his charred body from the car which had crashed over a sixty-foot embankment and burst into flames and given grounds for another coroner’s lecture upon the evils of speedy and alcoholic driving. . . .

That had been in his early days with Altinger; but he had seen and heard enough of the organization of the hunt to know how the Machine worked—with infinite care and speed and expense and inexorability. It had cost a lot of money to catch Bruckhaus, and the energies of very many men, quite a number of whom had not even known exactly who had been paying them. Bruckhaus had travelled across the continent, zig-zagging with care and intelligence—but it had only taken them a few days to catch him. And Bruckhaus had not been a source of possible danger to the Machine, but merely a rebel who must, pour encourager les autres, be disciplined. . . .

He came back at last, having seen nothing untoward. He went back to the well and picked up the pails and went into the house by the side door they had opened and was presently in the cellar.

He set down the pails and went back up the steps and leaned out through the door and pulled back into place the heavy chair he had set there to hide the entrance and bolted the door itself.

Clare was still sleeping. She lay upon her side, with her cheek pillowed upon her hand. He stood and looked down at her and his heart seemed to swell inside his body until it became impossible to breathe and he found, incredibly, that there were tears in his eyes.

He moved softly away and began upon the business of preparing coffee. He looked around the bare, subterranean place and did not feel it now as potential trap but as a lovely and private safe which housed, beyond all possibility of theft by god or man, a personal ecstatic happiness which exceeded belief.

They breakfasted—at the table and on the chairs which Otto had brought down here upon the second day. It was the last breakfast and they turned it into a feast, and after they had eaten Clare made more coffee and they sat over this for a long time and talked.

Clare said: “You’re worried, Nils. I mean more worried. Tell me.”

Otto stared at her blankly—and then laughed. He said:

“It is frightening to love a . . . a sorceress. But I do not mind.” He gave her a cigarette and then a light for it.

“Tell me,” she said, and did not smile.

He said: “I cannot hide anything. So I will not try. . . . I am worried because of danger—mostly for you, but a great deal for me. You know, before I had you, I used not to care much about danger for myself. But now I do—very much indeed: now, if I am killed, I do not have you any more. And if you . . . if anything happens to you, I do not have me any more. . . .”

She said: “Darling! I love you. Tell me.”

He drank more coffee and lit a cigarette and made up his mind. He said:

“I have thought about it, and thought. They have not found us here because we were away from them before they were ready and we did not move about but stayed in one hidden place. But this does not mean that they will not find us when we go from here—when we try to go, to Washington—when . . .”

He checked himself and she looked at him and said:

“To-night, you mean?”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I mean that. I mean that wherever in this country we start from to try to reach Washington, there they will be to attempt to stop us. On the roads and on the railway stations and the wharfs and at the airports and . . .”

She laughed at him. “All right,” she said. “You mean everywhere. Very well, sir, you’ve warned me. Anything else?”

He had to smile at her. He said:

“Repeat the Plan of Operations. That is an older.”

She said, staccato: “Leave here eight p.m. On the road, split up but keep in sight Take eight-forty-five Oakland bus from Monterey. In Oakland keep split and I follow you roundabout way toward airport. When I get sign from you, we confer. If everything’s all right so far proceed separately into airport, mingling as much as possible with other passengers. Buy separate tickets to Washington. I must watch you constantly for signs.”

Otto put his arms about her and drew her close and kissed her. The apprehension was upon him again, lying across his lungs like a heavy weight.

The hours dragged, but they killed them. With the razor he had bought on his last trip to the shops, Otto shaved off the nine-day stubbly beard. It had not grown fast enough to do other than make him untidily conspicuous in such company as that of aeroplane passengers, and this must not be. As it was, he must trust to the polo coat and a clean, new, dollar-fifty yachting-cap to make him a reasonable figure. The cap would cover his hair and the big coat his body and he would change his gait: he would stoop a little and exaggerate his limp and perhaps . . .

A thought struck him and he called softly to Clare. He said:

“The little women’s store where you bought the blouse? Does it sell coats—big coats—overcoats?”

They were not in the cellar; they were in the house above and Otto was using the spotted, peeling mirror in the bathroom. Clare stood in the doorway now. She said:

“I’m not sure. . . . Let me think. . . . Yes, they do. I saw two atrocious things hanging up there behind the counter. Why?”

Otto grunted. The blade in the razor was pulling abominably. He said:

“Describe to me the less atrocious. I must go there and buy it for you. It will be good.”

He watched her smile at him in the mirror, and his heart turned over as it always did at this smile. She said:

“We should’ve thought of that before. But I will go, blockhead! You’ve been to the village three times—I’ve only been once. And there’s no danger there—and you’re always giving lectures about not doing anything conspicuous! How unremarkable d’you think you’d be buying a coat for a girl in a little place like that!” She came away from the door and stood on tiptoe close to him and dropped a kiss upon his neck.

They couldn’t stay still. They tried to keep in the cellar as they had upon other mornings, but they couldn’t: they had to keep moving about.

They were in what must have been the dining-room now. Otto sat upon the table and whittled with his knife at a piece of wood which was taking on the rough outline of an aeroplane. Clare was on her knees by the shuttered window: she was looking at the carving upon the heavy chest which stood beneath it.

The most extraordinary idea came into Otto’s mind; he was thinking of Altinger when it came to him—and he knew, now that he had put it into recognizable shape inside his head, that it was not a new idea but something he had known for a long time. He went on whittling, and spoke without looking up. He said:

“It is a strange thing. There is one man against us—against me—who is the one man that . . . that . . .” He struggled for the English words. “He is the man who is typical of them. They do not think he is a good Nazi. They know he is brilliant and worth much to them, but they think he is working too much for himself. He is the man I think of as . . . as symbolical of them, because, in himself, he stands for what they stand for. I feel that if I . . . I have a victory over him, I have won. That is stupid talk—but I feel like that! . . .”

They couldn’t stay still: they had to keep moving about. They climbed the rickety stairs to the attic which was humped above the short end of the L and found it a bare place, much bigger than they had thought, and with a huge skylight window in which the glass was still intact. They knew that from both sides the trees must screen this part of the roof and Otto helped to raise the thing and prop it open so that the sun came in warm upon them and they could see blue sky in a frame of green.

They pulled out a great packing-case from a corner and stood upon it and rested their arms upon the edge of the window and looked up and out at the sky and the tree-tops and the little fluffy white clouds and for a moment thought of nothing but each other.

Then there came a droning hum above them and a black-and-yellow Army trainer flew across the blue strip of their vision and banked steeply and was out of their sight.

Clare said: “Will you teach me to fly?”

He looked at her and smiled and put an arm about her shoulders but did not speak. He wished that she would not so often speak like that, with reference to a future.

The droning of the trainer faded and the sky was silent again.

But only for a moment. “It’s coming back,” Clare said. “Listen!”

Otto shook his head. “That is not the same engine. And it is from the other direction. That is a much more powerful engine.”

She stared at him, and then up into the sky again as the hum turned into roar and a high-up silver-flashing shape sped across the blue strip and was gone.

She laughed a little. “All right,” she said. “All right! Now tell me what make it was and the number of the pilot’s licence and how many false teeth he carries.”

Otto said: “It is a Lockheed Fourteen—the best plane for millionaires. The pilot has left his licence at home—but he is a bald man.”

She was still staring upwards at the now empty strip of blue. She said:

“It looked like a dragon-fly. Just like a dragon-fly.”

Otto said, very slowly: “There is a British Fighter with wing-tips like that.”

Clare looked at him quickly. She turned and jumped down from the box. She said:

“Get down. Well have stiff necks, craning up like that.”

He shut the skylight and stepped down to stand beside her. His eyes were clouded and distant and there was a frown between them.

“What is it?” Clare said. “Tell me, Nils.”

He said: “I was thinking of British Fighters—and I do not like to think of them.” His voice was heavy and he was not looking at her. “I have not said this to anyone before—but I will say it to you. I was a prisoner in England. I escaped from the camp and was lucky to be able to steal a British plane. I flew over the Channel to France—and on the way two other English fighters met me. They signalled to me. They thought, of course, that I was British. I had found how to work the guns. I shot them both down before they knew. I . . . I was given a medal for that. I did not like having done that the very minute it was done. I do not like now having done it. I wonder all the time if any British pilot would have done that to any enemy. I try to forget it—and I am not able. It is a child’s feeling—but I cannot help it.”

She moved close to him and put her arms about his neck and drew his head down to hers. . . .

The hands upon Otto’s wrist-watch pointed to fifteen minutes after seven, and he knew that outside the quick dusk had deepened to night. He was in the cellar, seated at the little wooden table with the Lüger in front of him, and a piece of rag and a saucer of oil. A candle, alight, was stuck upon the table-top.

He looked at his watch again. Clare should be back at any moment now, with the atrocity of a coat.

He forced himself to consider, for the four-hundredth time, the chances against them from the moment they left this safe, unknown place and began to move. And for the four-hundredth time the dead weight of apprehension laid itself across his chest so that he felt the effort of breathing.

He put down the oil-rag and slipped the clip back into the magazine and set the safety catch with his thumb and slipped the pistol into his shirt and fastened the buttons over it.

He heard Clare’s quick light footstep upon the path of beaten earth by the side door which they used. The sound came clearly through the bolt-hole, and he smiled and the weight was lifted momentarily from his lungs.

He heard the door open and her footsteps upon the board floor. But instead of coming across his head to the passageway and the cellar door, they stopped.

And then he heard her voice—calling him, softly and urgently. It called:

“Otto! Otto!” and then, a little louder and yet more urgently, “Otto—where are you?”

He was on his feet, soundlessly. Clare was calling to him—but she was calling to him when she would not call, and she was calling him by the name which she had never used!

He was taut—and the skin seemed to lift along his back and upon the nape of his neck. His hand shot out and nipped the flame from the candle and the cellar was dark.

He heard another sound—the ghost of a heavier tread than Clare’s, upon the boards nearer than she was to the door.

“Otto!” came her voice again, and there was the faintest quaver in it. “Otto!”

He stood where he was, absolutely without motion. He did not even breathe.

And he heard yet another sound—other footsteps upon the path.

His hand crept to the front of his shirt and pulled open the buttons and of itself closed about the butt of the Lüger.

“Otto!” came Clare’s voice again—very loud.

And then there was a sudden forest of sound. Men’s voices and men’s footsteps—and all unguarded now.

Clare’s voice said: “I . . . I told you! He isn’t here! Don’t you believe me now?” There was terror in her voice, and pleading. The terror rang partially true—but not the supplication; not to his ears which knew Clare.

A man’s voice came then—and a great hand seemed to clutch itself around Otto’s bowels.

It was Altinger’s voice, and it was blandly raucous; even casual. It said;

“I think so, girlie. I think so. But where is he?”

She said: “I told you! He went along to the other store. We ran out of food! He went along to the other store!”

Then a low mutter, aside to his men, from Altinger—and a fresh tramping of feet. How many men were there? One—that was the light, short-stepping tread. Two—that was the long-striding, ponderous tread. Three—that was the sharp, medium tread. Or was the last one Altinger’s?

No, it was not Altinger’s—for his voice came again, from the same spot as before. It said:

“There we are!” just as the light and the heavy feet came back and set something down with a heavy thump. The third man seemed to be wandering. He had left the hallway where the others were, and for a moment Otto thought he had been sent to search the house. But his feet went the other way, towards the big living-room and presently came purposefully back and halted immediately overhead again.

“There!” said Altinger. “Just sit there for a while, Miss Ingolls. . . . You two, use that cord and fix her nicely.”

There were no voices then for hour-long minutes—only a murmuring of movement. Otto found that his whole body was trembling uncontrollably: it had been trying, ever since the first call of “Otto!” to disobey his mind: it wanted to charge up the cellar steps, with the Lüger in its hand, and blaze away and kill and kill. . . .

But his mind would not let the body so much as move. Not yet. Not until the mind knew more; knew enough to make some possibility of real escape for Clare; knew enough to be sure that by letting the body move it would not merely be signing a quicker death-warrant for Clare and himself and his task—their task.

“That’s it!” Altinger’s voice was full of pleasant satisfaction. “She’ll do nicely now!” The voice changed as he spoke to one of the men. “Carson: go outside—no, wait a minute!” He spoke to Clare again. He said:

“Now, dear, suppose you tell me a little more about our friend Jorgensen-Falken and his trip to the store.”

“I’ve told you!” Clare’s voice was rough and broken and sharp-edged with fear.

Otto’s body shook so violently that he was forced to reach out a hand and grip the edge of the table.

“I hope you don’t mind this cigar, dear?” came Altinger’s voice. “Now: how long has he been gone? And how soon will he be back? And are you sure that he hasn’t gone much further—much, much further—than the store?”

“Why do you keep on at me? I’ve told you! I’ve told you!”

Now another voice, guttural and booming. “Want me and Siegel to look around the rooms, Boss? In case he’s hiding out some place.”

“No. If he were, that’s just what he’d want, Carson. And I don’t think he is. I think the young lady’s being truthful.” There was a ruminative, speculatory ring to Altinger’s tone; a ring which Otto knew.

“Listen, dear,” said Altinger. “For a double reason, I’m going to ask you those three questions again. Never mind whether you’ve told me before or not—just answer them. And I’m afraid I’ll have to spoil that pretty shirt.”

And then a little silence—and a sudden sharp sound of tearing silk and a quick, barely heard gasp from Clare. “First, Miss Ingolls, how long has the boy-friend been gone?”

“I told you. It must be . . . half an hour now.”

“Now——”

A sick pause, and then a sudden quick flurry of drumming heels upon the floor-boards; a spasmodic drumming of heels which could not move except to drum. And no other sound; no other sound at all.

“You still say that? After the . . . warmth?” Altinger’s voice.

Then words from Clare—thickened words which came as a muffled groaning. “Yes. . . . Yes. . . .”

“Very well, dear. Watch the cigar carefully. How soon do you think he will be back?”

“In . . . in . . . oh, in half an hour. That’s all I know! For God’s sake . . .”

“Now—is that really the truth?”

The drumming of heels again—and then a long shuddering gasp which rose to a strange throaty sound like a muffled scream—and then two words. “Yes. . . . Yes. . . .”

“You know, Miss Ingolls, I’m very much inclined to believe you. But as I said, I’ve a double motive in this rather crude questioning. And you aren’t making quite enough noise. . . .”

Otto found that the trembling of his body had ceased. But sweat had drenched him; it was dripping from his brow and his chin, and his shirt was sodden. He put a hand inside the shirt and took out the pistol and thrust it into a hip pocket. There was a hard, cold lump in his stomach.

“So we’ll dispense with the third question, dear, but well—just—make—quite—sure——”

The heels beat and scraped and rattled, drumming searing flames into Otto’s head. And there were worse sounds—a hoarse groaning from the lovely throat; a hoarse groaning which suddenly and unbearably became a high shrill cry which changed in its turn to a dreadful sobbing whimper which stayed in Otto’s ears and flayed the lining of his belly. He thought he must vomit.

And then a silence, broken only by little sobbing gasps. . . .

And then Altinger, now brisk. “All right. He isn’t here, because that would’ve brought him on the inn. Sorry, dear. Now: Siegel, you stay here with the girl. Keep that gun out. Wait till I get back. Carson, Flecker, come along with me.”

And tramping feet above Otto’s head—to the door—and through it—and on to the path.

In one soundless movement, he leapt across to the opening of the bolt-hole and crouched beside it and prayed that he might hear more.

And the footsteps stopped at the end of the path, exactly above his head. He could hear every word and movement and breath of the three men as they stood there.

Altinger said: “Carson: stay here and patrol around all the time. Keep in the shadow and don’t run any risk of being seen. Flecker: you come along and drive me. Know that store the girl says he’s gone to?”

A high voice said nasally: “Yeah. Top o’ the hill down t’ Monterey.”

“Good. We’ll drive slowly down that way. I don’t want to waste any time. Carson: keep your eyes peeled. If you hear him or see him coming, get back in the house and wait with Siegel. Get him together. Don’t kill him unless it’s essential—I want him.”

The guttural voice boomed an inarticulate reception of orders—but the high nasal whine of the man called Flecker had things to say. It said:

“Mist’ Altinger, don’t you reckon it’d be best . . .” and got no further. This man, unlike the giant Carson, had not worked with Altinger before.

“Shut up!” Altinger said. “Carson: when I come back we’ll put the car where it is now. And I’ll sound the horn three times if I’ve got him. That means you bring the girl—quick! I’ll sound the horn once if we haven’t got him. It’s up to you then. Get right out front, clear of the trees there, and flash me with your light—one if you’ve got him; three if you haven’t. If you have, bring him and the girl to the car, quick! Got all that?”

Another guttural grunt.

“Good,” snapped Altinger. “Any suggestions?”

Carson said: “Should remind you about the plane.” His voice rumbled like distant thunder. “Remember I told Kummer to have her ready to go at nine. And it’s after eight now.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Altinger said. “But we’ll leave it. I’ll have Mr. Falken-Jorgensen by then.” He laughed. “And I’ll take him along; I’ll take both of ’em along.” He laughed again. “For part of the way,” he said.

“Okay!” Carson said. “Okay.”

“Come on, Flecker!” Altinger’s voice came from further away now—and Otto could hear the whispering of the grass as legs cut through its tall and feathery stems.

But Carson still stood there; stood there for moments like days; stood there within a foot of the bolt-hole, so that Otto, his heart beating like a blacksmith’s hammer against the cage of his ribs, could see the great columnar legs as he peered upward through the chinks in the camouflage.

He strained his ears for any sound from the house above—but there was none that he could hear. None. He peered again through the bolt-hole, with a caution which would not let him so much as breathe—and saw that the legs were still there. He thought of the cellar steps into the passageway—and discarded the idea so soon as it was born. The chair he had pulled there to hide the entrance was too heavy—far too heavy—to move without sound or quickly enough. He had trapped himself with his own precautions—and he could not help Clare—and he thought of what had happened up there above him and he felt that his mind would tear loose from his control; from all control. . . .

And then the legs moved. He heard heavy footsteps go as far as the edge of the path, and then the whispering in the grass again.

He made himself count, slowly, to fifteen—and the sweat broke out on him again. He heard a sound from above just as he began to squirm through the bolt-hole—a man’s footsteps on the boards and the tones of a man’s voice saying words he could not catch. He stopped moving to listen—and then forced himself to move again.

He came out of the bolt-hole and stayed upon hands and knees in the shadow of the bush in front of it. He listened for Carson and could not hear him. He stood upright and straightened himself motionless against the dark wall.

He wondered where Carson was. He tried to figure speed and distance in his mind, and thought that by now the man must be behind the house, and about half-way around it. He tried to see into the darkness of the shadow of the firs, but it was impenetrable as velvet.

And then he heard something. But it was not Carson It was the other man’s voice, and it came clearly through the mouldering shutter to the right of his head. It was a thick voice and in its talk had a curious, hesitating demi-lisp which only occurred in certain words. It said:

“Gee! It’s tough to thee you there like that, Missie. . . . Thure you wouldn’t like that water?”

Otto began to tremble again. He waited for Clare’s answer and it did not come.

Then he heard footsteps upon the wooden floor again. Just two of them.

“Nice little ladies like you,” said the voice, “they thouldn’t get in jams like this.”

Clare spoke then. She said: “Go away!” and then seemed to swallow further speech: it was as if the words had been forced from her without volition.

And without volition Otto’s hand pulled the Lüger from his pocket—and his mind only just in time shouted that he must not shoot! He must not shoot! He must do this that he had to do in the only way it could be done.

And the voice came again.

“That won’t leave a scar,” it said. “It’s just sorta like blithters mostly. . . .”

And then it said:

“You thure look cute! Built like Mith America!”

Otto shook from head to foot, like a man in ague. He thought he heard Carson’s footsteps—but it was his heart he had heard.

No sound came from Clare.

“I’d more like to of throked you like this ’n used that seegar,” said the voice. “When the boss first looked outa the car and theen you on the road there, I said to myself there’s a real cute little lady! An’ when I found out we’re in luck and you was part of the party we’re looking for, I thought to methelf what a shame! . . .”

No sound came from Clare.

But from the other side of the house, from the beginning of the beaten path, there did come now the sound of a heavy tread. Otto’s body grew still. He was suddenly cold, his skin like ice, and he shivered once and turned the pistol in his hand until he gripped it by its long barrel.

Pressed close against the wall, he began to edge along it towards the corner which the footsteps of Carson were approaching.

Carson came around the corner. He loomed huge and dark in the bright patch of moonlight which was here. On his great round head was a hat of soft felt—and it deadened the sound of the blow which came down upon his skull with such a frightful explosion of force that through the metal and up his arm to his shoulder Otto actually felt the caving of the bone.

The giant man fell straight, like a tree—and Otto caught the body in his arms before it thudded to the ground. And he dragged it, almost running despite its tremendous weight, into the shadow of the fir trees, where they jutted out towards the corner of the house.

He had taken off his shoes. Without sound he had opened the door at the side of the house, and without sound he had moved slowly through the darkness of the house, and now he could see a spreading white beam of light within the hall.

The man sat upon the corner of the square oak table with his back to the passageway which Otto had used. There was a gun upon the table near him, and a flash-light propped upon the cumbrous hat-stand near the door was shedding the light. His back was between Otto and the chair into which Clare was bound, and he was leaning forward towards Clare.

Otto could not see Clare. He could only see her arms, tied motionless to the arms and back of the chair. He looked down at his right hand. It held the Lüger again, by its barrel. He thrust it back into his pocket. He came out a little from the shelter of the passageway and set himself for a spring. He felt like light, sure steel in every part of him.

“Now you don’t want to be so thnooty,” complained the lisping voice. “Ithn’t it better . . .”

His speech died in a choking sound which in its turn died instantly to silence. An iron weight, which was Otto’s knee, had struck him in the back; and two iron claws, which were Otto’s hands, were about his throat. . . .

A little cry came from Clare. She stared with open, joyous eyes.

There was a scuffling, bumping sound as the feet of her guard struck the floor, and then a crash as his body was lifted into the air by the neck and slammed down upon the table.

She stared still, but her eyes grew wide with horror—and then she closed them.

Under Otto’s hands, the twitching body swelled suddenly and grew limp. He took his hands from the throat and picked the body up in his arms and went into the darkness of the further passage and came back in a moment without a burden.

He knelt by her chair and touched her with gentle hands and felt the wrenching at his bowels again as he saw what they had done to her. He put his head upon her knees. He said, almost sobbing:

“I could not come before! I could not come before!”

He raised his head and saw that she was looking down at him with eyes which first were wide and ineffably tender, and then began slowly to smile. And then the smile touched her mouth as well and she spoke. She said:

“Darling! When do I get to be untied?”

He cut the cord which tied her, and chafed her ankles and her wrists and she tried to pull the torn edges of her blouse together and winced at the pain. She stood up and went slowly to a dark corner and stooped and picked up from the floor a coat which was of yellow-green checks upon a pinkish background. She said:

“Atrocious isn’t the word!” and then, without warning, crumpled and fell into the chair once more and covered her face with her hands.

He knelt beside her again He said:

“Clare! Clare! We are going to win—and it is because of your braveness! He is coming back—and if it is I who win over him, we have won everything. . . .”

He said: “Clare: listen to me! There is a plane—and if . . .”

He leapt to his feet. He had heard the faint single note of a horn. He said:

“Go out of here! Go to the cellar! Do you hear! Go quickly!”

She raised her head and looked at him through welling tears. She saw his face and got to her feet and went without a word. He passed her in the passageway and pulled out the concealing chair and opened the door.

“Pull the chair back,” he said. “And bolt the door.”

He was gone.

He was outside, at the corner of the house. He ran to the centre and stood at the edge of the shadow and pulled from his pocket the flashlight he had taken from Carson’s body and faced the road and the sound of the horn and pressed the flashlight in a long, single beam.

He switched it off and ran back, in the cover of the shadow, to the corner of the house and stood near the open side-door. He put the torch back into his left hip-pocket and pulled the Lüger from the right. This time he held it by the butt, and slipped off the safety-catch. He must be ready to shoot now—but he must not shoot unless it were absolutely, vitally necessary. Somewhere near, there might be—there could be—other men. . . .

He looked out into the bright silver square of moonlight beyond the trees and saw two figures quickly cross it and go back into the shadow again. He could hear the swishing of their feet in the grass, coming towards him.

He stood motionless. He was in the deep darkness cast by the eaves of the house and they could not—they must not—see him until they were close upon him. He could hear them approaching. They were only a few yards away. His body was cold again and his mind raced.

Then they stopped. They were almost opposite to him, just the other side of the narrow strip of moonlight which separated the two black fields of shadow. Altinger’s voice came out of the darkness. It was pitched low, but it carried. It said:

“Where is that big fool?” and then, louder, “Carson! Carson, where are you?”

Otto did not breathe: he was utterly still.

“Carson!” Altinger called again.

The man Flecker said something in his high-pitched nasal whine, but Otto could not hear the words.

Altinger snorted contempt—and he came out into the strip of moonlight, making for the door. Flecker came behind him. Altinger’s hands were empty, but Flecker carried a gun and it was held ready.

They came into the shadow of the house—and Otto struck. With the barrel of the Lüger he struck Flecker a downward, deliberately glancing blow upon the back of the skull—and then, as the man crashed against Altinger, he leapt around the falling body and jammed the pistol into Altinger’s back with a thrust so savage that it jerked the air from Altinger’s lungs and Altinger’s hand from the gun for which he reached.

He said to Altinger: “Keep your hands up! Stand still!” The motionless body of Flecker lay huddled by his feet and he hoped against hope that he had not struck too hard—or, alternatively and worse perhaps, that he had not struck hard enough.

But he dared not take his eyes or any part of his attention from Altinger. By Flecker’s head lay a fallen gun, and he kicked it away into the shadows. It was the best he could do.

He jabbed Altinger again with the muzzle of the Lüger. He said:

“Go on—into the house. Do not make one move except to walk! And keep your hands where they are.”

Altinger went forward, his hands held at shoulder-level, and passed through the door and into the darkness of the passage. Otto stayed close to him, very close.

They reached the hallway and the white spreading beam of the flashlight. They reached the centre, and were beside the table and the chair in which Clare had been tied. The light spread about them in a circle here.

Otto said: “Stop now. And turn around!”

Altinger halted. He had made no sound since the gun had first been at his back. He kept his hands where they were as he turned. His eyes were bright and shrewd and something like a smile twisted one corner of his mouth. He said:

“So what, young Jorgensen?” His eyes were fixed upon Otto’s eyes.

Otto did not answer then. He reached out his left hand and pulled Altinger’s pistol from its shoulder-holster and threw it to the far dark end of the hallway. He stepped closer to Altinger and felt all over him and found no sign of any other weapon and stood away again. He said:

“I am going to kill you. You remember what I said to you—and what you would have said to me if you could have spoken?”

“Sure,” said Altinger. “I remember.” His eyes flickered a glance at the Lüger.

Otto looked at the chair and the cord which lay by its feet. He lowered the gun, and a gleam came into the bright, dark eyes which were watching him. He tossed the gun away from him—and even before it landed clattering upon the table and slid with a heavy clanging to the floor, Altinger leapt forward. His left fist swung, and then his right foot.

He moved with astonishing speed for a man of his bulk—and though Otto blocked the fist with ease, the man’s heavy shoe caught him squarely upon a shin bone and a flame of agony licked a jagged path up through the leg to his body.

His arms closed around Altinger, outside Altinger’s arms. And his left hand closed about Altinger’s right wrist and dragged it upwards.

Against his chest and his arms he could feel great muscles swelling hugely, but he was steel. He began to move forward, slowly—and Altinger, his face distorted by tremendous, useless effort, moved with him.

The edge of the heavy table caught Altinger’s back, just above the waist. Otto’s free right hand came from behind Altinger’s back and thrust itself beneath Altinger’s chin.

Sounds came from Altinger’s grimacing lips, but if they were words Otto did not hear them.

Very slowly, inch by inch, Altinger’s body was forced back . . . and back . . . and back. . . . At last his shoulders met the wood of the table-top: he lay, across the corner of the table, with the captive, tortured arm pulled up to his shoulder blades and his head unsupported; his head which dangled, in spite of all effort, over the table-edge.

The hand beneath his chin was inexorable. It no longer thrust upward, but outward and downward: it was being forced back, toward his immovable body. . . .

He did not hear the sound which meant that his execution was over; the sound like a lath being snapped beneath layers of wool. . . .

Otto picked up the Lüger. He did not look at Altinger’s sprawling body. He ran down the passageway, pulling aside as he did so the chair in front of the cellar door. He shouted:

“Clare! Come to the side door!” and, with barely a check, ran to this door and through it.

He was only just in time—and he had not struck too hard. The man Flecker was on his hands and knees, trying to struggle to his feet. He was shaking his head from side to side.

Otto thrust him down again, on his back, and knelt beside him and kept him to earth with a heavy hand.

There was a sound behind him, and he turned his head and saw Clare standing in the doorway. He said:

“Go on!” and pointed ahead. “Go near to the road and wait—near their car.”

She seemed to hesitate—and he said sharply:

“Do as I say! Go on! This man is going to tell me what we have to know. . . .”

In the small hangar, the roaring engine of the Lockheed made a bedlam.

But neither Kurt Kummer nor his mechanic was distressed by the din. They were used to it—and when it was smooth and right-sounding like this, it was even music to their hardened ears.

Kummer glanced for the fifteenth time at the watch upon his wrist—and then glanced at the mechanic and saw that the man was looking out across the level field to the winding roadway which led to the hangar from this particular entrance to the Bjornstrom estate.

Familiar headlights were speeding towards them—and the mechanic went quickly out of the hangar as Kummer turned back to the plane and climbed into the cabin and made quick check of the things which should be there.

He climbed out again and went to the open doorway. The car was not in sight now: it must have pulled up in the usual place behind the hangar—and in a moment the mechanic would come running back, over-officious, leading the way for Rudolph Altinger.

But the mechanic did not come. A frown pulled Kummer’s thick black brows together, and he walked out of the hangar and looked across the moonlit grass.

The car was where it should be—but he did not know the two figures which were approaching him. He thrust a hand inside his leather coat and pulled out a stubby automatic and raised it. . . .

He did not fire. He saw a flash from the gun in the tall figure’s hand—and a great numbing blow took him in the shoulder and he spun around and fell. . . .

Consciousness came back to him—and then memory. He could not rise, but managed to prop himself up on an elbow. His gun was gone. He could not move: he could only watch.

He saw the shining silver plane, gleaming in the silver moonlight, move out of the hangar. . . .

He could not do anything: he could only watch. He saw the tail-lights gather speed and the silver tail itself flashing as the machine rushed away from him, bouncing jerkily over the shorn grass. . . .

And then, when the tail-lights were specks; when there came hope that the unknown pilot, not reckoning the weight of the extra petrol tanks, would not be able to clear the serried ranks of the pines which reared, suddenly, nine hundred yards away, like a monstrous barrier black against the moon-washed grass, he struggled somehow to his knees.

And then he saw the light-specks lift, and another flash of silver as the plane left the ground—and rose—and tilted sharply—and was over the tree-tops, almost scraping them—and began to climb less steeply—and made steadily eastward. . . .

America, dark and sleeping and quiet, unrolled its ever-changing immensity nine thousand feet beneath them.

Clare’s head was gently heavy against his shoulder, and Otto turned his head to peer at her. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was slow and deep.

He could not tell whether or not she slept.

He said softly: “Are you all right, Clare?”

She was not asleep. Her eyes opened and she looked up into his face.

She said: “Of course I am! How couldn’t I be?” Her voice was full and deep, and somehow richer than ever he had heard it.

“I’m much more than all right,” she said. “And I love you!” The voice changed a little. “Do you remember what he said, Nils? He said you’d win. He said you’d win—and you’ve won!”

“We have won,” Otto said.