CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_The Blank Wall_

For several minutes Dawson pretended to study Herr Krumpstadt's papers carefully, though actually he hardly gave them more than a glance. The idea was to make the German sweat it out for a bit, and that's just what the Nazi did do. When Dawson finally tossed the folder of papers on the desk and looked at the man, Herr Krumpstadt was practically dripping sweat from every pore. His face was flushed like a sunset, and he kept "washing" his hands as he stared at Dawson out of very frightened eyes.

"There is something wrong, _Herr Leutnant_?" he asked in a quavering voice when Dawson simply looked at him and through him. "But I do not understand! What have I done that someone should see fit to report me? I swear that I am a loyal Nazi. Heil Hitler!"

"The report made about you is our affair," Dawson said sternly. Then, with a wave of one hand toward the closed door, he went on, "You were in conference with them? Do you take me for a fool? Several of those who were here in this room are swine French dogs! What is a good German doing talking with Frenchmen? Frenchmen are only for work. A little conference, eh? Perhaps you made a slip-up there, Herr Krumpstadt?"

The German was so eager to talk that the words spilled off his fat lips like flood waters over a broken dam.

"But of course, _Herr Leutnant_!" he exclaimed. "The swine French are for work only, and that is why they are here in my factory. Over a hundred of them, _Herr Leutnant_. Sent here by the Ministry of War Production. And it is necessary to hold a conference every now and then to explain the work that I wish them to do. They are swine French, yes, but they are expert welders. And if I am to produce what I have been ordered to produce, then I must have them work for me."

Dawson acted as though he were giving the German's explanation careful thought. His heart was beginning to pound against his ribs, and the blood surged through his veins as he realized that he was very, very close to learning the guarded secret of this mysterious factory. If only Freddy Farmer were there with him. Freddy, among other things, was very clever with words. Freddy would make this fat-faced German talk, without realizing that he was saying a thing. But Freddy wasn't there. For a brief instant, as sharp grief and bitter despair ripped through Dawson like a two-edged knife, he almost lost the grip he had on himself. With a mighty effort, though, he forced thoughts of Freddy Farmer to the back of his brain and once more fixed Herr Krumpstadt with a cold stare.

"French welders, eh?" he murmured. Then, with a sharp ring in his voice, he snapped at the German, "And what are these French welders making for you, Herr Krumpstadt?"

For one fleeting second the German hesitated, and almost made as though to shake his head and refuse to answer. However, the terrible fear that every German has of the Gestapo was too much for him. Perhaps his orders from the Ministry of War Production had been to let no word pass his lips to an outsider. But a member of the Gestapo? That was something very, very different.

"They are making the metal cylinders for the American and British planes, _Herr Leutnant_," the German finally said. "And they also make repairs on landing gear parts that are shipped to us. They are swine dogs, all of them, but they are expert at welding. If I could get a hundred more of them I could double the output of my factory."

Dave Dawson didn't allow a single change of expression to come into his face, but inwardly he was all on fire. And considerably puzzled and confused, too. Metal cylinders for _American and British_ planes? What in heaven's name had the Nazi meant by that? And the Frenchmen also made repairs on landing gear parts that were shipped to this factory? At the moment it made no sense at all to Dawson, but although a hundred questions hovered on the tip of his tongue, he didn't voice a single one of them. He didn't because once again he knew that he was skating on very thin ice. His little Gestapo act had filled Herr Krumpstadt with terror, but he could very easily overplay his part and plant the seed of shrewd suspicion in the man. After all, as a member of the Gestapo seemingly come to make a check on Herr Krumpstadt, it would be only natural that he would know all about what was taking place in the German's factory. To ask too many leading questions might prove very disastrous.

And then suddenly Dawson was hit by a very bright idea. Instead of asking questions here in Herr Krumpstadt's office, why not take a look for himself, and perhaps obtain the answers to his questions that way? So he nodded curtly, pursed his lips, and stood up.

"I know, Herr Krumpstadt," he said. "I know all about what you are doing here. It is not what you make, but those who make it, that interests me. I have been meaning to pay you a little visit before now, but other things were more important. But now that good fortune brought me down here by parachute, I might as well take care of the matter."

Dawson paused, and for a moment cocked a thoughtful eye at the far wall, then quickly switched his gaze back to the Nazi's face.

"There is one French dog that we want very much," he said. "He probably goes by a hundred different names, but his real name is Pierre Duval. You have perhaps in your records a man by that name?"

"It is not familiar to me, _Herr Leutnant_," the German said with a frown and a slow shake of his head, "but I will look in my war prisoner file and make sure. One minute, please, _Herr Leutnant_."

Dawson simply grunted and watched Krumpstadt walk over to a wall filing cabinet and pull open one of the drawers. He studied its contents for several minutes and then turned back to Dawson with another shake of his head.

"No, _Herr Leutnant_," he said. "I have not one of them listed by the name of Pierre Duval."

"I did not expect that you would," Dave grunted with a shrug. "The dog would naturally not be that much of a fool. The man may even be dead by now. We do not know for sure. But as I am now here I will check them over and make sure. Herr Krumpstadt! Conduct me about your factory and I will take a look at these French swine."

"But of course, _Herr Leutnant_!" the German beamed. "It will be an honor and a pleasure."

"But one word of caution, Herr Krumpstadt!" Dawson snapped, and leveled a stiff forefinger at the man. "The one you will conduct through your factory is a Luftwaffe pilot shot down in battle. He is your guest, and you are doing him a slight honor. There will be no mention by sign or word of who I really am, or the reason for my little visit here. I hope you understand me, Herr Krumpstadt?"

"Oh, yes, yes, _Herr Leutnant_!" the German made haste to reply, and bobbed his head violently. "My lips are sealed. Why, I wouldn't dare, _Herr Leutnant_!"

"I'm sure you wouldn't," Dawson said dryly. "Very well, let us take a look around."

Herr Krumpstadt nodded, beamed, and led the way to his office door.

It was almost two hours later before Dave Dawson found himself back again in that very same office. There was a faint frown on his face, and it wasn't entirely for Herr Krumpstadt's benefit. On the contrary, it actually reflected the turmoil going on within him. In other words, he was more mixed up and confused now than he had been before. The factory was five floors high, and Herr Krumpstadt had conducted him to every floor, and had pointed out every French war prisoner performing slave labor. To keep up his part Dawson had keenly studied each new face, but he actually gave more attention to what each man was doing than to his face. And they were almost all doing spot welding on metal cylinders that varied in size from some that were a foot long and three inches through to others that were six feet long and two feet through. One end of every cylinder was left open. And try as he would to convince himself that Farbin Factory Number Six was turning out bomb casings, Dawson knew that they were not. At least, he was as sure they weren't as he could possibly be sure of anything.

Yes, the French war prisoners were working mostly on the spot welding of varied sized cylinders, but there were a few who were working on aircraft landing gear parts. And it was that work that puzzled and confounded Dawson far more than the cylinder welding. The landing gear parts were all stripped down, but even at that he was quite sure that he recognized certain parts that were definitely of either British or American make. Repairing British and American plane landing gears in Farbin Factory Number Six? The question seemed to hang in Dawson's brain in letters of fire a foot high as he traveled with Herr Krumpstadt from floor to floor. And he would have given anything he ever hoped to possess if he could but have obtained the answers to the questions that crowded his thoughts.

And now he was back in Herr Krumpstadt's office, more confused than ever. And with a sense of frustration that flooded through him like a dank fog. Information; information of goodness knew what value right at his fingertips, and yet he couldn't pick it up without running the risk of falling through the very thin ice over which he was skating. Herr Krumpstadt had regained considerable of his composure, and Dawson could tell without being told that a certain "Gestapo agent" was fast wearing out his welcome at Farbin Factory Number Six. Herr Krumpstadt kept looking at his watch, and there was a faint gleam of annoyance in his close-set pig-like eyes.

"Well, I guess he is not working in my factory, _Herr Leutnant_," the German suddenly said with an undertone of impatience. "But I did not think so in the first place, as the Ministry of War Production carefully checks every prisoner worker they send to me. And now, is there anything else I can do for _Herr Leutnant_?"

Dawson scowled in deep thought, and then tried a cold stare or two for Krumpstadt's benefit, but it didn't seem to change anything. Time was running out fast, and Dawson knew that to linger any longer might result in growing suspicion on Krumpstadt's part. The Nazi was over his original fright. Nothing had been charged against him, and some of the arrogance that is a typical German trait was coming back into his manner and speech. And so Dave Dawson made his decision. His decision to get out of Farbin Factory Number Six, and to get out as quickly as he could.

"Did you say you had a car, Herr Krumpstadt?" he suddenly snapped.

"That is so, _Herr Leutnant_," the Nazi replied. And then, with just the faintest of frowns, "You wish to be driven some place? To your Staffle Headquarters?"

"Yes, but not to my Staffle," Dawson said. "There is one to whom I must report in Duisburg. Order your car, Herr Krumpstadt, and you can drive me there. And I mention it again. My friend who is high in the Party will hear of the courtesy and consideration that you have shown me."

That accomplished what perhaps threats would have failed completely to achieve. Herr Krumpstadt was suddenly all smiles again, and eager expectancy showed in his eyes. After all, it was not every day that one's name was mentioned to one in high authority. All in all it pleased Herr Krumpstadt very much.

"At once, _Herr Leutnant_!" he said. "And of course I will drive you. No one else here is permitted to leave the area. As you know, there are guards all about. But with me it is different. Holding the position I do, I am permitted to come and go as I wish. No questions are asked of me."

It was all Dawson could do to refrain from heaving one great big sigh of relief. How he would pass through the cordon of guards had been a problem to be faced. But not any more. With Herr Krumpstadt he would obviously sail right on through, and even get saluted on the way by Hitler's soldiers.

"Of course," Dawson said, and even favored the Nazi with his first smile. "Let us leave at once. Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!" Herr Krumpstadt fairly screamed, and whacked his arm up in a rigid Nazi salute. "Follow me, _Herr Leutnant_."

Fifteen minutes later Farbin Factory Number Six, and its ring of guards, were far behind the rear wheels of the Benz touring car that Herr Krumpstadt guided toward Duisburg in the distance. It had been absolutely comical to see the soldiers manning the guard posts to stiffen and salute as the Benz rolled by them. However, Dawson kept his face expressionless, returned each salute in the mechanical Nazi way, and simply smiled inwardly.

"This address where you wish me to drive you, _Herr Leutnant_?" the Nazi behind the wheel presently broke the silence between them.

Dawson hesitated, and then made his decision.

"Kholerstrasse," he said. "It is on the east side of the city. You can drop me off as soon as we reach it. I will walk to my destination from there."

Dawson was not sure, but he thought that the Nazi stiffened slightly and gave him a quick side glance. But perhaps that wasn't so. Perhaps to Herr Krumpstadt, Kholerstrasse was just the name of a street in Duisburg. Perhaps it meant no more to him that just that.

"Yes, I know where it is," the Nazi replied a moment later. "I will go straight there. And I thank you again, _Herr Leutnant_, for speaking to your friend."

"I will not forget," Dawson grunted.

And that was that between them until Herr Krumpstadt swung the car into a long, broad street and rolled to a stop at the curb.

"May good luck follow you, _Herr Leutnant_," the German said as Dawson climbed out. "And may we have the pleasure of meeting again soon. If one by the name of Pierre Duval should come to my factory, I will instantly inform the nearest Police Post. Heil Hitler."

"Good, and a reward will be yours, Herr Krumpstadt," Dawson replied gravely. "Heil Hitler!"

The German smiled, shifted gears and drove away from the curb and on down the street. Dawson watched the car disappear and then slowly took his German cap that he had stuck under his belt and put it on his head. A moment later he turned and started walking along the street. He carried himself like a soldier, but his heart was heavy as lead in his chest. He felt as though he were the last person alive in the world, and it was a battle to keep back the tears when thoughts of Freddy Farmer kept crowding back into his head. Good old Freddy gone! He apparently hadn't bailed out soon enough, and the finger of Death had touched one of the finest persons ever to be born. Freddy gone, and--?

"But it can't be!" Dawson told himself fiercely. "It just can't be. Not Freddy! He wasn't born to go out that way. Yet--!"

He let the rest go unspoken and groaned softly. It was as though his own life were slowly trickling out of him, leaving little more than a dead man to carry on. But that was the thing. Carry on he must, in spite of everything. But how? What next? Getting inside one of the secret factories had seemed so important once. But now? Well, he had been inside Farbin Factory Number Six, and so what? French war prisoners spot welding metal cylinders, and repairing landing gear parts, some of which he was certain had been made in the U.S.A., and in England.

So what? What good was that knowledge to him now as he walked aimlessly along Kholerstrasse? Freddy was gone, and he was alone in Duisburg. The day after tomorrow, by arrangement, a British Recco plane would land at a certain spot and pick him up and take him back to England. The day after tomorrow. But tomorrow was the twenty-fourth of the month. The day when Herr Baron's last agent in England would report to Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse. Or would he? Would Herr Baron change all his plans the instant he learned that he didn't have his little black book any more? And the secret weapon Hans and Erich had toasted with schnapps? What secret weapon? Spot welded metal cylinders, and stripped down landing gear parts? In the name of--!

"I think I'm just going stark, raving nuts!" Dawson breathed, and clenched his two fists helplessly. "It's all mixed up. No part of it makes any sense at all. Oh, dear heaven, if only Freddy were here. If only Freddy were still alive. I can't believe that he is gone. I can't!"