CHAPTER THREE

_The Dead Can't Breathe_

It was no doubt their imagination, but as Freddy Farmer and Dave Dawson walked along the street to the right they both felt as though it was even more blacked out. They could hardly see a dozen steps in front of them. On both sides the street was lined by a solid row of four or five story city dwellings, not one of which showed so much as a tiny pin point of light. Perhaps they were filled with men, women, and children, but as far as Freddy and Dave could tell they might well have been lost in the very heart of a completely dead city. They didn't even meet anybody on the sidewalk. In fact, they didn't meet anything but darkness, and more darkness. Clouds had crawled across the face of the sky, so it was only by straining their eyes that they were able to make out the silhouettes of the building tops. And to add to all that, the street seemed to go on and on, with not one single intersection.

Finally Dave drew to a halt, and made sounds in his throat.

"Well, I guess we're even now, kid," he said with a groan. "Because if you didn't lose us before, I sure have lost us now. This doggone street is like a subway tunnel with no end."

"Quite!" Freddy murmured. "I almost wish the Luftwaffe would come over, so we could have some light and maybe see something. This is definitely a mess."

"With all the trimmings," Dawson added. "Look. Let's put it that that shilling gave us a bum steer. Let's go back and try the other way for a while. We're not going to meet anything this way, that's a cinch."

"Right-o with me," young Farmer said. Then suddenly he grabbed Dawson's arm. "Wait a minute!"

"For what?" Dave grunted. "You got to sneeze?"

"Shut up!" Freddy snapped, and exerted pressure with his fingers. "I thought I heard footsteps back there, coming our way."

They both listened intently and heard nothing but their own breathing.

"You and your big ears!" Dave finally growled. "Footsteps on this street, my eye! There can't be two _other_ dopes in London tonight. Let's go, and--"

But Dawson never finished the sentence. At that instant two shadowy figures seemed to appear by magic right out of the darkness.

"So?" a deep voice growled. "You would try to escape us?"

For a moment Dawson stood like a man struck to stone, his eyes popping, and his mouth sagging. It had stunned him to see the two shadowy figures appear out of thin night-black air. And it stunned him to feel the firm pressure of a gun muzzle against his ribs. But what stunned him most was to hear the voice _speaking German_!

"What, what?" he finally blurted out in English. "Hey! What's the big idea? Is this a stick-up?"

"Silence, dogs, both of you!" the voice hissed. "You are fools to try to make jokes. We have followed you all the way from the hotel. We _know_! You are stupid to think you could escape us!"

"But see here, you're altogether balmy!" Freddy Farmer spoke the first words that came to his lips. "We're not trying to escape anybody. We're lost, and--"

A sharp hard slap cut off the rest of Freddy Farmer's words. Dawson started to leap forward instinctively, but an arm was hooked about his neck, and the gun muzzle was practically snapping one of his ribs in two. For a brief instant colored light spun around in front of his eyes, and blind rage tempted him to risk a bullet from the gun as he attempted a Commando trick to rid himself of his attacker. But in the darkness he couldn't see how Freddy was making out, and there was the chance that Freddy might pay for the trick with his life. And so he let his coiled muscles relax, and stood perfectly still.

A moment later the hooked arm was removed from about his neck, but the pressure of the gun muzzle remained the same.

"That is good," the voice growled in his ear. "My orders are not to kill you unless I am forced to. So do not be foolish, as I do not feel patient tonight."

Dawson ignored the man's words and strained his eyes to see the spot where Freddy Farmer and the other shadowy figure were standing so close together they looked like the form of one very fat man.

"You okay, pal?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.

"Quite, old thing," Freddy Farmer replied calmly. But to Dawson Freddy's voice sounded very muffled.

"Silence!" Dawson's "playmate" rasped, still speaking in German. "Not a word, or a sound, you swine. I warn you. Hans! Make your dog silent so that he will not trouble me! And then go back and get the car. Hurry."

A cry of instinctive alarm rose to Dawson's lips, but before he could let it out it was all over. There was blurred lightning-like movement, then a sickening _thud_, and Freddy Farmer slowly sank to the sidewalk. Blazing rage flared up in Dawson, but cold, common sense held him in rigid check. This was no moment to be a blockheaded hero. The odds were far too great against him. And so he continued to remain perfectly still as the second shadowy figure faded away to become instantly lost in the darkness.

Seconds that seemed minutes long ticked by, and an almost uncontrollable urge to yell at the top of his voice seized hold of Dawson. He curbed the urge, however, and was suddenly of half a mind to speak in German to the man cracking his ribs with the gun muzzle. In fact, his lips moved to speak the words, but he stilled them at the last split second as something seemed to tell him not to speak in German.

"I don't know what this is all about, Mister," he said in a low voice, "but you've got the wrong two guys. Just who do you think I am, anyway?"

"I _know_ who you are, Karl Stoltz!" the other grated. "It is no use. Nothing you can say or do will help you!"

Dawson started to tell the man to put it in English, as he did not understand German. But suddenly he realized that Freddy and he had both plainly shown that they understood German. So to act ignorant would simply be stupid.

"So I'm Karl Stoltz, eh?" he finally echoed in German. Then switching to English, he said, "And just who in heck is Karl Stoltz? Reach into my upper left pocket, Mister, and you'll find all my papers. And you won't find the name of Karl Stoltz on any of them!"

"Of course not, you stupid fool!" the other retorted. "But we know who you are. And so does Herr Baron. He will be glad to see you, Karl Stoltz. _Ja, ja!_ _Very_ glad!"

Dawson started to speak, but at that instant he saw the two slit headlights of a car coming along the street. It slid up to the curb with no more than a soft mechanical whisper of sound, and came to a stop. The door opened, and a shadowy figure stepped out, gathered the limp Freddy Farmer up in his arms, and dumped the English-born air ace down onto the floor of the car, as though he were no more than a wet sack of meal.

"You--!" Dawson began savagely.

But that's as far as he got. A crack on the side of his head sent stars and comets spinning, and seemed to paralyze his entire body from head to foot. By the time he was able to shake off the paralytic spell, and take stock of things, he found himself beside Freddy Farmer on the floor of the car. A pair of heavy booted feet were resting on the small of his back, and the car was in motion and pulling away from the curb.

The first thing he did when complete consciousness returned was to move his head as close to Freddy as he could, hold his breath, and strain his ears. Almost instantly a great wave of relief flooded through him. He could hear Freddy Farmer's regular breathing. At least the blow Freddy had received had not cracked his skull and killed him. He was just out cold, that was all.

Was that all? It was more than enough. It was too much. And as the car rolled on almost silently down the pitch dark street Dawson mentally promised himself that the instant he was given the opportunity he would pay it all back to these two rats, and with plenty of interest.

However, his flash of silent anger died as various thoughts concerning the utterly incredible business began to pass through his brain. Utterly incredible, maybe, but a very definite reality just the same. That it was a case of mistaken identity was as plain as the nose on anybody's face. But that the two kidnappers were obviously Nazi agents right there in London was something you just couldn't laugh off. Nor could he laugh off the fact that Freddy and he had stumbled into something that was deadly serious. The reasons, and what have you, were completely beyond him. He believed that they were being taken to someone known as Herr Baron. But from there on it was all just a lot of blanks that no amount of imagination could possibly fill in.

He checked his rambling thoughts as he felt Freddy Farmer stir, and then heard him groan and mumble.

"Blast the dirty blighter!" young Farmer got out. "Good gosh, my head!"

"Take it easy, Freddy," Dave murmured. "You got clipped good. But if you can talk, it can't be too bad. Just try--"

The two heavy booted feet clumping down made Dawson feel for an instant that his spine had been snapped.

"Silence, dogs!" a harsh voice said. "You will have your chance to talk later!"

Dawson cut short the blistering retort that rose to his lips. Then, after he had got full control of the seething anger within himself, he inched one hand over until he could feel Freddy Farmer's right leg. Then, using a short jab of a finger for a dot, and a longer jab for a dash, he signalled his pal in International Morse code....

"Chin up, pal. It's all very screwy, but we can't do a thing about it yet. Just play dumb, and wait for the break."

A couple of moments passed, and then Dawson felt Freddy Farmer signalling a reply message.

"Right you are. But when and if the break does come, I'm going to give it to the dirty beggars. I think they are Nazi agents."

"You can say that again!" Dawson signalled. "And a couple of tough eggs, too. So watch it. Play it their way until we find out what's what."

Young Farmer signalled back that he would do just that. And then the two air aces stopped their silent signalling, and grimly waited for further developments.

However, they had to wait quite a while. A good forty-five minutes passed before the car's speed was slackened. Then it turned sharp right, bumped over something, and went down a steep incline, after which it traveled a short distance on the level before it finally came to a full stop. From the movements of the car Dawson was pretty sure that they had turned off a main street into a short inclined driveway that ended at a garage. And when a moment later he heard the sound of doors rolling shut he knew that he had figured correctly.

And then a switch was snapped, and the interior of the car was filled with yellow light.

It blinded him for a moment, even though he was lying down face to the car floor and away from the light. But as soon as he could adjust his eyes to the sudden change he turned his head and looked at Freddy Farmer. Freddy was a little pale around the edges, and there was a tiny trickle of blood from his nose, but the hard, glittering look in his eyes indicated that his feelings had been hurt far, far more than his cracked nose and clipped head.

"Atta boy, Freddy!" Dave whispered softly. "Just hold it that way, but _hold_ it!"

Young Farmer had only the chance to nod slightly. Before he could whisper in reply the heavy booted feet were removed from the small of Dawson's back, and harshly spoken German words filled their ears.

"Get up, and get out, swine! Herr Baron is waiting! Get up, dogs--or must I help you?"

An altogether fitting comment hovered on Dawson's lips, but he did not permit himself the satisfaction of saying it. Instead he pushed up onto his hands and knees, and then up onto his feet and stepped out through the car door that a pale, thin-faced man was holding open with one hand. In his other hand was a small but wicked-looking Luger automatic, the muzzle of which was trained dead on the Yank air ace. And when Dawson stepped down onto the cement floor of the garage and started to turn around and give Freddy Farmer a helping hand the man snarled and jammed the muzzle of the gun against him.

"Step back, swine. Your little comrade is all right. He can get out by himself!"

Dawson backed up and watched Freddy Farmer get out. There was nothing about the English youth to indicate that he didn't feel any too steady on his feet, save his unnatural pallor. His chin was up, and his eyes set and unflinching as he stepped out of the car. The thin-faced man gave him a sneering smirk, and motioned him over to stand beside Dawson. And when the two youths were standing shoulder to shoulder a bullet-headed, thick-set man came around from the other side of the car. His small, close-set eyes seemed to glitter like those of a deadly snake about to strike.

"Well, well!" he growled. "Herr Karl Stoltz, and Herr Paul von Heimmer! You stupid fools. So you thought that we would not remember, eh? That we would not try to find you? _Gott!_ So you would be swine traitors to the Fuehrer? But Herr Baron will teach you about that. Hans! Lead the way. I will be right behind the dogs!"

The thin-faced man called Hans nodded, turned and pushed open a door. Dawson saw a lighted stairway leading up, and then a clenched fist struck him in the back and sent him stumbling toward it. He heard Freddy Farmer gasp sharply, and then his pal was stumbling into him. He managed to keep his balance and follow the thin-faced man up the stairs. At the top the man did not pause. He walked along a narrow hallway and went up a second flight of stairs. As a matter of fact he did not come to a stop until he had mounted four flights of stairs.

Just at the top of the fourth flight he stopped in front of a door, fished a key from his pocket, and put it in the lock. When the door was opened there was darkness beyond. But the thin-faced man flicked a switch, and Dawson found himself staring into the foyer of an apartment. The thick-set man herded Freddy and him inside, through the foyer, and into a well appointed living room that was heavy with the smell of stale tobacco smoke and cooking.

"Make them comfortable, Hans," said the thick-set man with a little hoarse chuckle. "I will telephone the good news to Herr Baron."

The man called Hans echoed his friend's chuckle and waved Dawson and Farmer to a couple of straight-backed chairs placed side by side. Dawson hesitated a brief instant, saw the man's fingers on his gun tighten, and walked over and sat down in one of the chairs. Freddy Farmer seated himself in the other chair. And as the thick-set man went through a door leading off into another room, Hans took up a position about ten feet in front of the two youths and leered at them invitingly.

"If you would like to try to escape, go ahead!" he suddenly spat at them in German, and made a little gesture with his gun. "No doubt Herr Baron would be just as pleased to see you dead as alive."

"That is perhaps so!" Dawson shot right back at him in the man's native tongue. "But he will not be pleased with _you_ whether he sees us dead or alive. And who is Herr Baron? Herr Baron what?"

A brief flash of doubt showed in the German's eyes. Then he laughed harshly.

"So you are not Herr Karl Stoltz?" he said with a smirk. "Is that what you are trying to make me believe, eh?"

"I'm not trying to get anything through your thick head!" Dawson said evenly. "I'm just wondering who Herr Baron is, because he's in for one big surprise. And, numbskull, I'm _not_ kidding you!"

As the other's eyes lighted up with a murderous gleam, Dawson instantly regretted that he had let his tongue run away with him. However, when the light suddenly died and was replaced by a look of bafflement and not a little worry, a tingling sense of grim satisfaction rippled through him.

But not for long. It was now definitely a case of mistaken identity by the two thick-headed Nazis. But that did not in the slightest alter the fact that Freddy and he were perched right on the edge of a volcano, and that at almost any moment they could be toppled off and down into the middle of complete oblivion as far as living out the rest of their lives was concerned. They both knew only too well what the Nazis do with their victims, whether they are the intended victims or just a couple of other guys.