CHAPTER FOUR

_Herr Baron No Face_

Believing that he had said more than enough, and that to so much as open his mouth would invite sudden disaster, Dawson ignored the worried, questioning eyes fixed upon him, and let his own gaze wander about the room. The first thing he noted was that there were windows on two sides. Windows that had steel shutters for blackout curtains. They were so fitted into the sash frame that when drawn they kept out both light and air. And bullets too, no doubt. But apart from the windows the room wasn't any different from scores of London apartment living rooms that he had seen.

But no! There was one big, big difference. Hanging on the wall to his right was a framed photograph of the lowest form of life ever to be born. A framed photograph of Adolf (Slaughter the women and children, too) Hitler. Just to see the photograph made Dave Dawson sick to his stomach, and he quickly took his eyes from it.

And then the side door opened and the thick-set man came into the room.

"In a few minutes, dog traitors!" he rasped at the two prisoners. "In a few minutes Herr Baron will be here."

"And after that where will _you_ be, I wonder!" Dawson couldn't keep himself from saying.

The thick-set man blinked, frowned, and turned to his partner. Hans frowned, too, and his voice sounded definitely worried as he spoke.

"The swine is trying to make us believe it is all a mistake, Erich," he said. "But there is no mistake, no?"

The man called Erich switched his beady eyes back to Dawson's face again. It seemed as though he had a moment of doubt; then it was gone as his lips slid back in a cruel smile.

"No, there is no mistake!" he said harshly. "Too long were we together in Herr Himmler's training school not to recognize you at once, even though you have changed a lot. No, Hans. Do not let what the dog says worry you. Come, Hans. Let us enjoy some schnapps before Herr Baron arrives. Keep your eye on them. I will get the bottle and the glasses."

Smiling and rubbing his hands together in anticipation of the drink, the man called Erich moved across the room to a little wall cabinet and pulled open the door. Dawson saw Hans' eyes follow the movements, and he impulsively steeled himself for a leap toward the Luger that was now pointing not at him but at the floor. At that instant, though, two things happened simultaneously. Freddy Farmer's knee bumped against his in a sign of caution, and Hans' eyes and Luger returned their attention to him. Dawson slowly let the clamped air out of his lungs and stared absent-eyed up at the ceiling above Hans' head. The Nazi smirked and then reached out with his free hand to accept the glass of schnapps that Erich of the bullet head held out. Together they raised their glasses, gave Hitler the usual Heil, and drank noisily.

"To the Fuehrer's secret weapon, Hans!" Erich said hoarsely, and refilled their glasses.

"_Ja, ja!_" Hans echoed loudly. "To the Fuehrer's secret weapon, and death to all enemies of the Third Reich!"

"Prosit!" the bullet-headed one shouted. And once more they drained their glasses in typical sloppy, noisy German style.

A moment later when Erich was about to refill the glasses again, the sound of a door buzzer froze him, bottle in hand in mid-air. He made a gasping sound, snatched Hans' empty glass from him and went swiftly to the wall cabinet. As he turned from it he swiped the back of his big hand across his mouth, then hurried to the foyer door. As he went through, closing it behind him, an electric charge seemed to invade the room. Dawson could feel, and almost hear, his heart pounding against his ribs. The blood in his veins seemed like liquid fire, and his mouth and throat were bone dry.

How many more minutes were Freddy and he to live? The crazy question cut through his brain like a sword of fire. He tried to shake his head and drive the maddening thought away, but it kept coming back to taunt him. Seconds were as years hanging on the edge of nothing. Had Hans taken his eyes off them for even an instant Dave knew that he would have hurled himself forward in a frantic, desperate effort to overpower the man and get possession of that Luger before it was too late. But Hans' eyes never wavered for a fleeting split second, nor did the gun in his hand move a fraction of an inch.

Then there came the sound of footsteps and voices outside, and a moment later the inside door knob was seen to turn. Dawson sat staring at it as though it were some powerful magnet that his eyes could not resist. In fact his gaze still clung to it as the door was swung open, and it was not until he heard Freddy Farmer's half choking gasp that he was able to tear his eyes from the doorknob and look up.

And when he did, when he stared at the uniformed figure framed in the open doorway, it was akin to a blow right smack between the eyes. For there in the doorway stood a man in the uniform of a colonel in the U. S. Army Air Forces. He wore on his tunic the wings of a command pilot, and there were two rows of decoration ribbons under the wings. But it was the officer's face that stunned Dawson the most. The man _looked_ American. The clear light in his eyes, the good old U. S. A. rosiness in his cheeks, and the friendly grin that curved his lips. And when he spoke, spoke in perfect German, it was like the ceiling falling down on top of Dawson.

"Ah! So the two swine traitors have come to the end of their run? That is good. That is very good, Hans and Erich! My compliments. I shall inform Herr Himmler of your good work. And no doubt he will tell the Fuehrer himself. Your rewards will not be small, I can tell you."

"To serve Herr Baron and the Fuehrer is reward enough!" Erich said as he beamed and clicked his heels. "It was so simple, too. We saw them eating at a hotel restaurant. We recognized them at once. We could see that they were restless and uneasy. We followed them in the car we had waiting outside. That was easy, too, even in the cursed blackout. They became suspicious and tried to escape us by turning down a street that led nowhere. But we caught up with them, and captured them easily."

"And that's a blasted lie!" Freddy Farmer blurted out. "If you're this Herr Baron they've been jabbering about, then you're balmy to believe them. I never heard of either Karl Stoltz or Paul von Heimmer in my life. And neither has my friend. You've made just another one of your confoundedly stupid Nazi mistakes! You're not in Berlin now. This is London!"

Considering the situation, all that was not exactly the thing to say, and Dave Dawson stiffened and waited for all three of the Nazis to hit the ceiling. Particularly the one known as Herr Baron, who was cloaking his true identity in the uniform of an Air Forces colonel.

Oddly enough, though, Herr Baron's face did not change expression one single bit. He looked at Freddy Farmer with the pleasant grin still on his lips. To Dawson it seemed a little stiff. In fact the man's whole face seemed stiff. It was almost as though his features had been stuck on a blank area of skin. The Yank air ace peered hard, his heart thumping against his ribs. And then suddenly something seemed to click in his brain, and he _knew_. Or at least he was quite positive that he knew. Knew that what he was looking at was not the true face of the man who wore the uniform of an Air Forces Colonel. It was a mask. No, it was even more than that. Every feature had been built up separately and fitted over the original feature. Each bit separate but so cleverly formed and blended in, that the whole gave the impression of a single one-piece mask. No, it was not the true face that Dawson stared at, and he wondered what was behind that conglomeration of make-up paste, and putty, and whatnot.

However, he did not have much time to wonder about that. Herr Baron took a step or two toward Freddy Farmer, his lips still smiling.

"So you have been in England so long, a traitor to the Fuehrer, Herr von Heimmer, that you even talk like one of the swine?" he murmured in a soft voice. "But isn't that a stupid way to try and convince me of something that is not true? You fool! Why have your voice speak as an Englishman, and your body wear the uniform of an American pilot?"

"Because I _am_ English, you idiot!" Freddy shouted. "You've made a balmy mistake, and no doubt you'll end up by having your hired thugs there shoot me. But I'll be blessed if I'll die as a dirty Nazi. I'll die as an Englishman, and the devil to you!"

"That's telling him, kid!" Dawson cried impulsively. Then, looking at the still grinning man, he said, "Believe it or not, he's dead right, Herr Baron. Your boy friends have pulled a boner. I'm not Karl Stoltz, or Karl anybody. I'm a Yank. And no matter what happens, I'm not going to die as any Nazi, either. And just what is behind that masquerading face of yours? Let's have a look, if it doesn't hurt too much to pull that stuff off?"

As Dawson simply spoke words that came into his mouth he moved his knee over slightly and gently pressed it against Freddy's knee. The answering pressure he received started his heart to pounding harder than ever. It meant that young Farmer understood perfectly, and wasn't missing a single bit of the picture. In other words, doubt was closing down on the three Nazis like a thick fog. Particularly upon Hans, and his thick-set playmate, Erich. They stood staring open-mouthed, their eyes puzzled, worried, and not a little afraid. Erich's hands were hanging limp like a couple of hams at his sides. Hans was fiddling with his gun with both of his hands, and without the slightest knowledge that he was pointing it straight down at his feet. Herr Baron's stiff lips were no longer smiling. The rest of his face was the same, save for the eyes. They had suddenly clouded over, and in a crazy sort of way Dawson had the feeling that he was looking into the eyes of a dead man, or perhaps a ghost.

An eerie sensation rippled through him, but he shook it off. If there ever was a time in his life when emotions and sensations were to be ignored, this was it. Whether the three Nazis believed, or not, Freddy and he were facing death in triplicate. Hans, Erich, and Herr Baron. A ten-year-old child could have figured that this place was a Nazi agents' nest in London. And although Freddy and he had proved their true identity beyond all semblance of a doubt, it was sheer madness to think that the three Nazis would give them a smile, an apology, and let them go their way. Not a chance. The Nazis had the habit of flaunting their triumphs to the four corners of the earth, and of burying their mistakes. Sometimes they didn't bother with the burying part. They simply left their "mistakes" where they fell. Stone dead, but definitely! So Dawson didn't pay any attention to his emotions. He knew just what the score was. And so did Freddy Farmer.

"Well?" Dawson said, when Herr Baron just stood there looking at him. "Want proof? But wait a minute! Did this Karl Stoltz have any mark or scar on him that would prove his identity to you?"

"Yes, he did," Herr Baron said slowly. "He had a saber scar on his right arm. Near the elbow. Let me see your right arm. Come, swine traitor! Show me your right arm, at once!"

Herr Baron barked out the last because Dawson had hesitated, and started to shake his head. But his actions were simply to hold the attention of the three Nazis while he once again pressed his knee against Freddy Farmer's. Then he shrugged and stood up, and reached over with his left hand to shove up the right sleeve of his tunic.

"All right," he said, and looked Herr Baron straight in the eyes. "Take a good look, and see if you see any saber scar!"

Dawson drew back his right arm slightly as he pushed up his tunic sleeve. Then when he saw Herr Baron's eyes drop from his face to his arm, he lashed out with his clenched right fist, took a quick half step forward and brought up his right knee. His fist caught Herr Baron a savage blow on the side of the neck, and his knee went deep into the man's groin. It was Commando stuff for keeps, and Dawson didn't stop there, either. He let momentum carry him forward and down. His feet left the floor, and like a projectile his body shot through the air toward the wide-eyed, sagging-mouthed Hans.

The thin-faced Nazi probably didn't know what had actually happened until Dawson's charging body slammed into him and sent him crashing backwards against the wall. The Yank caught him in the chest with his left shoulder, and as the two of them went crashing back and down, Dawson grabbed hold of the Nazi's gun and twisted it free. His ears rang with the scream of pain, and he felt Hans' trigger finger break as it got caught in the trigger guard. But neither bothered Dawson in the slightest. He had learned from blood and fire experience the Commando's code. And no part of it is to feel anything but hatred for the man you're after.[2]

[Footnote 2: Dave Dawson With the Commandos.]

The instant he had the gun in his own possession Dawson heaved himself up onto his hands and knees and chopped down hard with the gun barrel on the side of Hans' head. Hans was reaching for Dawson's throat with clawing fingers, white pain and seething rage showing in his face. But the gun smash on the side of the head nipped everything in the bud. The Nazi made hoarse gurgling sounds in his throat, and instantly went as limp as a wet dishrag.

But Dawson hadn't waited to see the effect of his blow. Out the corner of his eye he had seen the thick-set figure of Erich charging at him. Black murder was in the Nazi's eyes, and he was tugging a Luger out of his jacket pocket. Dawson tried to spin around and pull his trigger before the Nazi pulled him. But he half tripped over the limp Hans' body, and the muzzle of Erich's gun seemed to loom up right in front of his eyes like the black mouth of a tunnel.

Then suddenly there was a shot! Dawson flinched instinctively, but his eyes saw no flame stab from the mouth of that Luger, and no white hot spear of flame cut into his body. What his eyes did see was the blank, slightly stupid look that spread over Erich's face. Then, as though invisible strings holding him up had been cut, Erich fell in a heap on his face.

"Well, thanks for letting me in on the show a little, at least!" the words filtered into Dawson's spinning brain.

He gaped for a second at the prostrate Erich, and then turned his head to see Freddy Farmer standing a few feet away with a still smoking Luger in his hand. The English-born air ace was smiling, but there was nothing but grimness in his steady eyes.

"Boy, are you a right guy to have along!" Dawson mumbled. "But I sure didn't figure you for a gun. I counted on you to give him the old one-two Commando stuff."

"His nibs, here," Freddy said and pointed a finger at Herr Baron, who was face down on the floor at his feet. "I fancied all along that he had a little gadget like this in his tunic pocket. So when you bashed him I immediately investigated. Saves time and trouble just to shoot the beggars, instead of knocking them about. But, good grief, Dave, you moved so fast. You were a bit of all right, old thing. Quite!"