by Mark Hodder
Blake fancied that he had slept about two minutes by the clock, when he was awakened by a tremendous uproar, and discovered that dawn had already broken, for a grey light was filtering through the window-blinds.
Thunderous knocks were being rained on the front door. Hoarse German voices were shouting, and the captain, newly aroused, was swearing like one of his own troopers as he struggled into his boots.
Blake pulled aside the blind, and peered out. Tinker did the same, and both gave low whistle of surprise.
“Looks as if our number was up, old thing,” said Blake, “for there are the genuine articles. In other words, Messrs Max B. Schmidt, which is me, and Otto Adler, which is you.
“They must have got out somehow, and now the fat’s on the fire with a vengeance. We were fools not to have brought their baggage along with us, only I was afraid of making things look too suspicious.
“They must have learnt which way our party had gone, and as soon as they get five minutes with that pig-headed captain man, they can prove us to be frauds using fake passports.
“That means a convenient wall and a firing-party. We can’t get away by the yard, it’s just swarming with those infernal troopers, and, as we know, there are sentries at the front.
“We can’t even put up a decent bluff, for it’s ten to one Schmidt & Co. will have half a dozen people ready to identify them as the genuine thing, even though we have got their passports. Better slip into some things as quickly as we can, and stand by for trouble. Thank goodness the paper is safe anyway. They can search us till they are blue in the face, and not find a trace of it. You destroyed those photographs, by the way?”
“Burnt ‘em!” said Tinker laconically. “It was the safest way!”
“Good egg!” said Blake. “Better hurry up and dress. Personally I’ve a great objection to being shot in a pair of stolen pyjamas, and it’s snowing outside, too!”
They dressed hurriedly, and had just finished when there came the dull thud of a rifle-butt on the panelling of the door. The frail woodwork splintered to pieces, and another blow splintered a second panel.
“Stand back, you British spies!” roared a voice. “We’ve got you cornered like rats in a trap. Cover them, some of you men, and one of you open the door!”
A couple of Mauser rifles came peeking through one broken panel, an arm came through the other, fumbled for the lock, found it, and turned the key.
Sexton Blake lit a cigarette, and the door was flung open.
The officer charged in with a drawn sabre in his hand, followed by three of his men, and Schmidt and Adler.
“That’s them!” shrieked Adler. Being a small-built man, he was naturally the more excited of the two.
“Look at them, the dirty British dogs! Why, they’ve even got on the clothes they stole from us. I’ll tell you what they did. They made us strip, took our things away and our papers, and then they roped us up and pushed us into a dark cellar to starve, for all they cared! But we found an old rusty knife which had been left there and forgotten, and, after a lot of trouble, we managed to work our way loose. Then we broke a way out. They had stolen our passports and our papers, but luckily they had left us a change of clothes, so we were able to follow them up.”
Blake flicked the ash off his cigarette.
“This seems rather idiotic talk, Herr Capitain,” he said quietly. “Who are these people, and what’s all the trouble about?”
“Your passport!” demanded the captain gruffly.
“Certainly!” said Blake, and produced it, though with an inward feeling that the game was up, for Tinker’s German would have betrayed him in a single syllable, and the officer was full of suspicion. In fact, he seemed to recognise that Tinker was the weak link in the chain, for he turned and questioned him sharply in German. Tinker gurgled inarticulately, and the officer laughed harshly.
“British pig-swine!” he said. “Firing-party of six men!” he ordered. “We’ll soon show how we Germans treat spies!”
“One moment!” said Blake genially. “How do you propose to prove that we are spies? We are British, certainly; in fact, we are rather proud of it, if you want to know the truth; but we haven’t the slightest intention of being murdered to please the whim of a drunken, irresponsible, under officer like you! We demand to be searched for any incriminating documents or papers, and if you find any, to be tried by court-martial in due form. You’re getting above yourself, my man!”
The captain snarled with rage, and made a savage lunge at Blake with his sabre. The latter dodged, snatched up a light walking-stick, parried a second lunge, and drove the ferrule home full in the German’s teeth.
“That is to teach you manners,” he said, as the man went reeling back, spitting out blood and teeth.
The three troopers sprang forward, but Blake and Tinker met them with levelled automatics, and they sprang back again with equal alacrity. They were rather raw recruits, and they didn’t like the look of things at all.
Schmidt and Adler were more agile even than the recruits. They made a spring for the door, and vanished into safety down the passage, from the far end of which they yelled frantic abuse.
Blake snatched up the passport which the captain had let fall.
“We must risk a dash for it, old man,” he whispered. “Follow me, and keep close. I don’t think they’ll fire on us without orders.”
Still with their automatics ready for immediate use, they made straight for the door with a rush, and it turned out very much as Blake had anticipated.
The captain was too busy spitting out teeth to give the requisite orders, and the men fingered their rifles uncertainly.
One, a sergeant, an older man than the rest, made a tentative grab at Blake’s shoulder, and was met with a left-hander on the jaw, which fairly lifted him off his feet, and the next moment the two were racing down the passage.
They passed the astonished sentries at the door, and before the latter could even challenge or collect their wits, the pair were far down the street, and out of sight. But they knew their escape was only momentary. With the town swarming with German soldiers, the search would be taken up quickly and thoroughly, and in a small place like that it was clearly impossible to obtain anything like an effective disguise.
They hurried along down back streets and alleys, and finally chanced upon an old, tumble-down empty house, which promised at least a temporary shelter in which they could have a rest up, and discuss their plans.
Van Zyl might have helped them, but they dare not seek him out for fear of betraying the fact that he was in any way connected with them, and possibly upsetting all his plans. There was no chance of reaching the open country, for the two gates of the old town were sure to be already guarded. Also, they had had to come away without headgear of any kind, which in itself would at once lay them open to suspicion if they tried to pass the sentries!
Blake philosophically lit a cigarette, and sat down with his back to the wall.
“We’ve got into the trap right enough,” he said. “But how to get out beats me. That fat-headed captain must be feeling pretty vicious,” he added, with a grim laugh, “and so must Schmidt and Adler.”
Tinker grinned dolefully.
“You bet!” he said. “Listen to that.”
Through the broken window came the tramp, tramp of soldiers’ feet and harsh words of command.
“One of the search-parties,” said Blake. “They’ll have dozens of them out by now.”
The men were evidently going methodically from house to house, with the true German thoroughness.
“The thing is,” said Blake, “if they come here shall we put up a fight for it, or shall we surrender and demand to be taken before the senior officer in the place? I think on the whole that that would be the wisest.”
“It might give us a chance, anyhow,” agreed Tinker.
“Ah, here they come!”
Footsteps clumped through the broken doorway and began to ascend the stairs.
�
�Got them!” cried a voice. “Here they are—and we get the fifty marks reward, Karl!”
Two men dashed into the room with fixed bayonets, but a young lieutenant, a pleasant-faced-looking fellow, thrust them aside. He looked first at Blake, then at Tinker, and returned his sword to its scabbard with a smart click. Then he clapped his heels together and bowed stiffly.
“Gentlemen, I beg to inform you that you are my prisoners!” he said.
Blake returned the bow.
“We surrender to you, Herr Lieutenant,” said Blake “and although armed, I call you to witness that we made no resistance.”
He handed over his automatic, and signed to Tinker to do the same.
“But we surrender on conditions,” Blake continued. “First that you accept our parole not to try and escape so long as we are in your charge.”
“Granted.”
“Thank you! Secondly, that you take us at once before the senior officer in command, so that we can explain matters to him.”
“Again granted, sir.”
“Very good; then we are ready to accompany you at once.”
They stepped forward, and the lieutenant waved back the men who had stepped forward to seize them.
“These gentlemen are on parole!” he said sharply. “Fall in behind. If you will kindly follow me, sir, you and your friend,” he added to Blake. And the little procession formed up and marched down the stairs into the snow-covered street.
“So far so good!” said Blake. “We’ve fallen into good hands, at any rate. I hope our luck will hold.”
But it was destined not to. They had barely gone fifty yards when they ran slap into their friend the captain, who, with a guard of ten men, had been searching the houses farther down the street.
At the sight of them he gave a shout of triumph.
“Well done!” he cried. “You can turn over your prisoners to me, Lieutenant Muller.”
“But they have given me their parole, my captain, and I have passed my word to take them to the commandant. They surrendered of their own accord on those conditions.”
“Their parole! Bah! No one but a fool would take the word of a British spy. I’ll show you how to deal with them. Here you, sergeant, tie those men’s hands behind them and set them up against the wall there. A firing-party of six load with ball, distance ten paces!”
The lieutenant turned livid with anger.
“It cannot be done. I have passed my word of honour!” he cried.
“A fig for your word of honour!” was the brutal retort.
Muller took a step forward and half drew his sword.
“You shall pay me for that!” he said.
“Consider yourself under arrest!” roared the captain. “I will break you for that—attempting to draw your sword on your superior officer, and hindering him in his duties. That will mean degradation to the ranks and two years in a fortress for you. Sergeant, take the lieutenant’s sword.”
“Never!” said Muller, and, placing it, scabbard and all, across his knee, he snapped it in two and flung the pieces down in the snow.
Then he gravely saluted Blake and Tinker.
“I have done my best,” he said bitterly. “I am shamed!”
Blake nodded.
“It is no fault of yours that you happen to be the fellow-countryman of a thing like that, lieutenant. Good-bye!”
They were placed together against the wall, and the firing-party lined up.
“So-long, old man!” said Blake. “Keep a stiff upper-lip. Don’t let the beasts think they can scare us!”
“When I drop my sword-point, you will fire!” said the captain, moving to one side.
The next minute he was sent staggering half across the road, and a stentorian voice bellowed, “Halt, there!”
It was Captain Van Zyl!
“What is the meaning of this?” he growled. “I am burgomaster of this town, and if these men, whoever they are, have committed any offence, it is for me to deal with them!”
“They are British spies, travelling with a stolen passport, and they have insulted me, a Prussian officer. Both offences are punishable by death under the German military code.”
“I would remind you, Captain,” said Van Zyl, “that you are not in Germany, but in Holland, and that you Germans are very particular in keeping on good terms with us Dutchmen. These men may or may not be British spies. In any case, it is for me to deal with them, and whilst I am looking into the matter they will be my prisoners, and I shall see that a full report of this matter and your behaviour goes straight to the commandant. He will deal with you as he thinks fit.
“Now,” he added to Blake, “are you British?”
“I am.”
“Travelling with a passport not your own.”
“Yes.”
“Produce it.”
Blake did so.
“Humph! You are both my prisoners under arrest. Will you come quietly, or shall I call the Civic Guard?”
“We will come with you. We are unarmed.”
“Good! I trust your word. As for you, sir,” he went on to the German, “march your men off at once, and don’t dare to try and forcibly enter another house in the town. You shall hear more of this, and you will be held responsible for any damage done up to date. By what I have heard, the bill will be a heavy one!”
The officer scowled and bit his lip, but Van Zyl spoke with authority, and there was nothing for it but to obey, and he marched his men away.
“Pouf!” said Van Zyl. “So much talking makes a man thirsty. That was a near thing. But word was brought me of the row at the hotel, and so I came at once. Now let us go and have a glass of schnapps. After which I shall take you to the lock-up.” He winked prodigiously. “But you shall not be alone. You shall have a roast chicken and a bottle of Burgundy for company, and as soon as it is dark—Well, there are more doors to the lock-up than one, and to-night I make a journey to the coast in my ‘hog-cart.’ If you happen to be in the fore-cabin when I start, is that my fault? Pouf! No, not at all. How am I to tell—eh?”
So Blake and Tinker were solemnly marched to the lock-up after Van Zyl had quenched his thirst—equally solemnly locked in—in the presence of half a company of German soldiers, who appeared casually from nowhere, and Van Zyl rolled off on his lawful occasions.
The “lock-up,” the only substitute for a genuine prison in that usually well-ordered little town, was a small, square, stone building about sixteen feet by sixteen, with two bunk beds, a table spotlessly clean, and four or five rush-bottomed chairs.
The single window was heavily grated with iron, and the door was about as solid as the door of a cathedral, with steel knobs all over it, and a ponderous lock which would have taxed a strong man to carry.
“Looks as if we were here for keeps,” said Tinker gloomily. “I do hope, guv’nor, Van Zyl won’t forget that chicken. I feel as if I could do with about a turkey and a half.”
“You always were a greedy young pig,” said Blake. “What are you grumbling at? We’ve got comfortable quarters enough, even if they have forgotten the steam heating and the electric light, and they don’t charge us anything.”
A rattling at the door interrupted them, and someone was evidently trying the lock.
Tinker peered out of the window as far as he could.
“All the German soldiers have gone, vamoosed,” he said, “but there’s someone whom I can’t see monkeying with the door.”
Blake smiled grimly.
“I don’t want to see. I know,” he said. “It’s our old friend the captain. Van Zyl gave him a bad scare when he had us stuck up against the wall, and has threatened to report him. Don’t you see that we should prove very awkward witnesses against him in the case of an inquiry? I’ll bet you what you like that he has dismissed his men on purpose. He knows we are unarmed, whilst he has both his sword and a revolver of some sort. Dead men tell no tales, and it would be most convenient for him if our mouths were closed for good and all. By the sound he’s usin
g a bit of wire to pick the lock. To put it perfectly bluntly, he means murder, neither more nor less, if he can bring it off.
“That looks a pretty hefty sort of a chair. Now listen to me! Collar the chair and stand behind the door, which swings inwards. The moment he crosses the threshold do your best to brain him or knock him endways. It ought to be easy. I shall stand here in full view, behind the table, and about half a second before he fires I shall drop flat.
“Look out! Here he comes! Don’t make a boss shot.”
Tinker darted off with his chair and crouched behind the door. They could hear the wire click-clicking in the lock, and then the door burst open unexpectedly. The captain, his face inflamed with rage, rushed in. He saw only Blake, and dashed straight at him. Tinker rushed, but missed the man by inches, for the chair was not only heavy but cumbersome, and the blow fell short.
The German fired once and a second time, and Blake dodged. And then, before he could pull the trigger again, Blake had dived under the table and got him by the ankle. With a quick jerk he had the man off his balance and on his back, the pair of them rolling close-locked on the floor.
Tinker, furious at having made a bungle of things, darted forward again, brandishing his chair.
“Get out, you young idiot!” panted Blake. “You are just as likely to brain me as you are him, and I’ve got him anyway. My meat, sonny. Run away and play!”
Slowly and carefully, but surely, Blake shifted his grip. The German was a powerful, beefy man, but he lacked all sense of intuition of what the next move was going to be, and, above all, he lacked initiative.
He was a cheap bully at heart, accustomed to dealing with men who daren’t for their lives answer him back, and now he found himself up against something he couldn’t understand. Inch by inch Blake’s steel-like grip crept from forearm to wrist. There was a momentary tension, and then, as the grip got in to fine work, paralysing the motor nerve centre, the arm began to curve inwards helplessly.
The man’s forefinger was still on the trigger, and the pressure of Blake’s weight was remorseless, increasing more and more till the revolver muzzle was close-up to his temple.
