Michael shot a quick look at the door. It would hold for another few seconds but that was all.
“Meet me tonight at the transmitter,” he whispered to Paul. “Luck!”
He stepped quickly to the door, gun in hand, and threw back the bolt. The door crashed inward and a gray-clad storm trooper lunged into the room, tripped and fell forward on his face.
“Ah! Impetuous youth,” Michael murmured.
THE stocky, hard-faced Captain Mueller strode into the room, followed by three soldiers with drawn Lugers. The storm trooper who had lunged through the door was picking himself sheepishly from the floor.
Captain Mueller glared about the room, his pale eyes sweeping from the doctor’s huddled figure to the gun in Michael’s hand.
“What is the meaning of this?” he snapped. “You are getting yourself into trouble, Herr Faber.
“Trouble?” Michael said, raising one eyebrow. “For shooting enemies of the Reich? I hardly think so, my young Captain. I would suggest that you read again the Fuehrer’s Mein Kampf and stop making ridiculous speeches.”
A hot angry flush stained the thick neck of the captain. He glared savagely at Michael, then shifted his gaze to the body on the floor.
“Who is this man?” he snapped.
Michael shook his head sadly.
“I am surprised at you, Captain,” he said. “This was the Herr Doctor Schultz. He wrote and lectured incessantly against the doctrines of the Nazi State.”
Captain Mueller looked slowly about the room.
“Was he the only one here? I am looking for a Paul Cheval. Our Intelligence reported that he was hiding here in Lidice.” His pale eyes fastened on Michael.
“You haven’t seen Paul Cheval, have you, Herr Faber?” he asked.
“That name is a familiar one.” Michael said thoughtfully. “But I haven’t seen the man. Possibly he slipped through your ranks and made an escape.”
“Impossible!” Captain Mueller retorted. He glared about the room and there was a puzzled, suspicious expression on his hard features.
“Strange,” he said. “I feel that he is here now.”
“Disguised as one of your soldiers?” Michael suggested sarcastically.
Captain Mueller glared at him in rage.
“That tongue of yours will get you in trouble yet,” he stormed. He wheeled to his men. “Come! We are wasting our time here.” He gestured to Michael. “You had better come with us. Marshal von Bock will want an explanation for this matter.”
Michael followed Captain Mueller to the street. He noticed that soldiers were pouring gasoline about the wooden bases of the buildings. A worried line creased his forehead. Paul was still in the doctor’s laboratory and these buildings were veritable tinder boxes of combustion . . .
Marshal von Bock was standing beside his car a pleased, relaxed expression on his swarthy oily face.
Captain Mueller saluted.
“Marshal, there is something—”
Marshal von Bock waved him away carelessly.
“Another time. Do not bother me with details.” He took Michael by the arm and pointed down the street. “Is not that a pretty scene, my American friend?”
MICHAEL had steeled his nerves for the sight but an involuntary shudder shook him as his eyes moved over the spectacle of human savagery.
Hundreds of machine-gunned bodies were sprawled in the dust of the street like tragic, broken dolls. Storm troopers walked among the pile of human debris with fixed bayonets, the blades stained a dripping crimson red. Blood was everywhere, splashed on store fronts, sidewalks and street.
The women of the village were being herded into trucks like cattle; their children were stripped brutally from their arms and sent stumbling to the outskirts of the village.
Michael had seen ugly brutality every day he had spent in Nazi-dominated lands. But nothing he had seen equaled this barbarous spectacle. There was something cold-blooded and unclean about this wanton butchery of innocents, this savage despoiling of homes and children, the lusting, inhuman cruelty of this scene that brought the blood pounding to his temples.
Marshal von Bock was watching him carefully.
“You do not seem particularly impressed,” he said.
Michael fought back his feelings, forced a mask of indifference over his face. He shrugged.
“It is simply a job well done,” he said.
“That is right,” von Bock said delightedly. “It is a job well done. The village of Lidice will be but a memory in a few hours. Not one man escaped and not one building will be left standing.”
Captain Mueller said, “I am not so sure that no men escaped. I am afraid that one did.”
“Who?” von Bock said sharply.
“Paul Cheval, a notorious saboteur and underground worker,” Captain
Mueller answered.
“What makes you think he escaped?” Captain Mueller looked uncomfortable. “It is just a feeling I have.”
“Bah!” von Bock shorted. “You and your feelings. There is no place for mysticism in your work, Captain.” Michael was watching the wooden structure from which they had just emerged. Flames were licking up the wooden sides in greedy haste. The entire village would be a vast pyre for the men whose lives had been sacrificed in the name of the Third Reich.
Suddenly, through the curtain of smoke and flame that obscured the building, he saw a faint shadowy figure emerge. The faintly visible form paused for an instant, and Michael saw a shadowy arm raised in salute, then the vague shape moved rapidly away, disappearing around the corner of the flaming building.
“What are you looking at?” von Bock asked.
Michael smiled but his cat-like yellow eyes were as sharp and hard as pieces of flint.
“Nothing,” he said, “nothing at all.” Captain Mueller ran a puzzled hand through his cropped hair. His thick face wore a bewildered scowl.
“There is something funny here,” he said. “I still think the man we want has made an escape.”
Michael smiled and patted the captain’s beefy shoulder.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if you were right,” he said.
Captain Mueller ran a hand over his jaw and there was a thoughtful gleam in his eyes as he studied Michael Faber.
CHAPTER IV
THE dark of late evening had settled over the city of Prague. The guard in front of the Nazi Propaganda building was leaning against his rifle when Michael Faber arrived at the main entrance.
The guard saluted hesitantly.
“I thought you had gone for the day, Herr Faber,” he said.
“Did you, now?” Michael said. “That proves that the best of us can be wrong, doesn’t it? Will you open up, please?”
“But Herr Faber,” the guard protested, “I have received very strict orders to leave no one in the building after hours unless accompanied by the Herr Minister.”
“My dear fellow,” Michael said, “the B.B.C. is at this moment broadcasting information which is vital to our armies. Are you going to stand in the way of the Third Reich’s securing that information?”
“But no—”
“Then kindly open the door. You are a good fellow, Henry, but you must be careful about thinking too much. The Fuehrer you know doesn’t like people who think. Thank you.”
Michael paused in the doorway.
“By the way, Henry, who gave you the orders not to leave anyone into the broadcasting offices after hours?”
“Captain Mueller, sir. He brought an order signed by Marshal von Bock.”
“I see. Excellent men, both. Good night.”
Michael strode briskly through the darkened corridors of the building until he came to a small office on the first floor. He opened the door, snapped on a light and entered.
The small room was completely fitted as a sending and receiving radio station. Michael tossed his hat on his desk and sat down, frowning.
It was two o’clock in the morning. The previous afternoon he had witnessed the destruction of
Lidice. Now, in a few minutes, he would receive a code message, intermingled with a regular B.B.C. broadcast, giving him his next instructions.
The order of von Bock delivered by Captain Mueller, bothered him. He could easily enough arrange to have the B.B.C. messages sent in at another time, but the order might be an indication that he was no longer trusted. There had been definite suspicion in Captain Mueller’s eyes and voice the previous day, and if he had communicated his suspicions to von Bock, there might be trouble. And that was patting it mildly.
Michael stood up and closed the door, then he switched on the powerful receiving set and adjusted the delicate instruments. In a moment the voice of the English announcer flooded through the room. It was a standard broadcast to the peoples of Europe telling the truth of what was happening on the major battle fronts, and Michael knew that hundreds of forbidden radio sets were transmitting those truths to thousands of tense, hopeful men and women on the continent of Europe.
HE GLANCED at his watch. When the hands stood exactly at 2:08 he leaned forward, and began scribbling furiously on a pad on the desk. He took the message down in English, a risky procedure, but knew he might not have time to code and decode it later. The only key to the code used by the B.B.C. was in Michael’s head, and this single fact had been responsible, largely, for his success.
He covered several sheets with his fast scrawl. At 2:10 the code message stopped abruptly. Michael turned down the volume of the receiver and then carefully studied the message he had received from London Intelligence.
Hunched over his desk, he was so absorbed in his task, that he didn’t hear the slight creak as the door behind him slowly opened. But he felt the light draft on the back of his neck and his muscles tensed. One hand closed slowly over the scrawled sheets of paper he’d been reading. The scrawled sheet that bore the message from London Intelligence.
“Late hours you’re keeping, Herr Faber,” a cool clear voice said behind him.
Michael turned slowly in his chair, his face and eyes expressionless.
Marie Kahn stood in the doorway, a queer smile on her lips. She was wearing a crimson evening gown and fed sandals. Her flaming hair fell to Her bare white shoulders, framing the exquisite perfection of her classically molded features.
There was no expression on her marble-white face and her cool gray eyes studied Michael with an impassive, inscrutable regard.
“Your devotion to your work is very commendable,” she said quietly, per glance moved to the paper in Michael’s hand. “That must be a very important communication, Herr Faber. You hold it as though your life depended-on it. May I see it? Or is it confidential?”
“It’s nothing important,” Michael said. “Just a dull summary or the last B.B.C. report. Nothing that would interest a beautiful girl in a hew evening gown, at least. But you shouldn’t be thinking of tiresome details on a night like this. Dressed as you are your thoughts should be of moonlight and music and the lucky young man who should be holding you in his arms. Don’t you agree, Fraulein?”
“A pretty speech,” the girl murmured. “Something I hardly expected to hear from you. One good surprise deserves another, Herr Faber.” She paused and said softly, “The time is near at hand.”
Michael remained perfectly still; not a muscle moved in his lean face; but his brain was racing feverishly.
She had said, “The time is near at hand!”
And that phrase was the pass word of the underground fighters in Nazi-dominated Europe!
The words seemed to linger in the room beating against his ears. The girl was studying him impassively, but there was a faint smile curving her lips.
“I don’t understand,” Michael said. “Did you say that the time was near at hand?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry if I seem stupid,” Michael said, smiling, “but I don’t follow you. The time is near at hand for what?”
“I’m not sure,” the girl said. Her eyes dropped again to the papers in his hand. “Perhaps that information is on those sheets of paper in your hand.”
MICHAEL stood up suddenly, crossed the room and closed the door. He took the girl by the shoulders and stared deep into her gray eyes.
“I can’t believe it,” he said softly. “I’d have sworn you were with those devils, heart and soul. My congratulations. You are an excellent actress. But how did you know me?”
“One of our men in Berlin told me to see you,” the girl said. “Your position is becoming very dangerous. Several officials have become suspicious of your work. There is the possibility of an investigation.”
“I have been expecting that,” Michael said. “But I still have a few weeks. And that’s all the time I need.”
“No,” the girl said quickly, “the situation is more serious than that. That is why I came tonight to warn you.” Michael noticed that the girl’s cheeks were tinted with warm color and there was fire and spirit in her deep gray eyes.
She was a woman, alive and glowing, and the mantle of glacial hardness had fallen from her, revealing a vital beauty that was thrilling in its perfection.
“I have been with Captain Mueller tonight,” she said. “I left him a few moments ago at a cafe. He is bitterly suspicious of you and he has talked to von Bock. I think he has half convinced him that you should be jailed until an investigation is made. He told me that much tonight. I slipped away from him to warn you.”
Michael’s face hardened.
“I can’t let anything stop me now,” he said. “I’ve just received an order from London Intelligence. Probably the most important assignment I’ve ever gotten. I can’t fail. I have to go to Berlin immediately.”
“But how?” Marie demanded. “It is suicide now.”
“Not quite,” Michael said grimly. His yellow eyes were savagely gleaming. “I have had arrangements made for a plane for several days. I’ve been expecting this job. You’ve got to throw Mueller off my trail for a few hours at least. That will give me time to clear out of here. Can you do it?”
“I don’t know,” the girl said. “I will try.”
“Good. It will take me only a few moments to destroy everything of importance here. Then I’ll leave for the air-port. Where did you say you left Captain Mueller?”
The girl was opening her mouth to answer, when the door behind her opened suddenly.
“I hope I’m not intruding,” a harsh, guttural voice said.
The owner of the voice was Captain Mueller. He stood in the doorway, filling it with his solid bulk. His hard, chiseled face was alight with sadistic amusement. He looked from Michael to the girl, and his pale eyes were suspiciously narrowed.
“You both seem nervous,” he said slowly. “What is there to be nervous about?”
THE girl stepped suddenly away from Michael and placed herself beside the captain.
“Your suspicions were correct, Captain Mueller,” she said coldly. “Let me congratulate you.” Her eyes were expressionlessly cold as she regarded Michael. “This American is a spy. He has admitted it to me. He has just received a code message from the British broadcast. The message is in his hand right now.”
“So,” Captain Mueller said softly, “I was right.” His eyes met Michael’s in mocking triumph. “American swine,” he said harshly, “you will pay for this treachery with your life.” His hand closed over the butt of the Luger strapped to his side.
Michael said nothing and his lean face was bleak and hard. The girl met his smouldering gaze defiantly.
“It would be pleasant to meet you again,” he said quietly.
“Fraulein Kahn,” Captain Mueller said suddenly. “Why did you come here to this American?”
“It was my duty as a member of the Reich,” the girl said coldly. “You said that you were suspicious of him and I felt I could trick him into betraying himself more easily than you.”
Captain Mueller grinned softly.
“You are very clever, Fraulein. I will see that your superior officer hears of your good work.” His
grin broadened. “I can admit now that at one time I was suspicious even of you.”
“Such caution is commendable,” the girl said quietly. “It is impossible to be too careful in these matters.”
“We think alike, Fraulein,” Obtain Mueller said.
He drew the Luger from his holster and stepped past the girl toward Michael.
“You will come with me,” he said to the American. “Any attempt to escape will be very unwise. I would enjoy shooting you in the stomach, Herr Faber.”
“Why not the back?” Michael said ironically. His thin face was sardonically impassive, but the muscles of his body were coiled like tight springs, ready to strike at the slightest opportunity. “The back is the favorite Nazi target, you know.”
“Dog!” Captain Mueller snapped. “I should break your stupid face for such an insult to our Reich.”
Flushed with anger, he stepped forward and Michael saw, from the corner of his eye, the girl behind him reach out swiftly and pick up a heavy ash tray. Hope flickered in his eyes.
Captain Mueller caught the look and his face hardened suspiciously.
“What—” He broke off and wheeled as suddenly as a cat.
The girl was raising the ash tray over her head, ready to swing down with all her strength.
“So!” he snarled. “You are in with him. Did you think you could fool me?”
He swung the gun around to cover the girl. His face was brutal and dark. There was blood-lust in his small, piggish eyes.
For the first time his eyes were off Michael.
And Michael lunged forward, driving his hard shoulder with all his wiry strength into the back of the German officer’s knees. The savage suddenness of the attack hurled the captain’s heavy body to the floor in a tangled sprawl. Michael’s fist closed on the German’s gun wrist with vise-like pressure, as they rolled on the floor, locked fiercely together.
The gun fell from Captain Mueller’s hand, but before Michael could press his advantage, the German, with a savage twist, hurled him loose and staggered to his feet. He groped for the gun, but Michael lashed out with his foot, catching him in the shoulder and knocking him back against the wall of the office.
Collected Fiction (1940-1963) Page 144