The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Fantasy Stories from the Pulps

First published in Fantastic Adventures, December 1942.

Although this story is presented purely as fiction, author William P. McGivern displayed a strangely fervent eagerness that it be presented to the public at the earliest possible moment. “This story must be published!” he said forcefully. We, as editors, smiled, read the story, agreed that it was a good story. And we publish it here. But the other day we were introduced to a man who spoke with an accent. Later we discovered that this man had “sought out” McGivern. Now we wonder...

Chapter I

A guttering candle flamed in the dank darkness of the cellar casting grotesque shadows against the limestone walls.

Three men sat at a table in that cellar.

The man at the head of the table leaned forward and for an instant his face was strikingly lighted by the flickering candle.

His face was lean and pale. The jaw-line was sharp and hard. A thin nose jutted over a slight blonde mustache. The eyes of the man were only mirrored pools of blackness.

He glanced down at the map lying before him on the table.

“Every detail has been arranged,” he said. His voice was softly cautious. “He will be here, in Prague, tomorrow.”

The man on his left leaned forward tensely. The candle-light caught the blazing glints in his black eyes, the almost savage determination in his grimly clamped jaw. His thick fingers gripped the edge of the table.

“Are you sure?” he whispered. “Can we trust our information?”

The man opposite the speaker, a heavy-shouldered, dark-browed giant, nodded thoughtfully.

“Can we be sure?” he growled. “We will have only one chance.” His eyes turned to the man at the head of the table. “One slip now will ruin everything.”

The man at the head of the table glanced briefly at the two men and a faint, ironic smile brushed his thin lips.

“Yes, we can trust this information.”

He bent over the map deliberately. The candle light penetrated the shadowy caverns of his eyes as he leaned forward, transforming them into yellow pools of strange luminance. There was something haunting about those green-yellow eyes, something about their weird glow in the darkness that was chilling. They were the eyes of a creature of darkness, the eyes of a hunter.

“We can trust this information,” he said. “Underground Intelligence from Berlin transmitted it to me. Heydrich will be in Prague tomorrow.”

The dark-browed giant stood up suddenly, mighty fists clenching.

“The Hangman!” he grated. “His men took my wife, my child—”

The man at the head of the table took his arm and drew him back to his seat.

“I know,” he said softly. “But the Hangman’s hour of reckoning draws closer with each tick of the clock. Now you have both studied this map of the city, and the route Heydrich’s car will take. Are you sure of what you must do?”

The two men nodded silently. “Excellent. I will be on hand. When your — ah — errand is completed I will give you your instructions for leaving the city. I think that is all, gentlemen. Good luck.”

The man on his left drummed his fingers nervously on the top of the table. His smouldering black eyes were worried.

“You say you will be there?”

“Yes.”

“But you can’t. The neighborhood will be alive with Gestapo police seconds after we have done our work! It will direct suspicion at you if you are discovered in the vicinity.”

“I’m afraid that can’t be helped.”

“But you are one of our few links with the Reich authorities. You are worth a hundred of us. As long as they believe you a renegade American and admit you to their councils, you are invaluable to the underground movement. Nothing must happen to you.”

“I don’t intend letting anything happen to me,” the man at the head of the table said. A whimsical smile touched his face but his yellow-green eyes did not reflect that smile. “Even so, I’d risk quite a bit to be present at Herr Heydrich’s final performance. When he departs for his eternal and — ah — warm reward I want to be there to raise a silent cheer.”

He stood up slowly, a tall thin figure with the esthetic features of a scholar and the yellow-green eyes of a jungle hunter.

“I’m afraid we must consider the matter settled,” he said gently. “Au revoir, until tomorrow, my comrades.”

With a slight smile he turned and moved silently toward the cellar exit.

After a moment one of the men at the table pinched out the candle and darkness, close and final, settled pall-like over the damp cellar...

At five o’clock on the afternoon of May twenty-eighth, a German staff car entered the outskirts of Prague and followed one of the main boulevards leading to the center of the city.

The car was driven by an impassive German officer and the sole occupant of the tonneau was a thin, loose-lipped man with pale, fretful features and cold shifting eyes. He wore the insignia of a Reich Upper Group Leader and his narrow chest was covered with medals and decorations.

As the car approached an intersection a stocky black-haired man on a bicycle swung out into the boulevard and pedaled leisurely along the street, directly in front of the staff car.

The chauffeur applied the brakes, slowing the car. He sounded the horn impatiently, swearing under his breath.

The man in the rear of the car looked up, his cold eyes snapping. A muscle twitched nervously in his cheek.

“What is the matter?” he barked.

The chauffeur gestured helplessly at the slowly moving bicyclist.

“I am sorry, sir, but this fool ahead on the cycle is blocking the street. Perhaps he is deaf.” He sounded the horn again, pressing angrily with the flat of his hand.

The officer in the rear of the car leaned back against the cushioned seat. A smile played about his loose lips and his unnaturally pale face lighted with a strange eagerness.

“How unfortunate for him,” he murmured. “Run him down.”

“But, excellency—”

“Silence!” The single word cracked like a leash about the chauffeur’s ears. “You have your orders!”

Red-faced, the chauffeur jammed his foot on the accelerator, but as the heavy car started to gain momentum, the bicyclist suddenly swerved to one side, leaving the road clear for the staff car.

The officer in the rear of the car cursed softly and his flabby lips twisted in a pout.

“The stupid fellow has saved his life,” he muttered. He crossed his booted leg nervously. “And for what? I would have been doing him a favor by crushing him beneath the wheels of the car. What can life possibly mean to such a senseless, inferior clod? Only a succession of hungry days and miserable nights stretching on forever. He is helpless to help himself or to hurt others. He lives without power, without effect, without importance. Better not to live.”

As the car drew abreast of the man on the bicycle he glanced idly at the rider. Boiling black eyes met his for one chilling instant. Eyes set in a hard, tensely determined face, eyes without fear, eyes that gleamed like flashing sword points.

The officer saw the man on the bicycle reach into the folds of his coarse jacket and draw out a round, black object; and he suddenly screamed madly at his chauffeur.

A man on the opposite side of the street, a dark-browed giant of a man, stepped suddenly from between two buildings. He drew a gun from his pocket and sighted deliberately at the figure in the tonneau of the staff car. His gun barked five times.

Almost at the same instant the arm of the cyclist flashed up and down, and a small black ball smashed against the hood of the car.

A reverberating explosion shattered the air.

The car rocked from the force of the blast. The chauffeur fell forward over the wheel and the machine careened madly over the sidewalk and smashed its hood into the glass showcase of a small shop.

The man on the bicycle pedaled swiftly across the street to the man who had fired the shots into the car.

“Did you get him?” he snapped.

“I think so. Come, we must hurry.”

“Not yet.” The man who had thrown the bomb shot an anxious glance up and down the street. “He said he would be here to give us directions.”

“Maybe he has failed. Something might have happened to him.”

“He will not fail us.”

Already people were appearing on the quiet street, emerging from the neat homes and small shops that lined the boulevard. Two men were running toward the wreckage of the car.

A cart with a load of hay turned onto the boulevard from a side street and the driver stopped the horses near the wrecked car. The driver clambered down without haste. He was wearing frayed overalls and a straw hat and his thin features were set in dull, stoic lines.

The man with the bicycle gripped his huge companion’s arm as the tall figure of the driver strode toward them.

“He has not failed us!” he whispered tensely.

“What do you mean?”

The overalled figure stopped in front of them.

“Please accept my congratulations,” he said. “You have done an excellent afternoon’s work. As a reward I would suggest a quiet drive through the country. And — ah — I wouldn’t let anything stop you from taking your reward immediately.”

The speaker lifted his straw hat slowly and the last rays of the sun struck lights in his strange, yellow-green eyes. The faces of the two men gleamed. “We knew you’d come,” the dark-featured giant said huskily. “Where shall we go?”

The man in overalls glanced lazily across the street at the wreckage of the car, noting the gathering of men and women and listening to the growing tumult spreading along the boulevard.

“If I were you,” he said thoughtfully, “I’d drive slowly away from this turbulent place and find some quiet secluded village and remain there. You’ll find the peace and quiet good for your souls. For that purpose I can’t think of a better place than the lazy, pleasant village of Lidice.”

“Lidice?”

“Yes, they’re expecting you. Now get started. At any moment the genial gentlemen from the Gestapo will arrive and in their charming fashion begin the questioning of witnesses.”

“But you?”

The yellow-green eyes glinted with amusement.

“When the Gestapo police arrive I shall be the only one present with an accurate description of the assassins, who, I shall swear, were eight in number and possessed of hairy, ringed tails. Now, go quickly. God be with you.”

Chapter II

On the morning of June fifth, there was an undercurrent of suppressed excitement and tension in the offices of the Reich’s Minister of Occupation, Marshal Wilhelm von Bock.

The tension was not localized however, in the imposing white-façaded building that Marshal von Bock had appropriated from the Czech government, but it was evident in all parts of Prague, reflected in the submissive eyes of women and the sullen, bitter eyes of men.

The death of Reinhardt Heydrich, the protector of Czechoslovakia, had been announced the day before, and already three hundred and fifty innocent men and women of Prague had been executed in wholesale retaliation.

In the imposing inner sanctum of Reich’s Minister von Bock, far from the bloody street scenes, far from the tragic-eyed men and women of Prague, this matter of reprisal was being discussed coldly, deliberately.

Marshal von Bock was pacing slowly in front of his magnificent mahogany desk. On the wall behind the desk an immense swastika flag hung from the ceiling to the floor. The marshal was a short, gross man with a distended stomach and heavy, oily jowls. In his elaborately emblazoned uniform he looked ridiculously like a strutting pigeon; but there was nothing ridiculous about the marshal’s pale, ruthless eyes and thick, cruel lips.

“This affair,” he was saying in his soft, slightly lisping voice, “presents an interesting psychological problem, do you not agree Herr Faber?”

He paused, hands clasped behind his back, and peered down at the figure sprawled comfortably in one of the room’s thickly padded leather chairs.

Michael Faber glanced up at the marshal and smiled faintly. His lean face was tranquilly relaxed and his yellow-green eyes were sleepily veiled.

“But, of course, Herr Minister,” he drawled. “If you continue the execution of innocent citizens we shall soon know exactly how far a people may be goaded. That should be valuable clinical information if any of us are here to appreciate it.”

Marshal von Bock folded his pudgy arms and shook his head despairingly.

“My good Herr Faber,” he said woefully, “you still have your curious American respect for the common people, do you not? After the things you have seen in Nazi countries you should realize that the people are but a helpless, unimportant mass of atoms. Those who guide and direct that mass of atoms are the only important human beings. You worry about the people of Prague, of Czechoslovakia revolting? Bah! That is ridiculous. We can grind them to powder under our heels and they will only whine for pity.”

Michael Faber lit his pipe and stared thoughtfully at the glowing match as smoke swirled around his head. His hunter’s eyes caught the reflection of the match and gleamed warmly under lowered lids.

“What you say, marshal,” he said, “is undoubtedly true. But what happened to Heydrich can happen, one day, to any of us.”

A flicker of amusement touched his face as Marshal von Bock suddenly mopped his damp brow.

“Bah!” the Minister said sharply. “That was an accident.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder and resumed his slow pacing.

“That was only an accident,” he repeated. “When we have completed our reprisals against these swine they will know better than to try a thing like that again.”

“Will the reprisals consist simply of murdering more Czechs?” Michael Faber asked.

Marshal von Bock stopped pacing and regarded Faber thoughtfully.

“The word, Herr Faber, is not ‘murder’,” he said softly.

“A slip of the tongue,” Michael said lazily.

“Your tongue seems to be in the habit of slipping, Herr Faber,” von Bock said. He folded his arms carefully. “You have been helpful to us in numerous ways, but please remember that we could, if necessary, do without you, Herr Faber. In Nazi Germany no one man is important!”

Michael raised his right arm languidly.

“Heil Hitler!” he murmured.

Minister von Bock flushed and glanced nervously about.

“I did not of course mean to include our Fuehrer in my statement,” he said weakly. “I meant that only the Fuehrer is important in Nazi Germany. It was a slip of the tongue.”

Michael’s eyes glinted with amusement.

“Bad habit,” he observed.

Marshal von Bock glared sharply at him, and then he resumed his pacing, mopping his perspiring brow as he padded back and forth in front of his desk.

“Let us forget this conversation,” he said. “We were discussing reprisals. What our future policy will be I do not know. That is a matter for the Reich State to decide. I am expecting word from them any day now as to how to proceed. When a man as important as Heydrich is assassinated, the means of reprisal is for the Fuehrer to decide. Do you realize that this assassination has given encouragement to all enemies of the Reich in Europe? If drastic and effective reprisals are not instantly undertaken a wave of this type of revolt might sweep the continent. And our enemies abroad are mocking us. We must show them, too, what happens to all enemies of the Reich, whether in Europe or across the seas.”

As the marshal finished speaking the heavy double doors of the office opened and an under-officer entered and saluted.

“Someone to see you, Herr Minister,” he said.

“Who is it?” Marshal von Bock said. “If he does not have an appointment send him away.”

“It is a woman, Herr Minister. She asked me to give you this.” The underofficer handed the minister a card.

Marshal von Bock glanced at the card and his eyes narrowed.

“Send her in immediately,” he said. When the under-officer left he turned to Michael and his fat oily face was agleam with excitement. “She is from Berlin, from the office of Heinrich Himmler.”

The door opened again and a tall, red-haired girl entered the room. Her features were as cold and white as marble, and her cool gray eyes were without expression. She was beautiful, Michael noticed, with an imperious, regal beauty that was without warmth or appeal.

She walked slowly toward von Bock and her slender legs and body moved in a flowing poem of motion.

The minister drew in his paunch and snapped to attention. His right arm shot out.

“Heil Hitler!”

“Heil Hitler!” the girl answered.

“Heil Hitler,” murmured Michael, around the stem of his pipe.

The girl glanced down, seeing him for the first time. Her cool gray eyes studied him carefully, deliberately, then she turned her gaze back to von Bock.

“You are Reich’s Minister von Bock?” she asked. Her voice was clear and firm, with just the faintest trace of an accent.

“That is right,” von Bock answered. “Won’t you be seated?”

“I prefer to stand. I am Marie Kahn, from the office of Reich’s Deputy, Heinrich Himmler. I have an important communication for you in relation to the assassination of Upper Group Leader Heydrich. Who is this man?” She gestured sharply toward Michael, without looking at him.

“He is the American, Michael Faber. He has done much to help us in the past two years. You may speak before him.” The girl glanced down at Michael and studied him coolly. A faint sneer touched her thin, finely molded lips.

“The American renegade, eh?” She turned back to von Bock. “How can you be sure of a man who is a traitor to his country?”

Michael Faber looked up at the girl and his thin, scholarly face was cynically amused. But as he studied her there was no amusement in swirling depths of his hunter’s eyes.

“You are an Austrian, are you not?” he asked. His keen ear had placed her faint accent.

A spot of color appeared in the girl’s marble-white cheeks.

“What concern is that of yours?” Michael spread his hands in a careless gesture.

“None at all,” he smiled lazily. “But how, my dear Fratdein, can the Nazis be sure of your fealty, since you are admittedly an Austrian.”

The girl turned furiously to von Bock. Every line of her slim body was rigid with anger.

“This I will not stand. He has questioned my loyalty to the Reich, to our Fuehrer. I will make a report of this incident, Herr Minister.”

“Now, now,” von Bock said soothingly, “we must not lose our tempers and fight among ourselves. The loyalty of both of you is unquestioned.” He rubbed his pudgy hands together. “You have orders for me, Fraulein Kahn, and here we stand, wasting time in bickering.”

The girl squared her slim shoulders.

Her gray eyes were alive against the whiteness of her face.

“Yes, Herr Minister,” she said. Her voice was even and cold. “You are right. My message to you is this: In reprisal for the cowardly assassination of our beloved Reinhardt Heydrich, the village of Lidice will be reduced to dust. The men will be immediately executed, the women sent to concentration camps and the children will become wards of the Third Reich. That is all. The details and arrangements are completely in your hands, Herr Minister.”

Michael Faber lit his pipe thoughtfully and his lean fingers were as steady as rocks.

“Why Lidice?” he asked, squinting upwards through the smoke at the girl. “It’s such a pleasant little town, I’ve always rather liked it.”

“Our Intelligence has discovered that the assassins took refuge there,” the girl answered coldly. “They may still be hiding in the village.”

“They might at that,” Michael said thoughtfully.

“This is delightful,” von Bock said musingly. “This is a fitting reprisal. We will erase the name of Lidice from the rolls of history and from the memory of man. Our dive bombers will leave nothing but a black scar in the earth as a reminder to our enemies of the fate of those who would stand against us. You may take back my message, Fraulein. I will carry out the orders of my Fuehrer to the last detail. Lidice shall avenge the death of Heydrich.”

“Heil Hitler!” Marie Kahn said.

“Heil Hitler!” barked von Bock.

Michael Faber tapped his pipe thoughtfully against his teeth. There was no expression on his lean face but there was a chilling light in the depths of his smouldering, yellow-green eyes.

“Heil Lidice!” he murmured softly under his breath.

Chapter III

On June tenth a strong motorized column roared along the concrete strip of road leading to the village of Lidice. In the lorries were scores of expectantly grinning Nazi storm troopers. Several light tanks brought up the rear of the procession. Above, a V-shaped flight of planes circled lazily against the blue of the late afternoon sky.

At the head of the swiftly moving column in the tonneau of an armored car rode Marshal von Bock and Michael Faber.

“You will see today a practical example of Nazi reprisals,” von Bock said to Michael. “You will see what we can do when our anger is aroused.” The marshal’s hands were clasped comfortably over his protruding stomach and he surveyed the passing countryside with placid, contented eyes. “I think it would be a good idea, Herr Faber, if you would broadcast to the people of America what you will see today. Yes, I think that would be a very good idea.” He turned to the young party Leader seated to his right. “Do you not think that would be a good idea, Captain Mueller?”

Captain Mueller was a heavily built young man with stone-hard features and cropped blond hair. He sat forward on the edge of the seat, his strong brown fingers gripped tightly together.

“Why tell them about it?” he said harshly. His voice was thickly guttural. “They will have first hand experience with our methods very soon.”

“You disagree with me then?” von Bock said mildly.

“And what is your opinion, Herr Faber? After all you are the propaganda expert.”

Michael glanced sideways at the tensely set face of the young captain. There was an amused glint in his eyes.

“I’m afraid I must disagree with our young Captain,” he said. “A thing like the annihilation of Lidice will make a deep impression on our enemies. They will never, never forget it, you may count on that.”

“That is good,” Captain Mueller said.

“That is wonderful,” Michael said quietly.

The motorized column reached the quiet village of Lidice within the half hour. Marshal von Bock’s car rolled through the single main street scattering chickens and occasional live-stock. The remainder of the column stopped at intervals along the dusty road and grim-jawed, heavily armed storm troopers spilled out eagerly.

A child ran screaming into a small cottage and the door was hastily slammed. Frightened, despairing faces were visible occasionally at windows of homes and shops.

“It will soon be over,” von Bock said. He was picking his teeth contentedly. “The roastbrauten was underdone today,” he observed thoughtfully.

Captain Mueller clambered from the car and soon his young strident voice could be heard bawling orders down the line of stopped vehicles.

“I think I’ll take a look,” Michael said. “If I’m to tell the American public about this I shall want to be accurate.”

Von Bock chuckled appreciatively.

Michael stepped from the car and glanced swiftly down the line of lorries. The troopers were entering the houses at the far end of the village; already he could hear the tortured screams of women and children and occasionally the hoarse tragic shout of a man.

His lean face hardened and a merciless light flickered in his strange eyes. This was one more score to settle, one more crime to avenge.

With quick strides he crossed the dusty street and ducked between two buildings. The storm troopers were at the opposite end of the street, working down in his direction.

He ran along the path between the buildings. When he reached the rear of the building he vaulted a fence and climbed the rickety stairs built against the back of the filmsy wooden structure.

At the second landing he paused before a weather-beaten door and knocked rapidly three times. He paused and then knocked twice slowly.

There was silence beyond the door, then a cautious, shuffling step and the door opened a crack. The door was flung open then and Michael stepped quickly into a small room fitted as a laboratory.

A bent, white-haired man sat at a table littered with papers on which designs and mathematical symbols were scrawled. There was dazed, pathetic bewilderment in his mild blue eyes.

The man who had opened the door gripped Michael by the arm. Hot black eyes blazed in his tense face.

“For God’s sake, Michael,” he said, “what is it? The shouts, the screams, the truck loads of troopers. What are the devils up to, now?”

“Their usual trade,” Michael said bitterly. “Murder.” He took the man’s arm. “Paul, I have failed you. I wasn’t able to get here to warn you. Von Bock has stuck to me like a postage stamp this last week. The Nazis are here now to annihilate Lidice in retaliation for that bomb that blew Reinhardt Heydrich to hell.”

“I threw that bomb,” the man said simply. “I am sorry that innocents must suffer, but throwing that bomb was the finest thing I have ever done. My bomb and Henri’s bullets sent a monster out of this world. For that I am proud.”

“Where is Henri?” Michael asked. “He went to the other end of the village to get some tobacco.” Swift alarm flickered in his eyes. “Is he—”

“I’m afraid he is in their hands,” Michael said. “They started at the opposite end of the street. They will be here in a very short while. I am afraid that this is the end, Paul. There is no escape.”

Paul glanced at the white-haired man sitting at the table.

“Doctor Schultz and I are ready to go,” he said, “but you must not be found here. Go back and join von Bock. There is work yet for you to do. And you must remain alive to do that work. It is the most important work in the world. Go, quickly. When they find us — it will be all over in an instant.”

“Wait,” the white-haired man said quietly. He stood up slowly and his knees trembled under the burden of his frail, undernourished frame. There were grooved lines of suffering in the doctors’ face but there was a dignity and nobility in his eyes that was as clear as a beacon light over lashing waves.

“What is it, Doctor Schultz?” Michael asked gently.

“I can save one of you. In my last experiments with electrical dissemination of matter. I developed a device which renders opaque substances practically invisible to the naked eye.” The old doctor paused thoughtfully. “I did not disclose the results of my experiments because I knew the Nazi regime would subvert my invention and use it for their own brutal ends.”

“Do you mean,” Michael asked tensely, “that you have a device that will make a physical substance invisible? Such as a human body?”

“Precisely,” the doctor nodded.

“It seems incredible,” Michael breathed.

The doctor peered over his spectacles.

“There was a time,” he said, “when I was considered as a rather good scientist, you know. That seems a long time ago.”

“Not long enough for the world to have forgotten your work in electrotherapy, Doctor,” Michael said. “Crippled children who have been restored to health through your genius will never forget you.”

“I am glad,” the doctor said simply. “But there is not time to talk of such things now. We must work quickly.”

“But you?” Paul said. “You could save yourself with this device.”

“Save myself for what?” the doctor smiled gently. “There is no place for me in Nazi Germany. I am a healer. In Nazi Europe we need bomb-throwers, pistol-shooters, men of courage and strength. You two are such men.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Michael said simply. He turned to Paul. “There is no time to lose. You must take this chance.”

A sudden stacatto burst of machine gun fire sounded from the street. A woman’s scream, clear and terrible, pierced through the ugly roar of coughing death.

“They will soon be here,” the doctor said quietly.

The eyes of Paul were boiling pools of rage and his hands were clenching and unclenching spasmodically.

“I must live,” he whispered. “I must live. I must strike again and again at these swaggering swine. Nothing must stop me. That, I swear by my mother’s cross.”

The doctor hurried to a small closet and returned in an instant with a small compact device to which a metal headband was attached. He slipped it down over Paul’s head, adjusted the band firmly. There were two dials on the face of the small mechanism.

“The operation is simple, but there are not a half dozen men in the world today who could understand the principle,” the doctor said quietly. “The dial on the left turns the mechanism on, the right turns it off.”

The tumult in the street was growing louder by the second.

“There is little time left,” Michael said.

The doctor snapped the left dial into position and a faint humming noise gradually sounded in the room.

Michael watched tensely but there was no visible change in Paul’s appearance. He forced his nerves into calmness. His ears heard the shouts and running steps of men alongside the building. There was so little time left...

Suddenly the faint humming noise stopped. Michael looked sharply at the doctor. Had something gone wrong?

He swung about to Paul and an electric thrill shot through him.

Paul had disappeared!

No! His straining eyes made out a faint outline, a shadowy suggestion of a human form where Paul had stood.

“Can you hear me?” he asked quickly.

“Yes,” Paul answered. “I feel no change.”

Michael tensed suddenly as he heard booted feet pounding on the steps at the back of the building.

“Back into the corner,” he hissed to Paul. “If I can I will get rid of them.”

“There is no chance,” the doctor said. Michael saw that the doctor was holding a small revolver in his hands. There was a sad, slow smile on his seamed face.

“How a man lives is not always important,” the doctor murmured, “but how a man dies is always important. Au revoir, my friend. The world is in your hands. May God give you strength and wisdom.”

Without haste the white-haired doctor placed the gun against his side and pulled the trigger. He was smiling as he fell to the floor.

An instant later there was a clamor outside and a heavy fist pounded mightily against the door.

“Open, dogs!” a guttural voice snarled. “Open in the name of the Fuehrer.”

Michael bent and took the gun from the doctor’s hand. He wheeled toward the corner where Paul crouched, a faint, barely discernible shadow in the gloom of the room.

“Paul!” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“The underground pass-word has been changed. It is now ‘The time is near at hand.’ Do you hear?”

“Yes. ‘The time is near at hand.’ I will not forget.”

The door was trembling under the shattering impact of a heavy fist. A hoarse, bestial voice cried:

“Smash it down!”

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.

The girl kicked the gun out of reach as Captain Mueller lunged forward again. Enraged, he struck her with the back of his heavy hand across the face. A livid mark stained the whiteness of her face and she fell against the desk, her hands pressed to the angry red mark.

Michael rose, cat-like, to his feet.

His narrow face was tense and the centers of his yellow eyes were smoky pools of savage rage.

“You are effective against women, Captain,” he said softly. An inarticulate growl sounded deep in the German officer’s throat as he charged forward, his fists swinging like mallets.

Michael side-stepped and snapped a hard left into his face. Captain Mueller’s head jerked back and blood trickled from his mouth.

“Dog!” he roared.

He lowered his bullet-shaped head and rushed Michael, backing him toward a corner. Michael’s left hand flicked out, again and again, like the darting tongue of a snake, blinding the charging German. But Captain Mueller’s superior weight and strength drove the American relentlessly back until he was trapped in a corner of the room.

Ducking a round-house right swing Michael stepped in close and drove a hard, chopping right into the German’s jowls. The punch packed behind it all of his wiry power and he felt its shock all the way to his elbow.

The captain staggered back, cursing madly through his blood-frothed lips. Michael stepped in again, recklessly. He knew he had to finish this quickly or the guards would be drawn to the scene by the noise.

He swung again, but Mueller blocked the blow and countered with a vicious right, Michael’s guard was down and the blow landed solidly on his jaw, slamming him back against the wall. His head snapped back, crashing into the wall, and a million streaking lights exploded in his brain.

His knees sagged; his head slumped down on his chest. Through a red fog of pain he could dimly see Captain Mueller’s stocky figure standing in front of him, gloatingly expectant.

He tried to lift his arms but he lacked the strength. His breath was a rasping pain in his throat. He knew he was through, that this was the end.

Captain Mueller turned suddenly and crossed the room with rapid strides. He bent and picked up the gun from the floor and turned back to Michael, the ugly blue hole in the Luger barrel centered unwaveringly on his stomach.

“You have lost, Herr Faber,” Captain Mueller said, his breath coming heavily. “There will be no trial and execution for you. I will provide both.”

Michael lifted his head slowly. He saw the bestial triumph in Mueller’s eyes and he saw the twitching muscles of the hand that held the Luger; and he knew that he was facing death.

Suddenly an English voice roared in the room.

Mueller started and swung half way around. The red-haired girl, Michael saw, had flicked on the powerful receiving set; the voice in the room was that of the B.B.C. announcer. But the ruse had diverted, for an instant, the German’s attention; had given Michael one thousand-to-one chance. And he took that chance.

Gathering his fading strength, he hurled himself across the room at the German’s surprised figure. Mueller wheeled, whipping the gun about to cover Michael. But he was too late. Michael drove into his gun arm, doubling the wrist inward and, as the two men crashed to the floor, a muffled explosion sounded.

The girl screamed as a hoarse, strained gasp followed the sound of the shot. She dropped to her knees and pulled Michael from the German’s body. There was blood on his shirt front but it was from the oozing stain that was spreading slowly over Captain Mueller’s chest.

Her lips moved in a silent prayer. “Thank God,” she murmured. She pulled Michael’s head close to her and he opened his eyes and smiled faintly.

“Pleasant as this is,” he said, “we’ll have to postpone it for a while.”

He stood up and turned down the radio.

“That was a neat trick,” he said, looking down at her. “It undoubtedly saved my life, which isn’t so important, but the work I have to do is important. Thank you for that.”

He helped her to her feet.

“You fooled me again when he came in,” he said. “I thought surely I’d misjudged you. I believed you when you said you’d come here to trick me into revealing myself as a British agent.”

“It was the only thing I could do,” the girl answered. “We are lucky he was stupid enough to believe me. Now we must plan to get you out of here. Do you think the guard could have heard the shot?”

“It isn’t likely,” Michael said. “The radio was on full blast and the sound of the shot was muffled. Our luck is still holding.”

He unfolded the paper of instructions he still held in his hand and studied it intently, a faint frown forming on his lean face.

“This is urgent,” he said. “Every second, now, is precious. Get ready to leave. I’ll dispose of the body in a less conspicuous spot. It won’t be discovered until tomorrow morning. And by that time our work will be done.” Michael opened the door and glanced up and down the corridor. Seeing that the way was clear he bent and hoisted the heavy body of the dead German officer to his shoulder and stepped into the corridor. Lurching under his awkward burden he moved silently down the hallway until he reached an intersecting corridor. He followed this for several yards until he came to a small closet. Opening the door he dumped the German’s body on the floor and covered it with a tarpaulin he found hanging on the wall.

Then he closed and locked the door. As he started back a sudden, chilling scream shattered the stillness. Michael froze in the darkness of the hall, his heart pounding. A thousand speculations seemed to crowd his brain.

The scream sounded again, a helpless, terror-filled cry of anguish that chilled the marrow in his bones. He hesitated for another second, his mind working with lightning-speed, then he broke into a charging run.

Chapter V

As Michael raced toward the sound of the scream he realized with sudden helplessness that he was completely unarmed. He had left the German’s Luger lying on the floor of the radio room.

He charged recklessly around the corner of the corridor. But the sight that met his eyes brought him to a sudden, incredulous halt.

Marie was standing in front of the open door of the radio room, her body stiffened in a posture of terror and a white mask of dread stamped on her lovely features.

But there was no one else in sight. There was nothing to account for her expression of terror. She was completely alone in the dimly lighted corridor.

As Michael started toward her, his eyes followed the gaze of her wide, horror-filled eyes and he suddenly saw what had attracted her frightened, fascinated stare.

In the gloom of the corridor, not a foot from her face, a heavy black gun was visible, menacing her with its grim blue-holed muzzle.

The gun was suspended in the air, five feet from the floor, a chilling, unnatural spectacle that apparently defied the laws of gravity.

Then Michael saw the shadowy hand that held the gun, and against the uncertain gloom of the hall he made out a vague spectral shape crouched before the girl’s terrified figure.

A flood of relief washed over him.

“Paul!” he cried. He broke into £ run. “Don’t shoot; it’s all right.”

He saw the shadowy suggestion of a head turn toward him, then the gun lowered slowly. The girl leaned weakly against the wall. There was pathetic relief in her eyes as she saw Michael, but a wordless horror still lingered on her white features.

“Michael,” she gasped. “What is it? Am I losing my mind?”

Michael put his arm about her slim bare shoulders and drew her close to him. She laid her head against his breast, sobbing.

“There’s nothing to fear,” he murmured. “This is Paul Cheval, the man who eliminated Heydrich.”

“But—”

“I know. You can’t see him. But neither can the Gestapo, which is quite an advantage.”

A faint humming sounded, grew louder, finally fading away to an indistinct murmur. Gradually the shadowy shape of Paul Cheval materialized. He stood before them, the gun still held in a hand at his side, his dark face grimly anxious. The invisibility head-piece was still strapped to his forehead.

Michael introduced him to the girl and rapidly explained to her how he had come into possession of the headpiece at the destruction of Lidice.

Paul glanced nervously down the darkened corridors.

“There is not much time for talk,” he said. “The Storm Troopers of Captain Mueller are outside, waiting for a signal from him to enter. They will not wait much longer.”

“I am leaving for Berlin immediately,” Michael said. “You’ve got to hold the Troopers for a few minutes, Paul, while Marie and I slip out the back door. I have just received information from London that the second front will soon be opened on the continent. My orders are to contact every underground worker I possibly can with this news. We’ve got to strike at the Nazis with everything we’ve got. Rumors, assassinations, sabotage — all of these must be increased a hundredfold. We’ve got to give the Storm Troopers and Gestapo so much to do inside Europe that they’ll take their eyes off the outside. Our job is to turn the continent of Europe into a cauldron of boiling trouble for the Nazis. Heydrich’s death is only the start. From now on nothing must stop us.”

Paul nodded. “Nothing shall stop us. The people of this region are ready for open revolt. Already fifteen hundred innocent hostages have been killed for the assassination of Heydrich. And more will be killed every day. The people have reached the breaking point.”

“Good!” Michael snapped. “The Nazis are choking themselves to death with their own blood lust.” He reached out suddenly and gripped Paul’s shoulder. “When I finish my assignment in Berlin I am going back to London. Those are my orders. A camouflaged R.A.F. plane will pick me up when my work is done. But the fight here must go on. You must not falter, Paul. The second front is coming, but the dominated peoples inside Europe must prepare for it as carefully as our Allies outside Europe.”

He broke off suddenly. Through the dark building came the echoing tread of swiftly striding booted feet.

“The Storm Troopers of Captain Mueller!” Marie cried.

“We must go!” Michael said softly. “This is goodbye, Paul. Hold them for a few seconds, at least. That will give us a start.”

Paul’s hand flicked up to the dial on his head-piece. The humming noise sounded and then his body faded slowly, almost imperceptibly, into the dark gloom of the corridor. His eyes were visible for a last instant, cold and gleaming in the blackness.

“I will hold them,” he whispered. “Now go!” His formless, invisible hand touched Michael’s arm for an instant. “Until we meet again.” Then he faded away toward the sound of advancing troopers.

Michael took Marie’s hand and ted her swiftly through the blackened corridors, toward a rear door, which he knew would be unguarded.

A shot suddenly echoed through the building, followed by hoarse, confused shouts. Another shot rang out. And the sound of booted feet scrambling for cover could be heard.

Michael’s hand gripped Marie’s tightly as they slipped from the building into the narrow alley-way that flanked it. His thin face was set in hard lines; his yellow-green eyes flashed in the darkness.

The sound of another shot was heard; three more followed in quick succession.

“Michael!” Marie whispered tensely. “Has Paul a chance of escaping?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But if he doesn’t, he’ll send a number of Nazis to hell before they get him. Come, we have to hurry.”

Chapter VI

The sleek light bomber settled gracefully to a sprawling landing field on the outskirts of Berlin. The pilot cut the throbbing roar of the engines as the plane taxied to a stop facing the administration buildings of the field.

An attendant ran to the plane and adjusted a portable stairway to the gleaming side of the ship. Then he swung open the door.

“Thank you,” Michael Faber said, smiling. “I see that you received my radio message. Is the car waiting?”

“Yes, Herr Faber,” the attendant said, “everything is in readiness. Do you wish to leave immediately?”

“Yes. Speed is essential.”

“I will take you to your car.” Michael strode down the sloping walk to the field. Marie Kahn followed him, walking carefully on her high-heeled evening shoes. She wore Michael’s suit coat over her bare shoulders.

Michael held her hand tightly as they hurried across the field to where a low-slung, powerful car awaited them.

“Our luck is still holding,” he whispered. “Obviously Mueller’s body hasn’t been discovered yet.”

The slanting rays of false dawn were coloring the blackness of the eastern horizon and, despite the season, there was a noticeable chill in the air.

The landing-field attendant opened the door of the waiting car with a flourish and stepped aside.

“You will be at your destination in twenty minutes, Herr Faber,” he said. He smiled brightly. “I trust I have handled everything to your satisfaction, Herr Faber.”

“Absolutely,” Michael said. “And I shall see that word of your good work is passed on to your superiors.”

“Oh, thank you, Herr Faber.” Michael helped Marie into the car and stepped in after her.

“Central Intelligence,” he said to the driver, a stocky, blonde man wearing, a corporal’s uniform. “And hurry!” The driver nodded without turning. The gears of the car meshed smoothly and it shot away from the field, rapidly gathering speed.

Michael looked down at the red-haired girl at his side and he smiled softly.

“So far, so good,” he murmured.

“We have been lucky,” the girl said. “Let us pray our luck holds.”

“It must hold,” Michael said grimly. Nothing more was said until they reached the blacked-out Unter den Linden and turned off on a deserted side street that led to the Central Intelligence offices.

“Do you know any of the staff at Central?” Michael asked quietly.

“No. Why?”

“It might have helped if you did. The problem of getting in at this hour of the morning might be difficult. But we’ll manage.”

“The office is in charge of Marshal von Umbreit,” the girl said, “but I know nothing of him.”

The car rolled to a smooth stop a few moments later in front of a modern, white-fronted building. The building was completely dark and sandbags were piled high against the walls.

The driver got out and opened the door.

“Will that be all, sir?” he asked.

Michael noticed that a half dozen guards were on patrol in front of the building and that two of them had halted and were watching the car.

“Yes,” Michael said, “that will be all.”

He stepped out into the dark street and gave his hand to Marie. When she stood beside him on the sidewalk the driver saluted jerkily, got back into the car and drove off.

Michael took the girl’s arm.

“Follow my lead,” he whispered. In a louder voice, he said, “Come, Fraulein, there is not a minute to lose.”

The words carried clearly in the dead silence of the night.

Michael saw the two guards moving slowly toward them, their booted feet sounding ominously on the hard sidewalk, but he pretended to be unaware of their presence.

With his hand on Marie’s arm he strode briskly toward the main entrance of the Central Intelligence building. The booted feet broke into a run and a guttural voice cried, “Halt!”

With his foot on the first step leading up to the building’s main door, Michael paused. He turned as the two guards approached at a lumbering run, rifles held in readiness.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. “Just the men I wanted to see. Where the devil were you hiding yourselves?

Napping on post, I dare say.” He turned to Marie. “Make a note of that, Fraulein. It’s time steps were taken about such carelessness.”

The two guards came to a stop, their mouths dropping in amazement. The larger of the two, a florid-faced, cold-eyed example of the Prussian type, stuttered speechlessly.

“What is the meaning of this?” he finally managed to bellow. “Who are you? What do you want here at this time of night? Where are your papers?”

“You want a lot of information, don’t you?” Michael murmured. “Has it ever occurred to you that the British, too, want precisely that same type of information? No, of course it hasn’t. My good fellow, we are here to see Marshal von Umbreit. If you can take us to him, please do so. If not, find us someone capable of performing that task. We have no time to waste.”

The guard’s beefy face reddened.

“Marshal von Umbreit,” he fumed, “will not be here for another five hours. I demand to see your papers.”

Michael studied the man with cold, deliberate eyes.

“Would you be good enough,” he said, “to tell me when you had your last discussion with the marshal about his plans for this morning?”

“I have had no discussion with the marshal,” the guard said, flustered, “but it is his custom—”

“Bah!” Michael said in disgust. “How can we win a war handicapped by clods like you?” He whipped out his wallet and held his identification under the guard’s nose. “I am a special agent from Marshal von Bock. “Tell me, have you heard of Marshal von Bock?”

“But, of course,” the guard mumbled. “I—”

“This is Fraulein Marie Kahn,” Michael snapped, “from the office of Heinrich Himmler. Have you heard of him?”

“Yes—”

“We are here to see Marshal von Umbreit in regard to the assassination of Upper Group Leader Heydrich. Is that name familiar to you, Herr Dumpkoff?”

“Certainly,” the guard cried, his voice breaking slightly. “I—”

“You’re progressing,” Michael said gently. “Now,” he said, his voice hardening, “will you take us to Marshal von Umbreit’s office, or shall I call Himmler?”

“This is against my instructions,” the guard moaned. “If anything happens—”

Michael turned to the red-haired girl.

“What is Himmler’s private number?” he asked.

“No!” the guard almost shrieked. “Do not call him. It will not be necessary. I–I will take you to the marshal’s office. Come with me.” Michael’s hand closed tightly over the girl’s as they followed the guard up the steps of the building to the main entrance.

The guard swung wide the heavy brass doors and preceded them into the darkened interior of the building. He drew a torch from his pocket and shot a beam of light down a wide, heavily carpeted hallway.

“Because of the blackout,” he said, “we can have no lights.”

“Oh, is that why?” Michael said. “I thought for a minute you were just being economical.”

“Oh, no,” the guard chuckled. “It is the blackout orders. It is silly, but it is an order.”

“Silly?” Michael said. “You don’t think the R.A.F. will come this way?”

“Of course not,” the guard said. He led them down the wide corridor, past imposingly lettered doors, toward a heavy double door at the end of the hall.

“You seem confident about not being bombed,” Michael said, “but how about Cologne? They tell me there was a raid over that city.”

“British lies,” the guard scoffed. “The German radio said no damage was done. One report said that only a few cows were hit by bombs.”

“That’s right,” Michael said, “but those cows burned for five days.”

“That’s right,” the guard smiled. “They burned for five—”

He stopped smiling and looked sharply at Michael. He scratched his head slowly and a peculiar look of bewilderment spread over his blunt features.

“Five days,” he mumbled. “That’s a long time for cows to burn, no?”

“An ordinary cow might not burn that long,” Michael said, “but naturally the superior breed of German cow would be a different matter.”

They stopped in front of the double doors at the end of the corridor and the guard stepped aside.

“This is Marshal von Umbreit’s office. You can wait for him here. Will you need my light?”

“Possibly,” Michael said. “I’d better take it just in case. Thank you very much. I shall see that your superiors hear of your good work.”

The guard’s face beamed.

“Thank you, Herr Faber.”

He started away and then turned back, his forehead wrinkled in perplexity.

“I do not mean to be disloyal,” he said, “but five days is still a long time for cows to burn.” With an embarrassed frown he wheeled and marched back down the corridor.

Michael watched until he opened the building’s brass doors and disappeared into the street, before drawing Marie into Marshal von Umbreit’s office and closing and locking the door.

Marie leaned weakly against the wall and laughed hysterically.

Michael took her by the shoulders and shook her roughly.

“Stop it!” he said tensely. “The big job is still ahead of us. Get hold of yourself.”

“I’m sorry,” Marie said, pressing her hands to her face. “I’m all right now. But sometimes I have the feeling that something inside of me is ready to snap. I’ve had that feeling many times in the last two years.”

“I know,” Michael said softly. He lifted her chin with his finger and smiled into her deep gray eyes. “I’ve felt that myself. It’s not pleasant. But then neither is the thing we’re fighting against pleasant.”

“I’m ashamed of myself,” the girl said.

“You haven’t any reason for being.” Michael said quietly. “You’ve been magnificent. But you can’t fold now. We still have a job ahead of us.”

He flashed the torch about the large, luxuriously appointed office. Under the inevitable swastika there was a huge mahogany desk in immaculate order.

Michael crossed to the desk and studied the drawers for an instant.

“It wouldn’t be in a drawer,” he muttered. Nevertheless he tried the drawers, but all were locked.

“You haven’t told me what you’re looking for,” Marie said.

“I’m after a roll of film,” Michael answered. “Our Intelligence learned that the Germans had photographed the camouflaging that has been done on the French coast. These films are in microscopic scale. With special reproduction apparatus they can be blown up into eight by ten photographs. It is extremely vital that these films reach British hands. The entire plan for the second front depends on discovering what areas are camouflaged. Aerial photography isn’t completely satisfactory, so the only alternative is to borrow the actual small scale German films. And that’s just what we’re going to do.”

“Have you any idea where they are?”

“Roughly, they’re in this office.”

He played his torch over the walls and ceiling and then inspected the desk again.

“Hardly in the desk. Too easy to steal.” He frowned. “But there’d be no point in hiding them. The logical place would be an easily accessible repository that would be burglar proof.”

“A wall safe?” Marie suggested. “Probably,” Michael nodded.

Marie turned suddenly and swept back the swastika from the wall.

“This is what you want, then. This is a favorite place of concealment in German offices.”

Michael saw a small steel wall safe set in the bared wall. He stepped quickly to it and slowly turned the dial with his long, sensitive fingers.

“I have the combination,” he murmured. “It was obligingly furnished by one of our workers here.”

For several seconds he spun the tiny gleaming dial, then he pulled suddenly and the door swung noiselessly open. He pointed the flash into the small dark interior and saw several sheafs of paper and, at the far end of the safe, the object for which he was searching. A tiny roll of films.

“We’ve done it,” he said excitedly. He removed the films, checked them carefully but hastily, then shoved them into his trouser pocket. His lean face was gleaming with triumph.

“By dawn we’ll be flying for London,” he cried. “We’ve got to leave immediately. Every second is working against us.”

He turned back to close the wall safe. When he had closed it and drawn the swastika back into place he wheeled to the girl.

“Every step takes us nearer England,” he said tensely. “We mustn’t falter.”

“We won’t,” Marie said.

Michael took her arm and started across the floor. Suddenly lights flashed on in the room. From overhead and wall sockets bright bulbs blazed into brilliance.

Michael’s body froze in a crouch. He jerked Marie to a stop.

“Something’s wrong,” he whispered. “We’ll have to find another way out.” Hardly had the words passed his lips when the great double door of the office swung inward, and the short, pigeon-puffy form of Marshal von Bock stepped into the room.

Two Storm Troopers followed him, Lugers drawn.

Von Bock’s thick lips were curved in a sadistic smile. But his eyes were angry and cold.

“How fortunate we discovered your little game, Herr Faber,” he said in his soft, lisping voice.

Chapter VII

For an instant there was complete silence in the room. The tension grew until Michael gradually relaxed and allowed a slow ironic smile to light his pale, thin features.

“What a suspicious nature you have, Marshal,” he remarked mildly. “Please tell those determined men with you to put their guns away before they shoot someone accidentally.”

“They will not shoot anyone by accident,” von Bock said significantly. “Your clever tongue will not save you this time, Herr Faber. You have reached the end of your very long rope. I have just seen the body of Captain Mueller.”

“Gracious,” Michael murmured. “Is he dead? What happened to the poor chap?”

“Stop stalling!” von Bock snapped. “You killed him. I know that. And it will be our pleasure to execute you as a British agent. Or is it America you’re working for, Herr Faber?”

Michael shrugged. “That’s a technicality, isn’t it? What difference does it make?”

Von Bock nodded to the two Storm Troopers.

“Search him.”

The two men went over Michael carefully. They handed the roll of film to von Bock along with his personal effects.

“I think I know what this is,” von Bock said, studying the film. “Yes, it is very fortunate we stopped you before you left Europe, Herr Faber.” He turned his round head slightly and studied the red-haired girl. “Your presence here, Fraulein Kahn, I find rather puzzling. Perhaps you can clear the doubts that are plucking at my mind.”

“There is nothing puzzling about my presence here, Marshal von Bock,” the girl answered coldly. “Captain Mueller and I were working together to trap the American. Unfortunately we underestimated our opponent. He shot Captain Mueller with his own gun and forced me to accompany him here because I knew the layout of the building. I imagine he intended to kill me later.”

“What a harrowing experience for you, Fraulein” von Bock said mildly.

Michael risked a quick glance at the marshal, but it was impossible to tell from the man’s expressionless, moonlike face what he was thinking.

He paced slowly back and forth, tugging at his fat under lip.

“I must make a report of this matter personally,” he said thoughtfully. “Marshal von Umbreit must be notified immediately.” He turned again to Marie. “I shall leave the American in your hands. I shall leave these two men with you, however, for he might become troublesome.” He nodded to one of the Storm Troopers. “Tie his arms behind him and watch him carefully. He is very clever.”

With a cynical wave of his hand to Michael, he stepped from the room, closing the door after him.

“You have your orders,” Marie snapped to the Troopers. “Bind his arms.”

As the Nazi soldiers knotted a belt about his wrists, Michael nodded slowly to the girl. She turned away and removed his coat from her shoulders, tossed it over a chair.

“Do either of you have a cigarette?” she asked of the Storm Troopers.

Michael smiled faintly. The girl was acting her part admirably. This was obviously a trap by von Bock to see if she had been telling the truth. Probably the marshal was waiting cutside the door with a dozen men. If she made the slightest move to help him it would cost both their lives.

One of the soldiers offered her a cigarette and held a match until the tip was glowing brightly. She blew a cloud of blue smoke into the air and faced Michael, a cool smile curving her lips; but there was an anguish in her gray eyes that she could not conceal.

“So,” she said softly, “you thought you could fool the Gestapo indefinitely!”

Michael shrugged.

“We all make mistakes. I made one in forcing you to accompany me. Had I gone on alone I would probably have been successful.”

Michael hoped that von Bock heard that much.

“I—” The girl started to speak, but she stopped suddenly. A tense, startled expression spread over her white features.

The Storm Troopers noticed the sudden change.

“What is it?” one of them demanded. He raised his gun and glanced about the room with suspicious eyes.

Michael raised his head slightly. A fierce, exultant hope was pounding through his veins.

For he could hear distinctly a faint humming sound in the large office and from the corner of his eye he saw a shadowy shape moving toward the girl. She obviously had heard the sound and had recognized it as did Michael.

Paul Cheval, the one man to survive the horror of Lidice, was in the room, a grim phantom of vengeance and retribution!

This was one development that von Bock hadn’t planned when he had set this little trap.

“It is nothing,” the girl said quickly. “I–I’ve been through so much in the last few hours that my nerves are jumpy. I thought I saw the figure of a man on the other side of the room.”

Both Troopers turned in the direction she indicated and at that same instant the stocky, black-browed figure of Paul Cheval materialized beside the girl. With a swift rush he lunged at one of the soldiers, ripped the Luger from his hand. He shoved the man away from him and swung the gun to cover the second Trooper.

“Drop your gun!” he said. His voice was like thin ice cracking. There was no mistaking the chilling intention in his hot, black eyes.

The soldier dropped his gun to the floor with trembling fingers.

Marie stepped quickly to Michael’s side and went to work on the belt that was strapped about his wrists.

“Hurry!” Paul Cheval snapped.

He swung one Nazi about and brought the barrel of his gun down across the man’s temple. He sagged to the floor like a damp sack of oats. The other Trooper opened his mouth to cry out, but Paul rammed his gun, butt-deep into the man’s stomach.

“One squeak and you die,” he whispered.

The Nazi’s eyes circled in terror, whites gleaming, but his mouth clamped suddenly shut.

Michael felt his bonds giving, but before he could slip his wrists free, the door of the office burst open and von Bock strode into the room. He was alone, but he held an unwavering Luger in his hand.

He saw Paul and his face went blank with amazement.

Paul jerked his gun up, but von Bock fired first. The bullet slammed into Paul, knocking him about in a halfcircle. He fell slowly to the floor, his face a mask of agony. Blood stained his shirt and his face was an ashen gray. Desperately he tried to raise the gun in his hand, but it slipped from his nerveless fingers as he slumped to the floor.

Von Bock swung around to cover Marie.

“So!” he snapped harshly. “You were in with him!”

He strode across the room on his thick, stubby legs, flushed with anger.

“I caught you attempting to free him,” he said. “For that you will die with him, Fraulein”

Without taking his eyes from the girl, he signaled to the Trooper who was still on his feet.

“Drag the swine I shot from the room. I don’t like the smell of fresh blood.”

The Trooper put his hands under Paul’s shoulders and dragged him across the floor and out of the room, slamming the door after him.

“Now,” von Bock said harshly, “we will see, Fraulein, if your tricks will work on me. We have been altogether too lenient in dealing with enemies of the Reich. From now on, we shall be more firm.”

He shifted his gun to his left hand as he spoke. Then he stepped forward and slapped the girl savagely across the cheek.

“That, Fraulein, is only the start.”

“You inhuman beast!” the girl cried.

Michael said nothing, but his face was set and pale. He was working desperately at his bonds. The girl had loosened them, but not enough to free his wrists. If only he had time...

Von Bock sauntered slowly over to him. His thick lips were smiling grimly.

“You have made quite a fool of me, Herr Faber,” he said. “My superiors are going to wonder how you were able to deceive me for over two years. It is possible that I may be demoted because of you. You were very clever. Many times you must have been laughing at me, Herr Faber.”

His face clouded suddenly with bitter rage and the veins at his temples throbbed visibly.

“Didn’t you laugh, Herr Faber?” he shouted, his voice hoarse and ragged.

Michael smiled and shook his head.

“I never laughed at you, Herr Marshal,” he said. “But many times I pitied you.”

“Pity!” Von Bock’s voice shook with insane rage.

He drove his right fist suddenly into Michael’s face. The unexpectedness, rather than the force of the blow staggered him and he slumped to his knees. Blood streamed from his lip.

But as he fell he strained desperately at the belt about his wrists and he felt it give slightly. On his knees before von Bock he slipped one hand free. As his other hand came loose he dropped his head to his chest to hide the elated expression on his face.

“That is a fitting posture for you,” von Bock snarled. “On your knees, head bowed before the Herrenvolk!”

He raised his booted foot, but as he kicked at Michael’s face, Michael shifted slightly and von Bock’s leg shot across his shoulder. Michael ducked swiftly and his hands shot out, grabbing the marshal’s other leg.

A savage jerk brought the German’s portly figure crashing to the floor. Michael lunged for von Bock’s gun hand, but the Luger had dropped to the floor in the fall. The marshal squirmed on top of Michael and dug his thumbs into his eyes.

“You dog!” he cried. “I’ll tear your eyes—”

A shot sounded. And the marshal’s voice faded into a cracked, choking bleat. He rolled off Michael’s body and his short legs pumped wildly, spasmodically for an instant and then they were still.

Michael climbed weakly to his feet.

Marie held the marshal’s Luger, and a wisp of smoke was trailing from the muzzle of the gun. She brushed a lock of hair from her white forehead and leaned limply against the desk.

“I shot him in the back,” she said dully.

Michael took her shoulders and shook her gently.

“Forget that,” he said quietly. “Never think of it. It was simply something you had to do. Now pull yourself together. We’ve got a million-to-one chance to get out of here, but we can’t waste a second.”

He dropped to his knees beside von Bock’s body and transferred the vital roll of film to his own pocket.

Then he led the girl to the door and opened it cautiously. The corridor was deserted. Michael’s chief worry was the Storm Trooper who had carried out Paul’s body. He should be back on the scene any minute.

“Come on,” he said. “This is our only chance.”

He closed the door and, with Marie at his side, strode down the long carpeted corridor to the double brass doors that led to the street. His heart was hammering in his throat.

Opening the door boldly, he stepped out into the cool gray dawn. Instantly two guards confronted him. One of them was the florid-faced soldier who had originally let them in.

Michael nodded casually to him and gave his arm to Marie.

“Glad to see you’re on the alert,” he said, smiling.

The guard made no move to let them pass.

“I heard two shots from inside,” he said. “The marshal instructed me to let no one into the building after he went in.”

“Quite right,” Michael said. “Important things have transpired here tonight. Do you realize the Heydrich slayer was here tonight?”

“No!” the guard gasped. He looked nervously about.

“He is dead now,” Michael said. “Our courageous marshal dispatched him himself. I am carrying the message to Himmler.”

He patted the guard on the shoulder. “You have done your work well. I have already mentioned your alertness to von Bock. Now keep up the good work. Let no one in or out until I return. Do you understand?”

“Yes. But what did the Marshal von Bock say about me?”

Michael smiled at the guard.

“You know how he is. He’s not saying much at all these days.”

The guard looked bewildered for a while, but then an uncertain smile broke over his frown.

“Yes, that’s right. He doesn’t say much these days.”

“He is practically silent,” Michael said.

The guard laughed hugely without knowing why.

Marie said quietly, “We must hurry.”

“Yes,” Michael said, “we mustn’t keep Himmler waiting.”

He pointed to a black military car parked at the curb a half block from the building.

“Is that the marshal’s car?”

Still smiling, the guard nodded. “Thank you,” Michael said. Holding Marie’s arm, he descended the short flight of steps to the sidewalk and walked toward the marshal’s parked car.

“Steady,” he whispered gently to the girl. “Don’t walk too fast.”

The girl’s hand tightened in his as she forced herself to match his casual stride. When they reached the car Michael opened the door and helped Marie into the front seat.”

“I’ll drive,” he said. He glanced up at the light-tinged horizon thoughtfully. “We are still in time,” he whispered. “The plane will wait another hour.”

He stepped around to the other side of the car and opened the door. But as he was about to slide under the wheel he happened to glance at the sidewalk and he saw several fresh drops of blood gleaming in the early morning light.

The trail of drops led from an alleyway that flanked the Central Intelligence building to the middle of the sidewalk. And there the trail stopped.

Frowning, he stared at the drops of gleaming blood.

Suddenly he tensed and a strange chill shot through his body.

Another drop had fallen to the sidewalk — closer than the last!

And a voice whispered, “Michael!”

Michael strained his eyes and he saw the faint suggestion of a human shadow standing on the sidewalk. And as he watched another ruby-red drop of blood spattered at his feet.

“Paul!” he gasped. “How—”

“I am not dead. Von Bock’s bullet went through my shoulder. Did you get him?”

“Yes. But, Paul, you’re hurt.”

“Not too badly. I shall live for awhile yet. I have one more job to do.” The voice was a weak, ghostly whisper, but there was an undercurrent of determination in those tones that was as definite as Death itself.

“Go!” Paul said. “Already you have delayed too long.”

Michael felt a soft hand on his shoulder for an instant, then it was gone.

“Until we meet again,” Paul’s whisper came faintly to him.

“Paul!” Michael said desperately. “Where are you going?”

The reply came back, soft as a sibilant breeze, but its implications were as definite as a roaring storm. “Berchtesgaden!”

Michael heard the faint word and his lean face softened. An ironic smile curved his lips and he raised his hand in a gesture that was at once a salute and a farewell.

“Until we meet again, Paul Cheval,” he said.

There was no answer.

Michael slid under the wheel and the powerful car roared away from the curve...

Far above the tragic, hate-ruined continent of Europe, screened by banks of drifting clouds, a black unmarked plane streaked northward toward the Isle of Britain.

Michael Faber looked down at the land far below him and his arm tightened about Marie Kahn’s shoulder.