Chapter 13
Hot work in cold blood
Just as Ginger reached his refuge behind the door he heard the tramp of feet approaching; at least three persons he guessed from the noise. To his satisfaction he found that by placing his eyes in line with the space between the door and the jamb he could see into the room, which was far less risky than peeping round the edge of the door, where he might be seen if any one in the room looked in that direction. Through his peep-hole he saw Biggles, as he had hoped, standing quietly at ease. Flanking him were two German soldiers, with their rifles drawn into their sides and obviously acting as an escort. To Ginger's consternation he saw that Biggles was still handcuffed.
At a desk in the centre of the room sat von Stalhein. He gestured to the chair which stood in front of the desk. "Sit down, Major Bigglesworth," he said quietly. "I regret that I must continue to subject you to the indignity of manacles. I recall what happened the last time that I was foolish enough to take a set of handcuffs off you. Do I make myself clear?"
"Quite. May I trouble you for a cigarette?"
"Certainly." Von Stalhein pushed his cigarette case and a box of matches across the desk. Then he fixed his eyes on Biggles' face, and spoke again. "For the last time, I will offer you certain considerations in return for information concerning the whereabouts of your friends, and the extent of the knowledge that British Intelligence has of our operations here."
"And for the last time, von Stalhein, nothing doing. You should know me better than that."
"As you wish. You will now be interrogated by Herr Commandant Schultz, personally. The Commandant assures me that his methods have never failed. I trust my meaning is now plain," returned von Stalhein.
Biggles looked straight into the blue eyes opposite. "What's the matter with you?" he inquired curiously. "We've fought in the past, you and I, but we fought fair. Even in that branch of service in which we are presently engaged there were certain rules. Kill your man in a fight, yes, but we did not extract information by torture."
A flush swept across von Stalhein's prominent cheekbones. "Things are different now," he replied harshly.
To say that Ginger was horrified by this would be to put it mildly. His first thought, when he had recovered from the mental confusion into which the conversation that he had overheard had thrown him, was that now, if ever, was the moment to effect a rescue. He did not think too far ahead. The first thing was to get Biggles away from his guards; after that matters would have to take their course. He saw that all eyes were on the prisoner. For a second he waited to steady himself, and then, taking a deep breath, he prepared for action, his automatic in his hand.
At that moment there was an interruption. Footsteps were heard, and Ginger hastily stepped back into his hiding place. Two men entered the room. One was a heavily built man of middle age. He held a revolver in his hand. Ginger guessed, correctly, that this man was Schultz. The other was clearly another captive, for Schultz jabbed the revolver in his ribs with unnecessary violence.
From his figure, the prisoner was a mere youth. His face might once have been handsome, but was now black and blue with bruises. His lips were split and swollen. He was clad only in light cotton trousers and a torn white shirt, which was covered in ugly brown stains. His hands had been tied together behind his back, and he stumbled as he walked.
Schultz addressed Biggles in English. "Are you prepared to talk?"
Biggles rose to his feet. "I will tell you nothing, Schultz," he replied. "Go ahead. Do what you like."
"You will be sorry."
"No," stated Biggles. "Whatever you do I shall not be sorry."
Schultz smiled cynically, then barked an order to the two German soldiers who formed Biggles' escort. They seized the bound man who had entered the room with Schultz and forced him to his knees.
Von Stalhein had also risen to his feet and stood watching the scene with his usual frigid calm, apparently unmoved. Ginger watched, puzzled. He did not know what would happen next, but he felt that the strange scene portended a grim drama.
Schultz stepped close to the kneeling man. Quite deliberately, he thrust the muzzle of his revolver against the back of the man's neck and pulled the trigger. There was a loud report, and the man slumped to the floor. A pale wreath of blue powder smoke drifted up. Again the revolver barked. The body on the floor gave a convulsive shudder and then lay still.
For a moment nobody moved or spoke. Then Schultz turned to von Stalhein. "Have this mess cleaned up," he ordered.
Von Stalhein gave a curt order to the two soldiers and they took the dead man by the feet and dragged him through the doorway. Von Stalhein followed them. He closed the door behind him.
Schultz turned to Biggles. "Observe what happens to prisoners who are obstinate," he said blandly. "Does that help you to find your tongue?"
"You scum," said Biggles. His voice was thin but clear, and as taut as a bow-string with passion.
Without warning, without the slightest hint of what he intended, Schultz's left arm flew out like a piston rod straight into Biggles' stomach. The blow was followed by another, from the right fist. It took Biggles in the face with a vicious smack and stretched him on his back on the floor. He lay still. Blood flowed from his nose across his face to make a little pool on the floor.
To Ginger the scene was no longer real. For the last few seconds he had stood like a man stricken with paralysis. Now, one searing impulse of cold fury set his nerves tingling and drew his lips back from his teeth in a mirthless grin. Actuated by rage, life and movement returned to his limbs. He leapt through the connecting doorway like an avenging angel. In his right hand was his automatic. He brought it down on Schultz's head with the full force of his hatred for all Nazis.
Everything seemed to go black, and just what happened after that was never clear in his mind. The next thing he could recall was hearing Biggles' voice. It sounded anxious, and it restored him to something like normal.
"Take it easy, Ginger," said Biggles softly.
"Good Lord, what a mess," whispered Ginger, looking around. "Did I do that?"
"I'm afraid so, laddie."
Across the floor lay a man in an attitude so shockingly grotesque that it could mean only one thing. The knees were drawn up into the stomach, and the hands were raised, with fingers bent like claws, as if to protect the face. The head rested in a pool of blood. Blood was everywhere. One glance at the bared teeth and staring eyes settled the question of whether the man might still be alive. It was Schultz, although he was only just recognisable.
Ginger looked down at his hands. They were spattered with blood. He realised that he must have gone on hitting Schultz after he was dead. He felt a wave of nausea sweep over him and for a horrible moment he thought he was going to faint. He nearly did. But he managed to reach a chair and sitting down on it, allowed his head to sag between his knees - which was the best thing he could have done.
The nausea passed. He sat up, but he still felt weak and shaky. He saw that Biggles was kneeling by the body removing a set of keys from Schultz's belt.
"Unlock these handcuffs, will you?" requested Biggles.
With trembling fingers, Ginger did so. Then he looked at Biggles. "Shouldn't we be getting out of this shambles?" he questioned.
Biggles shook his head. "There's no hurry. These may be von Stalhein's quarters but he'll keep away until he thinks Schultz has finished with me. This is probably the safest place around here for miles. How are you feeling?"
"Awful. I don't know what came over me."
"I do. I've seen it before."
There was a pause. Biggles soaked his handkerchief in a jug of water that stood on von Stalhein's desk. With it he carefully removed the blood from Ginger's hands.
"Is your arm still troubling you?" he asked.
Ginger nodded. "A bit," he admitted. "My head hurts, too."
Biggles felt his forehead and frowned. "You're still running a slight temperature," he observed. "You'd better drink some of this water."
"Who was that poor devil Schultz murdered?" asked Ginger presently.
"An Argentinan fellow, Jose. I was slung into quod with him for a while when I first got here."
"How did he get mixed up in this horrible mess?"
"He is - was - one of the Argentinian workers at the diamond mine. He has a sister called Conchita. Apparently she's very pretty. She's engaged to another fellow who works at the mine and she came up to the work site a couple of days ago to see him about something. It seems Schultz saw Conchita and tried fooling around with her. Jose objected. Quite properly, too. In Spanish countries family honour is a very serious thing. Once a marriage has been arranged for a girl it's absolutely forbidden for her to have anything to do with another man. She mayn't dance with one even if her mother is with her. The upshot was, there was a bit of a fuss in which a couple of Argentinians were killed. Then there was a full scale riot. That was the trouble that was responsible for von Stalhein hurrying back here from Puerto Guano. Anyway, Conchita's fiance got her away safely but Jose was caught. Schultz was peeved about the whole thing. You saw what he did to Jose before he shot him. Typical Nazi beastliness."
Biggles continued, "We've had some experience of trouble with plain unvarnished savages from whom one doesn't expect anything but murder, but these Nazi thugs take the prize for barbarity. Now that I know what the swine are really like I'm looking forward to having another crack at them."
Ginger glanced at the body lying on the floor and shuddered. "I still feel sick about this," he said miserably.
Biggles looked at Ginger compassionately. "I can understand that. But don't knock your pan out about it."
He continued, "Schultz was one of these Gestapo torturers we've heard about. A real brute, and a drunk as well, if I'm not mistaken. I imagine he only got the command of this operation because he's a good member of the Nazi party. By Jove, you might think von Stalhein is a bit of a skunk, but compared to a swine like Schultz he's a gentleman. The two of them seem to have hated each other like poison, at any event."
"Why would they hate each other?" wondered Ginger.
Biggles curled his lips. "That's obvious if you know anything about German character. Von Stalhein is an officer from an old Prussian military family. It would be gall and wormwood for him to have to take orders from a drunken oaf like Schultz. Schultz would have hated von Stalhein for being an aristocrat with ten times the amount of brain that he had."
There was another pause. Then Biggles asked, "How did you get here, anyway? You were just about in time. Things were beginning to look extremely dim."
"I hid in our machine. The Huns didn't search it very thoroughly. I don't think it occurred to them that there might be anyone in it. Von Stalhein detailed someone to fly it here, and on the way over there was a little dispute as to who should do the flying - and I won. I put the German pilot's togs on and the ground staff didn't look at me twice. It was getting dark, of course, by the time that I landed."
Biggles started. "Do you mean to tell me that O'Neilson's machine is here? At the landing strip?"
"Yes." Ginger looked surprised at Biggles' vehemence.
"That's grand," declared Biggles. "We still have a chance of getting O'Neilson's Dragon Moth back to him tonight. I like to keep my promises. Would you be able to find your way back to the landing strip? They put a blindfold over my eyes so I couldn't see a thing."
"Definitely," declared Ginger.
"Then if you feel up to it, we'll get going."
Ginger was glad to be on the move. They slipped out of the window through which Ginger had entered the building and cautiously made their way back towards the hangars. The moon was only just coming up over the horizon and the shadows were still deep. Soon they were creeping along the back of the canvas hangars that Ginger had noticed when he arrived.