CHAPTER XXXIV
EXIT OBERFURST
Von Oberfurst awaited the dawn of day with considerable trepidation. For the present he was a free man, but his position was far from enviable. He was hunted, that he knew. Already a hue-and-cry had been raised and the desolate moors were being searched with the utmost diligence and precision.
Having broken out of the prison cell, he had gained the outskirts of the little village and had made his way in a north-easterly direction with the intention of falling-in with the escaped German officers. Soon he was lost in the mist that still hung heavily around the tors. He had neither map nor compass. Both had been taken from him when taken into custody. Without them he was like a ship without a rudder, and having implicitly relied upon them in his previous adventures, he realised his helplessness.
He was hungry and thirsty. The meagre fare provided at the police-station overnight was already forgotten. Food was not to be had, but for drink there were the many moorland rivulets that trickled down to join the waters of the silvery Dart and other rivers that drain the heights of Dartmoor.
At length he was forced to come to the conclusion that he must hide until nightfall—sixteen hours of mental and physical strain. To attempt to proceed in daylight was to court disaster.
Looking around, the spy discovered a number of irregularly shaped rocks partly hidden by bracken. Towards this spot he made, treading warily on stony ground so that his footsteps might not leave traces on the dew-sodden grass. Then carefully, without breaking so much as a solitary stem of bracken, he crept into his place of concealment.
He found himself in a narrow space enclosed by four masses of rock, and sheltered from the sun by the tall bracken. There were hundreds, thousands even, of similar clusters of rocks scattered about this part of the country, where a man provided with food and water could hide for days with little fear of discovery. From his place of concealment he could command an extensive stretch of moorland without showing his head above the skyline. So far as he could see—for the mists were now dispersing—there were no signs of human habitation.
He still retained his automatic pistol. Taken from him at the same time as were his other belongings, it had been carelessly left on the kitchen table in the constable's cottage, and Oberfurst had taken particular pains to repossess himself of the weapon ere he shook the dust of his cell from off his feet.
Having taken stock of his surroundings, the spy stretched himself on the ground, lying on his right side with his face pillowed on his arm. His ear almost touching the ground enabled him to detect sounds quicker than he might otherwise have done. He was badly in need of a rest and sleep, especially as he was contemplating another all-night tramp; but he knew that he was a noisy sleeper, and on that account he feared to run the risk.
Presently a dog barked. The sound came from a long distance. It was a long-drawn, deep bark, that boded no good to the fugitive.
"Those English have brought bloodhounds to track me," he muttered. "Well, I can hold out until I have only one cartridge left. They will never again take me alive."
At almost the next moment he felt himself seized by an almost uncontrollable panic. He started to crawl from his lair and run blunderingly and aimlessly across the open moors, if only to put a greater distance between him and the deep-baying hounds.
On second thoughts he decided to remain and hold his own. Nearer and nearer came the unpleasant sounds, until the spy was able to see the animals.
There were two enormous bloodhounds, unmuzzled, but held in leashes by two powerfully built men, whose heated faces and laboured breathing bore testimony to the strength and speed of the powerful brutes. Behind them rode a sub-inspector and three policemen, neither of whom was armed so far as the spy could see.
Unerringly the bloodhounds followed the invisible track taken by the fugitive until they reached a spot at less than eighty yards from his place of concealment. Here the animals began circling, sniffing the while and almost dragging the arms of their custodians from their sockets.
Breathlessly Oberfurst kept watch. He remembered that he had crossed a small stream close to the place where the hounds were held up. By so doing he had unwittingly destroyed the scent.
"The first stream we've had to cross, worse luck," said the inspector. "I had my doubts concerning the brutes, and now we're baulked."
"They'll pick up the scent on the other side, sir, never fear," rejoined one of the keepers confidently. "It will be a hundred pounds easily earned."
"The fellow's no fool," declared the inspector. "He struck this stream on purpose. I'll warrant he's waded a hundred yards or more up the brook on purpose to do us."
"I wish I had," thought the spy, regarding the dogs with returning apprehension, for he could distinctly see the bloodshot eyes, their heaving, overhung, foam-flecked jaws, and the ivory whiteness of their massive teeth.
"Down stream I should think, sir," said another policeman. "He'll be making for the coast. Ten to one that's the reason why a German submarine was seen hanging about off Bolt Tail."
"Perhaps," admitted the inspector. "In any case it's no use wasting time. Lift one of the brutes over, Tomlins; don't let his feet touch the water. Keep the other this side and see if either picks up the scent afresh."
In his excitement Oberfurst fingered the sensitive trigger of his automatic pistol, remembering only just in time that even the slightest touch was sufficient to fire the weapon. Then, placing the pistol on the ground within easy reach, he waited.
At first the hound that had been taken across the stream showed signs of retrieving the scent. Down went his head, up went his tail he tugged furiously at the leash.
"Good old boy!" exclaimed the inspector encouragingly; but he was doomed to disappointment, for the animal, after making two or three circles, came to a standstill with his nose in the air.
"Thought so," continued the inspector. "The fellow's waded along the stream. Hard lines!—we stood a good chance before the military step in. I hear that nearly five hundred men are being sent from Okehampton and a whole mob of Boy Scouts."
The police, accompanied by the hounds, moved away, disappearing from sight in a southerly direction. Oberfurst had obtained yet another respite.
During the heat of the day he lay close, at times dosing fitfully. Tormented by the extreme warmth of the atmosphere, for there was not a breath of wind and the sun beat pitilessly down upon the rock, famished and parched, he endured and waited for dusk.
During the afternoon numbers of soldiers in extended order passed by. Two of them came within ten paces of the spy's lair, keeping their eyes fixed, not upon their immediate surroundings, but on the distant expanse, as if they expected to get a glimpse of the fugitive as he ran across the gorse-covered moor.
Towards seven o'clock the air echoed and re-echoed with the shrill blast of whistles. The troops, or at any rate the bulk of them, were being recalled. To his intense satisfaction, Oberfurst saw hundreds of rabbits emerging from their burrows and frisking in the slanting rays of the sun. That was almost an infallible sign that they had little to fear from human beings.
Cautiously the fugitive emerged from his place of concealment. His limbs were stiff with remaining for hours in a confined space. Deftly he massaged the muscles of his arms and legs, until he felt their suppleness returning; then, crouching on all-fours, he stole towards the brook that had already done him good service.
Soon he was lapping the clear, running water, taking in copious draughts that cooled his parched throat and gave renewed vitality to his exhausted frame.
"Hands up!"
The words, rapped out peremptorily and unexpectedly, took Oberfurst by surprise. Starting to his feet, he obeyed the order, fully expecting to find himself surrounded by a cordon of khaki-clad men.
Instead, he was confronted by a solitary figure clad in the uniform of a scoutmaster. His challenger was a man of more than middle age, bordering, perhaps, on his sixtieth year. He was tall, sparely built, but well knit and erect. His tanned features formed a striking contrast to his light grey hair.
"You are, I presume, the wanted spy, Otto Oberfurst," continued his captor. "You are, indeed, wise not to attempt to give trouble, for there is plenty of assistance at hand."
As he spoke the scoutmaster produced a whistle. Before he could place it to his lips the spy's arm dropped. Like a flash he had his captor covered with his pistol.
"It is now your turn to 'hands up,'" sneered the German. "Obey instantly, or you are a dead man."
"Perhaps," rejoined the other coolly. "Meanwhile I will do my utmost to raise an alarm. If I fail, your pistol-shot will complete the work."
Looking the spy straight in the face the scoutmaster again raised his whistle. In a flash Oberfurst realised the truth of his opponent's remarks. After all, he was not "out" with the intention of committing unnecessary murder. His sole anxiety was to break through the cordon and put a safe distance between him and the bleak heights of Dartmoor.
Throwing away the pistol, Oberfurst folded his arms.
"You have won," he remarked simply.
"To avoid further trouble, I will take possession of this little toy," said the scoutmaster.
He stepped forward a couple of paces and bent to pick up the weapon. As he did so, the spy suddenly lashed out with his left foot. Skilled in the Continental style of boxing, he knew exactly how to gauge his distance and kick with the greatest effect.
Taken completely by surprise, the luckless Englishman, who in all good faith had accepted the spy's surrender, dropped like a log, before he had time to utter a sound.
Coolly Oberfurst regained possession of his pistol, fully expecting to find himself assailed on all sides. Agreeably disappointed, he proceeded to strip his unconscious victim of his coat, gaiters, and hat. This done, he dragged the scoutmaster to the spot where the spy had lain in concealment.
"He will not recover consciousness for several hours—if he does at all," soliloquised the spy, with a shrug of his shoulders. "That is his affair, not mine. Now I must assume the character of officer of Boy Scouts. I wish I were more certain of my new duties."
For a couple of hundred yards Oberfurst proceeded cautiously, then, drawing himself erect, he set off at a swinging pace across the moors. Bluff, not concealment, was to be his watchword.
It was now dusk fast emerging into night. Once more the evening mists were rising from the swamps in the valleys. Overhead the stars were beginning to show against the declining after-glow in the north-western sky.
For nearly a couple of miles Oberfurst proceeded without interruption. Everything seemed absolutely still, save for the swish of his boots and gaiters through the bracken. It was as if his pursuers had finally abandoned their quest in the belief that the fugitive had contrived to get clear of the district.
Suddenly a whistle resembling the call of the peewit sounded from a spot almost in front, and out of the gorse rose half a dozen youthful forms clad in the well-known Boy Scout "war-paint."
The spy's first inclination was to take to his heels, but, remembering his resolve and noting the diminutive size of the lads, he stopped.
"What troop do you belong to?" he asked.
"The Endscoombe First, sir," replied the patrol leader. "We're the Peewits."
"Thank goodness I've fallen in with some scouts," rejoined the spy. "I have lost touch with my troop—the Third Oakendene. I suppose you have seen nothing of them?"
The patrol-leader, a sharp-witted Devon lad of about fifteen, "smelt a rat." For one thing, he had never heard of the Oakendene Troop; for another, he was fairly conversant with the disposition of all the scout troops engaged in assisting the military and police to scour the moors.
"I think we can help you, sir," he replied, almost without hesitation. "At any rate, we'll put you on the right path. Will you take charge of the patrol?"
The question was a "feeler." It had the desired effect, for in giving words of command the spy gave himself away. His knowledge of British army drill was comprehensive, but of scouting he knew practically nothing.
The rest of the boys "tumbled" to their patrol-leader's ruse. Without showing suspicion at the unusual orders, they set off in Indian file.
"It's a strange thing that we should lose our scoutmaster and find another who has lost his troop," remarked the patrol-leader. "Of course we may find him a little further on. We're nearly at the Three Bridges road now."
"So I believe," rejoined Oberfurst, whose keen ear had detected the steady tramp of armed men. "In that case you've taken me out of my way. No, I don't blame you, but I'll say 'Good night.'"
He stopped abruptly, determined to give his attentive companions the slip—in a seemingly casual manner if possible, failing that to make a dash for safety.
The patrol-leader waited no longer. A warning succession of blasts upon his whistle rent the night air. Oberfurst found himself confronted by a ring of staves.
His hand flew to his pocket. The patrol-leader caught the dull glint of metal. Like a flash his staff descended upon the spy's wrist. The pistol fell to the ground, while like a pack of hounds the boys threw themselves upon the German.
Of what happened during the next few seconds none of the scouts had a decided opinion. All they knew was that while they were attempting to secure the man as he lay kicking and struggling on the ground there was a muffled report. One of the lads, uttering an involuntary cry of pain, clapped his left hand to his right arm. The spy, after writhing convulsively for a brief instant, ceased to struggle.
Alarmed by the whistle and the pistol-shot, a number of soldiers and police hurried up to find their "man" lying insensible on the ground and the scouts rendering first aid to their wounded comrade.
"Here's the spy, sir," declared the patrol-leader, addressing an army officer. "He shot one of us, so we had to stun him."
The lieutenant bent over the prostrate Hun and flashed a torch-light in his face.
"You're right, sonny," he said. "It means a hundred pounds to you scouts. Hulloa, though! You need not have troubled to belabour him with your poles. He's as dead as a doornail."
Otto Oberfurst had kept his vow not to be taken alive. In the mêlée he had regained possession of his pistol and had sent a shot clean through his brain. The bullet in passing out had lodged in the arm of one of the scouts.
A police inspector joined in the examination.
"Yes," he agreed; "he's saved a file of soldiers a job."
"And has done a pack of lawyers out of a fat sum," added the lieutenant grimly.