The sound of the gun’s bark, and the shower of hissing blue sparks in Dave Dawson’s face, seemed to come almost simultaneously. For an instant he was completely blinded by the radio panel that had virtually exploded in his face. He kicked his chair and blindly reached for the Luger he had placed on the panel table close to his hand. But in that instant there was a second shot, and the Luger he saw through smarting eyes seemed to take off like an airplane and go falling down onto the floor.
“The third shot will be for you, of course!”
Shock fled, and common sense returned to Dave. The radio episode was finished—that is, as far as the set itself was concerned. The first bullet had smashed the main tube, and the whole panel was now giving off dirty blue smoke. He turned slowly and stared into the brittle, deadly eyes of Captain Karl von Stutgardt, who stood framed in the hut doorway. The Nazi’s lips were pulled back over his teeth in a vicious snarl, but his shoulders were shaking a little. It was as though he were silently chuckling to himself. He was, for it suddenly rose to a harsh laugh.
“Too bad, Captain Dawson!” he cried. “That was a noble effort. But I couldn’t allow you to complete your little broadcast, you know. That’s a very low powered transmitter, and your voice couldn’t possibly have been heard in Colon. You should have used the key wireless. But of course it’s too late for that now. In fact, it is too late for everything, as far as you’re concerned, Captain Dawson!”
Dave only half listened to the words. He knew that he was not going to die this very instant. Maybe in a minute or two, but not right now. Von Stutgardt’s vanity had to be satisfied first. The rat from Berlin had to enjoy his crowing before he continued with his job of murder. And murder it would be. Dave knew that he stood as near death as he ever would. The Nazi’s Luger was pointed straight at his heart, and the man had just proved that he was an expert shot.
But what about Freddy Farmer? That was the thought that raced and circled about in Dave’s brain as he stood there tensed in front of von Stutgardt’s Luger. Had they caught Freddy finally? Had they chased him clear across the island to the beach on the other side and then shot him down as one would shoot down a mad dog? He couldn’t hear any sounds of voices calling out, nor the sound of gun fire either. Freddy! Freddy, old man! I’ve failed you. Failed you completely. Have you paid for it with your life? Have I brought certain death—to us both? Oh, dear God!
Dawson’s agonizing thoughts were as spoken words in his brain. They came from all sides to haunt and to taunt him. He felt the blood seem to drain out of his body, leaving only the seething flames of berserk anger within him. Unconsciously he let his eyes meet von Stutgardt’s again, and he saw that the Nazi was chuckling.
“Your swine English friend?” the Nazi echoed, as though he had read Dave’s thoughts. “You can forget about him. I can promise you that he is dead, or soon will be. This is not a large island, you know. As a matter of fact, that is why I gave you as much freedom as I did, why I didn’t tie you hand and foot. Knowing your record of stupid deeds in the past, I thought you might try some foolish move like this. So I simply waited. Why? To give us a little sport, of course. A little sport before our great day tomorrow. It is good for one’s nerves when they are too tight, you know, a nice little man hunt. We Germans enjoy man hunts, you know.”
“Sure!” Dave flung at him. “If the man you’re hunting is unarmed. Well, I’m unarmed, von Stutgardt. Why don’t you shoot? Go ahead and get your big thrill. There’ll still be X-62 left, you know.”
Dave spoke the last on the spur of the moment, just to see how von Stutgardt’s expression would change. He was disappointed. The German just stood there with his sneering smile on his face. Dave looked past him and out at the first of the Vultees at the head of the double runway.