"Well, we'll soon know where it is, anyway, thank heaven!" Freddy Farmer breathed as he followed Dawson through the door into the living room. "I certainly—oof!"
Young Farmer's lungs were emptied of air as he plowed face first into Dawson, who had pulled up to an abrupt stop. With an effort Freddy held his balance and stared past Dawson.
"What—?" he began. Then, with a gasp, "I say, Dave, what did you do with them?"
"I didn't!" Dawson mumbled, and stared popeyed at the completely vacant living room. "I—They—I mean, one was dead, and the other two were trussed up for keeps. But they aren't here, Freddy! They've gone! Doggone it! That guy, Erich, was dead, I tell you. But he's upped and walked away. Away where?"
The door buzzer rang again, more insistently this time, but neither of the youths paid any attention to it. Like men struck dumb they gaped at the living room floor where the figures of three Nazis should have been, but where actually there were only some bloodstains to mark where they had once been.
"I think I'm going nuts!" Dave mumbled, and drew a hand across his forehead. "Stark raving nuts. Now you see it, and now you don't. I—Hey! The buzzer!"
With a yelp Dawson snapped out of his trance, raced to the foyer door, went through it and hurried to the front door and unlocked it. And just in time, too. A British colonel out in the hallway was just stepping back, service revolver in hand, preparatory to shooting out the lock. The officer lowered his gun the instant he saw Dawson, but his eyes widened at what he saw.
"What the devil's going on, Captain?" he demanded. "We traced a phone call from this apartment. We're British Intelligence."
The officer nodded to a captain and a lieutenant standing just behind him. Dawson swung the door open wider and stepped to one side.
"Yes, sir, I know," he said. "And plenty's happened. You'd better come in, sir."