The German played the factory big shot to the hilt. He swung around on the others, and stabbed a thick finger at the door.
"Get out!" he shouted. "We will talk of that matter later. Now I am busy. Get out! Heil Hitler!"
He received a mumbled reply to this vocal salute, and then Germans and Frenchmen alike shuffled out of the office, the last one to leave softly shutting the door. Dawson didn't watch them go. Instead he spread his feet apart a little, hooked his thumbs in his uniform belt, and stared fixedly at the back of Herr Krumpstadt's head. The German presently turned around, a boot-licking, oily smile on his fat lips. But when his eyes met Dawson's steady stare his smile faded, and a worried look crept into his face.
"There is something, Herr Leutnant?" he asked in a strained voice, and swallowed hard.
Dawson nodded coldly.
"Yes, Herr Kurt Krumpstadt, there is something," he said.
And with that he turned his back on the German and walked coolly over to the nearest window. The window looked out on a broad expanse of ground, that had before the war been rather artistically landscaped, but since then had been allowed to go to seed. Withered shrubs sprawled all over the place. The grass was dull brown and at least a foot high. That is, the patches of it that were not trampled flat by truck wheels, and countless feet. A half mile away was a woods, and Dawson could see two German Army cars parked by a road leading into the woods. Helmeted figures stood near the cars. And although Dawson wasn't sure, he thought he saw a machine mounted by one of the cars.
Beyond the woods was the skyline of the City of Duisburg, and three columns of smoke that he saw mounting from it toward the morning sky he sincerely hoped were from burning buildings, and not from other factory chimneys. One thing was certain, however. He was in the middle of a strongly guarded area. The mounted machine gun and the parked Army cars and the helmeted soldiers guarding one of the approaches to the factory were proof enough of that truth. It would probably take more than just bluff to get away from this place, once he had learned its secret, if he ever did learn it.
And there was something else, too. Something, heaven forgive him, that was as important to him as the secret of that factory. Freddy Farmer. Freddy's fate. At the thought of his pal Dawson's heart seemed to weep a little, and his whole body felt so weak that he impulsively put out a hand and braced it against the window frame. A moment later he heard the very timid voice of Herr Krumpstadt.
"You do not feel well, Herr Leutnant! I beg you, sit down. Here, at my desk. You will find the chair most comfortable. I bought it long before the war. It is like an old friend. Sit down, Herr Leutnant, and I will get you some brandy. I have been saving it for the victory celebration when our enemies are no more. But who is more entitled to it than a hero of our glorious Luftwaffe?"