"No brandy," Dawson said coldly as he turned from the window. "You may keep it for the victory celebration, Herr Krumpstadt. No, no brandy. I feel perfectly well. Instead, I will ask you a few questions. You have papers of personal identification, perhaps? Let me see them, then."
The German looked dumbfounded, and perhaps even a little angry, but Dawson pretended not to notice. He turned from the man and went over to the huge desk that completely filled one corner of the office, and sat down in the most comfortable chair he had encountered in many a day. When he relaxed with a gruff grunt of approval he turned his head toward Herr Krumpstadt to see the German walking over to him with a folder of papers in his hands.
"Here they are, Herr Leutnant," the man said. "You will find them all in order. I prize them above everything I own. I am a loyal and trusted member of the Party. But, forgive me, Herr Leutnant, I do not understand. Why do you ask me for my—?"
"Is it for you to understand all the methods of the Gestapo?" Dawson barked at him, and snatched the papers away.
For a brief moment Herr Krumpstadt held his empty hand out in front of him as his face seemed to turn yellow, and then green. Then he clapped his outstretched hand to his mouth for all the world like a man about to become violently ill. And as Dawson saw the terror mount in the man's eyes he knew that he had the fat, puffy-faced German in the palm of his hand!
[CHAPTER THIRTEEN]
The Blank Wall
For several minutes Dawson pretended to study Herr Krumpstadt's papers carefully, though actually he hardly gave them more than a glance. The idea was to make the German sweat it out for a bit, and that's just what the Nazi did do. When Dawson finally tossed the folder of papers on the desk and looked at the man, Herr Krumpstadt was practically dripping sweat from every pore. His face was flushed like a sunset, and he kept "washing" his hands as he stared at Dawson out of very frightened eyes.
"There is something wrong, Herr Leutnant?" he asked in a quavering voice when Dawson simply looked at him and through him. "But I do not understand! What have I done that someone should see fit to report me? I swear that I am a loyal Nazi. Heil Hitler!"
"The report made about you is our affair," Dawson said sternly. Then, with a wave of one hand toward the closed door, he went on, "You were in conference with them? Do you take me for a fool? Several of those who were here in this room are swine French dogs! What is a good German doing talking with Frenchmen? Frenchmen are only for work. A little conference, eh? Perhaps you made a slip-up there, Herr Krumpstadt?"