Originally published in the January, 1937 issue of G-8 and His Battle AcesTM
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Copyright © 1937 by Popular Publications Inc. Copyright renewed © 1964 and assigned to Argosy Communications, Inc.
All rights reserved. Licensed to Vintage New Media
G-8 and His Battle Aces is a trademark of Argosy Communications, Inc.
scourge of the steel mask
By Robert J. Hogan
From the very fires of Hell he came to wreak havoc and death on all
civilization. G-8-- America's Flying Spy-- combats a fiend inhuman and
barbaric-- a fiend whose henchmen are the dregs of the Earth, and whose
hate is fiercer than the forces of nature-- The Steel Mask!
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CHAPTER ONE
Death Does Not Sleep
In the apartment end of the hangar at Le
Bourget, daylight still streamed through the
window and spread itself across the dining room
table where G-8, the Master Spy, and his Battle
Aces sat at supper. It was the evening the strange
report came.
G-8 was slicing luscious slabs from the high
roll of roast beef in front of him. He turned to
Nippy Weston, the little terrier ace.
"You like it about medium, don't you, Nip?"
he asked.
"Yes, thanks," Nippy nodded.
"And don't forget the way I like it," big Bull
Martin broke in from the other side of the table.
"For me it's got to be all red and juicy."
"Yes," G-8 nodded. "Seems to me I
remember hearing something of the kind once or
twice before. I don't know why anybody would
ever bother to cook meat for you, Bull."
The big fellow grinned.
"They wouldn't need to-- much," he admitted.
He breathed deeply as he saw the sharp knife
slice off a thick layer of rare roast beef for his
portion. "Boy," he said, "that's what I call a meal!
Rare, juicy roast beef, boiled potatoes with the
beef juice all over them, boiled onions, rye
bread." He eyed the portion of tomato salad in
front of him. "Even that salad looks good," he
said.
"Even that salad!" Nippy ventured. "Say,
listen, you big ox, that salad of tomato and lettuce
and Roquefort dressing is the best part of the
meal."
Bull Martin laughed derisively.
"Oh, yeah?" he said. "Well, I suppose a little
guy like you could live on what they serve at pink
teas, but a man-sized human's got to have
something to eat besides tomato and lettuce and
a lot of stuff like that."
At that point, Battle, the manservant, cook,
and master of make-up who stood at G-8's left
elbow broke into the conversation apologetically.
"Oh, I say, the discussion of salad reminds
me of a joke I heard a friend of mine-- he
happens to be bat man to General Compton-- tell
the other day. It's a deucedly good joke but a bit
risqué. I really hesitate to-- er-- "
With a grunt and a nod, Bull Martin took the
overloaded plate that G-8 passed to him.
"Yeah," he said, "I'll bet this is going to be a
honey when it comes. Go on, Nip, Battle wants to
be coaxed."
The manservant's sober face turned
hopefully to Nippy, but G-8 spoke first in a
reproachful tone.
"I don't think you're quite fair to Battle, Bull,"
he said. "I'm sure he doesn't want to tell anything
that would be offensive to us. After all, we have
our code of what's right and wrong to live up to. I
for one don't want Battle to tell anything that
would warrant washing his mouth out with soap."
The Master Spy didn't need to turn and look
at Battle to know that the English manservant's
face had turned crimson.
"Oh, I say now," he protested. "Look here!
It's not as bad as that. It's really quite an innocent
joke, really nothing about-- about anything you
gentlemen had in mind, I'm sure. I was reminded
of it by the salad, you know. I dare say, perhaps
some of you have heard it already, although it
was told to me as a very new joke."
Nippy forced himself to look grave.
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G-8 and His Battle Aces
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SCOURGE OF THE STEEL MASK January, 1937
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2
"Oh well, Battle," he said. "It must be all
right."
Battle smiled delightedly.
"Then you want me to tell it, sir?" he asked
eagerly.
"By all means," Nippy assured him.
"Yeah," Bull growled. "Tell it and get it over
with. Some day, Battle, you'll murder me. You'll
catch me with a mouthful of food and I'll start
laughing and choke to death."
"Oh, I say," Battle beamed, "that would be
jolly-- er-- I mean to say, unique. But about this
story, if you really want to hear it. It's about a
salad-- sort of a quizzer, you might say."
"A quizzer?" G-8 repeated.
"Oh, yes, quite. A riddle. You know, one of
those things-- when is a thingamabob not a such
and such? But it's not quite like that, sir. You see,
sir, I ask you 'Why does a tomato blush?' And
you, of course, helping me out, say 'I don't know.
Why does a tomato blush?' Then I tell you the
answer. Now do you understand? Shall we have a
go at it, sir?"
G-8 nodded good-naturedly.
"I'm ready whenever you are," he said.
"Shoot."
"All right, sir," Battle nodded. "Now I
commence. I say, sir, why does a tomato blush?"
G-8 put on a great show of dignity and in a
deep, bass voice answered, "I don't know, my
good man. Why does a tomato blush?"
Battle beamed triumphantly.
"Because," he replied, "it sees the
mayonnaise."
Nippy, Bull, and G-8 were seized by a
simultaneous convulsion of laughter. It was then
that Bull Martin almost choked as he had
prophesied a moment before. There was much
drinking of water and slapping of his back. When
he was back to normal and could speak, he
glared at the bewildered Battle.
"All right, you dumb cluck," he said, "I ought
to murder you."
"Yes, sir," Battle nodded meekly. "I had a bit
of a feeling that there was-- er-- something
wrong with the joke. Do you mind doing it over
again?"
"Maybe you should ask why is there a
tomato?" Nippy cut in.
"Yeah," Bull growled. "What I've been
wondering, is why is there a Battle?"
But G-8 wasn't joining in the banter now. He
was sitting up straight in his chair, motionless,
silent, listening. A split second later, Nippy and
Bull caught the same sound that had come to his
ears. From far away, a plane motor droned and
grew louder rapidly.
"Somebody," G-8 said half to himself, "is
heading here full out."
He rose to his feet as he uttered those
words. Nippy and Bull were directly behind him as
he reached the tarmac. From the northeast, a
Nieuport marked with the French concentric
circles came tearing in over the boundary of the
field. It landed in two short bounds and swerved,
taxiing rapidly toward the end hangar.
As the motor died, the pilot raised himself
from the cockpit and began spouting French. He
stopped suddenly as he reached the ground,
panting for breath.
"Pardon, messieurs," he said. "I forgot you
were Americans! Mon Dieu, I am so excited! I
have been sent here from aerial headquarters at
Toule to make a report. Perhaps you would be
good enough to direct me to headquarters office. I
must make my report directly to G-8. He is
located here, n'est-ce pas?"
The Master Spy nodded.
"Yes," he said. "Come on. You won't have to
go to headquarters. I am G-8."
"Mon Dieu!" the Frenchman exclaimed. "You
are G-8?"
The Master Spy nodded again.
"Come in," he said. "Let's get at this thing
immediately."
He led the way into the living room.
"You will pardon my excitement?" the
Frenchman said. "I am located with the 11th
flying corps at Epinar. That, monsieur, is far to the
east,-- well into the Vosges mountains."
G-8 nodded.
"Yes, I know," he said.
"There is practically no activity in our area,"
the Frenchman continued. "So I turned the nose
of my plane this afternoon toward the Black
Forest. There, monsieur, is where I came upon
this strange happening.
"I had meant to go only a little way over the
forest to get a good view of the great, dark area
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SCOURGE OF THE STEEL MASK January, 1937
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and see the shadows that the sun cast as it went
down. Then I sighted a fair-sized captive balloon
looming out of the tree tops. As I flew closer to
investigate, I saw a basket hanging from it. There
was a large man in it, dressed in a German
uniform and holding an instrument of some kind. I
decided it couldn't be a gun, because it had no
opening at the end of the muzzle. In fact, it was
plugged and larger there. Both the bag of the
captive balloon and the basket bore a black cross.
"I aimed my guns and was about to fire when
the man leveled his instrument at me and braced
himself as though he were about to fire the
weapon. At that instant, my engine stopped dead
and I was forced to drop my nose sharply to keep
my propeller from stalling."
"Was there any sound from this weapon that
you mentioned?" G-8 asked.
The Frenchman shook his head.
"Non, none whatever."
"And what did you do?"
"There was a field below, monsieur,-- one
large enough for me to land in. But I saw that the
cable from the balloon went down to the edge of
this field and since I had a good altitude, I
decided to try and get back near my own lines. I
realized that this must be a trap in which to
capture Allied planes. I kept my nose pointed
down quite sharply so that the wind would keep
my propeller turning over although my engine was
still dead. The German was still pointing his
weapon at me. I knew that I couldn't possibly
reach my own lines but I decided I'd rather crash
in the Black Forest than be drawn down into that
trap."
"But you didn't crash," Nippy cut in.
The French pilot shook his head.
"Non, monsieur," he admitted. "Just as I had
given up hope, my engine began to splutter and it
started running again. I flew directly to aerial
headquarters to get gas and report what had
happened. They sent me here."
As the Frenchman finished, G-8 walked to
the wall and pressed the button in a signal for his
plane to be brought on the lines. But he signaled
for only his own Spad, a move that solicited
frowns from both the Battle Aces.
"What's the idea?" Nippy demanded.
"I'm going out to see this thing for myself,"
G-8 told him. "There's no use of all three of us
getting trapped. It sounds like the beginning of
something pretty big and I want to stop it before it
assumes any great proportions. If I'm not back by
dawn, come after me."
He turned to the Frenchman, at the same
time spreading out a map of the Black Forest
area on the table.
"Now, lieutenant," he said, "would you mind
showing me the exact spot where this balloon is
located?"
"It will be a pleasure," the Frenchman
agreed.
The grumble of G-8's Spad sounded out on
the tarmac as the Master Spy studied directions
and checked his watch with the setting sun.
"It's a long chance but I think I can just about
make it before dark," he said. "Nippy, you call up
Toule after I've started and tell them to have the
gas truck on the line. I'll stop there to refuel."
Again he focused his attention on the map.
"I've been over that area," he told the
Frenchman. "Do you remember seeing a large
and very old castle sticking up out of the trees
about two miles west of this point?"
The lieutenant nodded.
"Oui, monsieur," he said. "That is La Rocque
castle. There are many strange tales regarding it.
I saw it this afternoon when I was near the
balloon."
"One more thing," G-8 continued. "You said
you believed that was a trap of some sort in which
to catch Allied planes. What made you think
that?"
"Mon Dieu, did I forget to tell you? There
were already two captured Allied planes standing
on the field. I saw the pilots trying to start their
engines."
"You're sure they were Allied planes?"
"Positive, monsieur. One was a French
Nieuport like mine, only from another squadron,
and the other was a Salmson two-seater bearing
American markings."
"You believe, then, that these planes were
brought down by this strange weapon possessed
by the German in the balloon basket?"
The Frenchman shrugged.
"To be sure, monsieur," he said. "What else
could it be?"
Bull Martin laid his great paw on G-8's
shoulder.
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G-8 and His Battle Aces
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SCOURGE OF THE STEEL MASK January, 1937
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"Listen, chief," he said. "Why don't you let
me go on this job? I don't matter so much as you
do and if I go down and get captured, you'll stand
a lot better chance of helping me escape than I
will of helping you."
G-8 smiled.
"Thanks for the offer, Bull," he said, "but I'm
afraid I'll have to take this on myself. First hand
information is always better than second, you
know."
The Master Spy took his helmet and goggles
from the mantel over the fireplace and strode out
toward his ship.
CHAPTER TWO
Black Forest Magic
It was growing fairly dark as G-8 reached the
southwest edge of the Black Forest. He could see
the towering mountains shielded by the velvet
foliage of spruce. The last rays of the setting sun
touched the topmost spires, silhouetting them, in
striking contrast to the deep gorge of black
shadow. Beyond, the few remaining turrets of
half-crumpled La Rocque castle loomed up
menacingly.
The Master Spy leaned forward a little more
intently and his eyes swept that ridge with a closer
scrutiny. The map that he had inspected back at
Le Bourget was well fixed in his mind. He was
looking now at the exact spot a couple of miles
this side of La Rocque castle where there should
be a patch of a field large enough for an
emergency landing, and a captive balloon
hanging high above its mooring.
There was no balloon in the air now. The
place where the field should be lay in dark
shadow, so that at that distance and angle he
couldn't see a field at all. Drawing nearer, he
straightened in the cockpit, lifting his head so that
he could look over the windshield and get a
clearer view. He was certain that there was
something moving in that pocket of gloom. He
held a hand up to shield his eyes from the brilliant
rays of the setting sun. That move permitted him
to see more easily.
There was a huge object rising rapidly from
the field. It was the big captive balloon edging
into the air at the end of its cable with express-
elevator speed. The balloon was at least a
thousand feet up.
Through his powerful binoculars, G-8 made
out a man in the basket. He was large and
powerful-- larger even than Bull Martin. He
appeared to be wearing a Hun uniform, although
at that distance, G-8 couldn't be quite sure. It was
obvious that he was holding something in his
hands just below the level of the basket's edge.
That must be the strange weapon that the French
lieutenant had spoken of.
All this G-8 saw from an altitude of little
better than five thousand feet. He increased his
altitude as he came nearer. He was still almost
two miles away when he saw through the
binoculars that the big fellow in the basket was
raising the strange weapon. It seemed to be
composed of a tube about an inch and a half in
diameter and about three feet long. Wires trailed
from the other end which was a little larger, not
unlike the breach of a gun, although the muzzle
had a small metal ball on the end as though
someone had blown a bubble from it.
The Master Spy had planned carefully. He
wasn't sure of this mysterious power, didn't know
just what it would do to an airplane motor and he
wasn't taking any more chances than necessary.
He was above the balloon and to the southwest,
so that he could dive down on it at an angle of
about forty-five degrees. Thus, he wouldn't need
his engine.
He closed the throttle and the Hisso died to
idling. Then he cut his switch. His swift glide
through the air kept the propeller turning but the
motor was silent. He slipped his binoculars into
their case at the side of the cockpit for he could
see the figure in the basket very plainly now
without them.
That strange weapon was being pointed up
at him. All was still except for the screaming of
the wind through his wings and brace wires. His
main object in cutting his engine was that he
might learn for certain whether this weapon made
any sound at all. But nothing came from it-- no
sound, no light, no flame, no spark.
The balloon had stopped its ascent and was
hanging motionless, swaying a little at the end of
its cable in the light breeze. About two thousand
feet separated them, but G-8 in his long gliding
dive was shortening that distance rapidly. Fifteen
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SCOURGE OF THE STEEL MASK January, 1937
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5
hundred more and then he could get ready to fly
with his Vickers.
The man in the balloon braced his big hulk
against the basket and leaned farther over the
edge, poking the weapon out into space as
though that might give it more of the strange
power it was supposed to possess.
The Master Spy was taking stock of his
feelings and of what went on about him. If there
was a strange force coming from that weapon, it
seemed to have no effect on him.
But in the next instant, G-8 sensed
something strange. His whole body seemed
gripped rather gently by a force difficult to
describe. It was as though there were something
inside him trying gently to shrink him to a smaller
size. Diving, he felt this power increase until it
grew painful. He found it difficult to swallow.
Desperately, frantically, he kicked the rudder and
moved the stick to make sure he wasn't becoming
paralyzed. He found that his muscles were
working all right.
The space between his Spad's nose and the
elephantine monster of the air was less than a
thousand feet now. He pulled back the trips of his
Vickers guns and dropped his head so that his
eye lined over the sights. Two, three hundred feet
more he raced. The bag seemed to be looming
right off the muzzle of his Vickers. The strange
force about him was terrific, yet he could still
move all of his body at will. He jammed down his
triggers and the Vickers guns clattered, hurling
their incendiary bullets into the belly of the
monster bag.
* * *
It seemed to G-8 that his shots were futile,
but in the next instant, the mysterious force that
had so painfully gripped him suddenly let go. He
yanked the stick back as he saw that the portion
of the balloon where his shots had entered was
opening abruptly. From that huge gap, flames
spewed up, licking toward his steeply banking
Spad.
His propeller was still turning. He adjusted
the throttle and flipped on the switch and the
engine barked out.
With that accomplished, G-8 turned to take
stock of the situation. The entire balloon was a
mass of flames. The man in the basket had
thrown his weapon overboard and the Master Spy
could see it hurtling to the ground.
Now the balloonist himself was climbing over
the edge of the basket on the side where a
canvas bag was tied. He poised there for an
instant and plunged headfirst. As the balloon
collapsed in a mass of flames, G-8 saw shroud
cords shoot out and then the white chute was
jerked from the bag and cracked open in full
bloom.
The Master Spy circled lower as he
witnessed a horrible sight. The Hun was swaying
back and forth like a great pendulum at the end of
his shroud cords. The expression on his face was
ghastly with fear, for the burning remains of the
balloon were hurtling down upon him.
Desperately, he tried to slip the parachute to bring
himself out from under that burning gas bag.
Then he struck. He had apparently
maneuvered the chute so that the burning bag
wouldn't fall on him, but in the last instant, his
pendulum swing carried him under the flaming
heat, leaving the parachute just at the edge.
In one swift glance, G-8 studied the field
below and saw that none of the Hun's henchmen
were coming to give him aid. There was a chance
that he might be saved. He sent his Spad
charging down to a quick side slip landing and
was out of the cockpit before the plane had
stopped rolling. The German's parachute was
already flaming and the heat was so intense that
G-8 could stand it only long enough to grasp a
handful of shroud cords that stuck out from the
great fire, hurl them over his shoulder, and start
off on a dead run.
As soon as he had dragged the heavy body
of the Hun out of the flames, he ran back to it.
Even in that short interval, the German's clothing
was burned almost completely off him. The flesh
on the face seemed to be like putty, ready to fall
off at the touch. A gaping mouth-- all that was left
of the features-- opened a little. There was a
quick intake of breath, a sobbing groan, and then
the whole body went limp.
G-8 glanced about him again, but strangely
enough, there were no Huns coming, even now.
He ran to the place where the strange weapon
had fallen, and picked up the battered and bent
remains. As he turned, he saw the line of cable
that had run from the balloon basket to a machine
in a corner of the field. Beside the winch that
controlled the raising and lowering of the great
gas bag was another machine. There were glass
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SCOURGE OF THE STEEL MASK January, 1937
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tubes like queer-shaped electric light bulbs, a
generator that appeared to be hooked up to the
gas engine that operated the winch, and a mass
of wires and coils which G-8 took down in his
mind as completely as possible before he left.
His ship was still idling when he reached it.
After stowing the battered weapon in the back of
his cockpit, he climbed in and took the air,
heading for Toule. There he refueled and took off
again immediately for Le Bourget.
Gasoline flares were lighted at his home field
to help him down to a landing. Nippy, Bull, and
Battle were waiting anxiously. G-8 told them what
had happened as he rubbed the oil from his
goggles.
"Oh, but I say!" Battle interposed, "You don't
mean to tell me you went down and landed to
save the life of the man you had tried to kill."
An amused smile crept over the Master
Spy's face as he looked up at the English
manservant.
"It does sound funny, doesn't it, Battle?" he
admitted. "But then, on the other hand, I wouldn't
want to see him burn to death if I thought there
was a chance of saving him."
"By Jove, that's what I like about this air
service," Battle enthused. "There's something
sporting-- something downright cricket about the
whole business, you know."
Nippy and Bull had been examining the
battered weapon that G-8 had brought back. At
G-8's questions as to what they thought of it, they
both shook their heads.
"Except for those wires coming through,
there doesn't seem to be any sense to it," Bull
said.
"I'm going to take it to a signal officer I know
who's a wizard on wireless and electricity in
general," G-8 said, getting up.
The long, low powerful roadster sped him
rapidly to Paris where he found the signal officer
working in his wireless laboratory adjacent to one
of the wireless stations. G-8 introduced himself,
although it was scarcely necessary.
The signal officer, Captain Billings, was a
gaunt sort of man with somber eyes shielded by
horn-rimmed glasses. A smile spread over his
long, angular face as he rose to greet the Master
Spy. He was immediately interested when his
eyes fell upon the weapon and those same eyes
widened when G-8 told him where he had gotten
it and of the happenings that surrounded its
discovery.
Captain Billings went to work at once
dissembling the instrument, which proved to
contain strange coils and wires, together with a
small glass tube inside the metal ball at the end.
"I'm sorry it's so terribly battered," Billings
said. "We might make something out of it if we
got the right hook-up. I wish I could see the
machine that operated it. You say there was a
machine on the ground with a generator and glass
tubes and coils?"
"Yes," the Master Spy nodded. "A couple of
wires ran up the balloon cable and were attached
to the rear end of this affair."
Captain Billings hummed softly to himself as
he scrutinized, once more, various winding wires
that he had carefully taken out of the instrument.
He turned quite calmly to G-8.
"You know," he confessed, "I'd very much
like to go and see that machine personally-- if you
could arrange it."
At first, G-8 was hesitant.
"It's located quite far back in Germany,
Captain," he said. "It would be risky business to
go and inspect it."
The captain smiled slowly again.
"You were there, were you not?" he asked.
The Master Spy was forced to smile.
"Yes, of course," he admitted. "But-- well,
after all, hops into Germany are my business.
You're an electrical expert and a signal man. Do
you know anything about flying?"
"I can handle a brace of machine guns, if
that's what you mean," Billings told him. Again his
eyes fell upon the dissembled instrument on the
table before him. "Yes," he repeated, half to
himself, "I would certainly like very much to see
that machine." He turned to G-8 once more.
"Could you take me tomorrow at dawn?" he
asked.
"I'd be very glad to do that," G-8 said. "But I
want you to know what you're getting into."
"Do you think there will be any Huns waiting
for us?" Captain Billings asked.
"There's no telling," G-8 admitted. "I hope we
can decide that before we land. At any rate, if you
wish to go, it's settled. I'll see you at the field at
dawn."
The captain nodded and smiled.
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"By all means," he said.
Captain Billings was there even before dawn.
G-8 already had a D. H. two-seater out on the
line, warming. Beside it was Spads "7" and "13".
Bull and Nippy were going with them as convoy.
As they took the air, the two Spads climbed
above, riding at a five hundred foot distance to
keep a large "V" formation.
Captain Billings and G-8 droned toward the
Front and the Black Forest beyond. The sun was
peering over the horizon ahead of them when
they landed at Toule to get more gas. That done,
they flew on.
The entire sector appeared to be dead, and
as far as they could tell, there were no other ships
in the sky. G-8 sighted the turrets of La Rocque
castle once more and then guided his ship toward
the lone field where he had landed the evening
before. No moving thing was in sight.
From the air, the Master Spy made out the
charred, black earth where the flaming balloon
had fallen. He circled the field once and prepared
to land.
As he cut his motor, he heard Captain
Billings call out from the rear cockpit, "The place
seems to be deserted. I hope they'll give us a
chance to inspect that machine."
"Yes," G-8 called back, but there was a note
of uncertainty in his voice as he went down,
searching the ground constantly. That burned
body should be there just outside the circle of
blackened ground but he couldn't seem to find it
and that aroused his suspicions. He turned and
yelled back, "Have your Lewis guns ready,
Captain, in case any ground troops should attack
us! If you get out of the ship keep your Colt ready
for action!"
With a rumbling sound, G-8 brought the D.
H. to a halt over by the charred circle. A few
paces from the plane he stared down at a spot
that was dark and moist with human blood.
"What's that mess?" Billings asked curiously.
"That," G-8 said, "is where the body of the
dead German was lying." He pointed a few feet
away. "See-- there's the parachute harness with
the shroud cords burned off."
* * *
Suddenly, the Master Spy dropped to his
hands and knees and began examining the
ground about the ugly, dark pool.
"That's funny," he said. "The earth is fairly
soft here but I can't find the foot prints of whoever
carried the body away."
"Is that important?" Billings asked a little
impatiently. "I'd like to spend all the time I could
looking over that weird machine you described to
me."
G-8 got up.
"O. K.," he said. "It's over here at the edge of
the woods."
He said nothing more about the vanished
body but led the way around the patch of burned
grass to the edge of the timber. There he stopped
suddenly.
"There is no use going any farther. Look!" He
pointed ahead at a small space, perhaps four feet
wide and ten feet long, where the brush had been
either trampled down or cut away. "That, Captain
Billings," G-8 said "is where the machine I
described to you was standing. As you can see,
it's gone."
"You mean, then, that I won't get a chance to
look it over?"
"I'm sorry," G-8 said, "but that's the way it
looks."
"But who could have-- " Billings began.
"I don't know," G-8 cut in. "That's what I'd like
to find out. There's no trace of anyone coming to
carry them away."
Nippy and Bull were droning in a wide circle
a few hundred feet above the field while G-8 and
Captain Billings made their search. Suddenly, the
air below was split wide open with a roar that
belched from the short stacks of Spads "7" and
"13." Down over the field the two Battle Aces
thundered and the short staccato notes of Vickers
guns were heard.
At the first sound of the diving planes, G-8
had turned and run into the clearing at the corner
of the field. Nippy was very low in a long dive and
Bull was riding his tail. They were yelling like
maniacs, cutting their motors so that they could
be heard:
"Shove off! Huns coming!"
Captain Billings blinked behind his thick
glasses and G-8 grabbed him by the arm.
"Come on!" he barked. "Get into that cockpit!
We're hopping off right now!"
As he spoke, he stared up in search of the
enemy planes. He saw them screaming out of the
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east-- a six-plane flight of Fokkers. In his mind,
the Master Spy was trying to figure out his
chances of getting into the air and away before
they came. Somehow, he didn't have too much
confidence in the captain's air fighting ability.
Captain Billings had gotten his long legs in
the rear cockpit and was squatting down on the
seat. Meantime, G-8 was in the pilot's cockpit,
batting the gun open. The Liberty thundered out
and wings began to lift.
As they topped the trees Spandau guns
began chattering, but G-8 knew that they were
aimed at Nippy and Bull who had climbed up to
intercept the approaching planes.
The mixed chatter of Spandau guns and
Vickers grew nerve-shattering. At first, G-8 made
a dash for it, but in spite of Nippy and Bull's
efforts, half the Fokkers charged down and the D.
H. was caught in volleys of cross-fire. Spandau
lead pounded through the covering of the plane.
The Lewis guns were silent.
G-8 yelled to the captain, "Drive them off
your tail! What do you think you're back there
for?"
Captain Billings was struggling with the guns,
trying to swing them on their Scarf mounting, but
somehow he couldn't make out the handles that
would permit them to whirl easily.
Frantically, G-8 tried to show him how to put
them into operation. He saw a burst of lead from
one Fokker slam directly into the back cockpit,
and Captain Billings went down. The Master Spy
dropped the nose of the D. H. and pulled up
again, then sawed the rudder over to the right. As
she lumbered up and came over, his sights were
trained on a Fokker with a green body and black
wings. His triggers went down and his nose guns
began chattering. There was a puff of flame and
the wings and tail of that Fokker protruded from a
gigantic bonfire that hurtled earthward.
The Master Spy swung down and leveled off.
As he made a desperate attempt to start home,
dodging over the tree tops, he realized that his
ship had suddenly become nose-heavy. He spun
around and stared back, but even before his eyes
fell upon the empty cockpit, he saw the body of
Captain Billings, limp arms and legs flopping
wildly, falling through space.
Fokkers droned on behind him, their slugs
pounding again and again into the D. H.'s
covering. Nippy and Bull were making it very
difficult even for that number of Fokkers. Minutes
passed and the race for the lines continued. G-8
couldn't put up much of a fight in that lumbering
D. H. with the rear cockpit empty.
As they crossed the Front, the Fokkers gave
up the chase and turned back. G-8 and his Battle
Aces landed to refuel.
"Hey, didn't you tell your observer to strap
himself in?" Nippy demanded.
"I did," G-8 answered. "Remember, I told him
about it when we left Le Bourget and again when
we left Toule on the way up. I had a job arguing
him into it the second time. It didn't matter
anyway. I've got a pretty good hunch he was dead
before he dropped out. With the Spandau slugs
that went into him before I pulled up and over, he
didn't have a chance. Too bad; we've lost a
valuable man. But what concerns me most is the
disappearance of the machine and the German
that was burned."
"Maybe he got up after you left and took his
machine and walked off," Bull suggested.
G-8 shook his head.
"You wouldn't have thought so," he said, "if
you'd seen him when I left. As a matter of fact, he
died while I was there beside him."
CHAPTER THREE
Herr Stahlmaske
A cry rang out, shattering the dawn stillness
of the town of Waldheim in the southwestern
foothills of the Black Forest. Before the small
hospital stood a young lad, his face turned up
toward the windows above the entrance. He
shouted:
"Herr Oberdoktor! Herr Oberdoktor! Come
quickly. I have in my cart-- " as he called, the
window was thrown open, and a man with glasses
and close-cropped beard cut in:
"Was ist? What are you yelling about?"
The eyes of the hospital head traveled
beyond the boy to his dog-drawn, two wheeled
cart. There were three shining milk cans, shifted
to one side of the cart. The rest of the small
vehicle was crowded to overflowing with the
remains of a human body so ghastly to look at
that the Herr Doktor, before thinking, burst out
with:
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"Lieber Gott, why do you bring a burned
corpse to the hospital?"
The lad's face was white and his voice was
unsteady but he was in earnest.
"Bitte, Herr Oberdoktor," he said. "He is not
dead. He-- "
The lad got no further, for the huge, limp
form in the cart suddenly grunted and moved.
The sound that came from the lipless mouth
caused the lad to shrink in horror.
Locks grated from the inside of the hospital
door and it burst open before the Herr Oberdoktor
Assistants followed with a stretcher.
Another groan and gurgle came from the
burned man while he was being picked out of the
cart and placed on the stretcher. The Herr
Oberdoktor saw the litter start for the hospital
entrance and turned to the lad.
"Now tell me, meine Junge, who is he and
where did he come from und who are you?"
The boy tried to control his tremblings.
"I am Hans Shilder, Herr Doktor, but I do not
know who this poor burned one is. I was coming
from my father's little farm in the mountains
beyond La Rocque Castle. Always, my dog Troll
and I have to start with the milk before daylight.
You know the stories they tell about La Rocque
Castle, Herr Oberdoktor?"
"Yes, yes, of course. Hurry. I must get back.
Tell me where you found him and-- "
"I am coming to that, Herr Oberdoktor," the
boy cut in breathlessly. "I am always afraid going
past the cliff of rock on which stands the ghost
castle. This morning I heard someone move
beside the road and next I heard a most awful
sound-- like he made just now. Mein dog, Troll,
was sniffing and turning out of the road to the
right. There I found him, Herr Oberdoktor. I
wanted to run, but my legs would not carry me
away."
The Herr Oberdoktor frowned.
"Did you hear him mention any name?"
"Nein, mein Herr. I could understand very
little that he said. He made me understand that he
wanted to be brought to the hospital.
"You did well," the Herr Oberdoktor smiled.
"You are a brave lad."
He patted the boy's shoulder, then he hurried
into the hospital.
The Oberdoktor's assistant met him inside
with a shake of his head. Walking rapidly down
the corridor beside the Oberdoktor, the assistant
spoke with marked excitement.
"There is no use, Herr Oberdoktor. He
cannot-- he must not live. He would be horrible to
look at-- too horrible to force upon normal
humans. Already the flesh is falling from his
face."
They reached the door of the operating
room. Herr Oberdoktor gave a short nod and
passed inside.
"We shall see," he said.
There, over the operating table, the Herr
Oberdoktor and his assistant worked long hours.
At the end, the Oberdoktor shook his head.
"Only by a similar miracle such as that which
kept him alive thus far, can he go on living."
But the great burned corpse did live.
Weeks later he rose from the hospital bed
and looked at himself in the mirror. A cry of horror
escaped the hole in his mouth as he stared at the
ghastly face and head that were his.
"Lieber Gott! Something must be done. You
must build a new face."
The Herr Oberdoktor was standing beside
him. "I am sorry," he said. "We have done all
possible. The fire did its work too well. Flesh and
skin will not adhere to what is left. It is, of course,
a miracle that you live."
"Live?" the big Hun grunted. "Live? You
expect me to live like this?" A hollow, cackling
laugh rang out through the hospital with a strange,
echoing sound as though it came from within a
great barrel. "Dass ist gut! I should go on living
with no face at all-- with nothing but a skull that
has holes in the front of it-- and no name!"
"Perhaps your name will come back to you,"
the Herr Oberdoktor ventured.
"Nein," croaked the Hun. "It shall never come
back to me. I go on from here with the past,
except for one thing, blotted out. I shall have a
steel mask made, and I shall be known-- and
feared-- as Herr Stahlmaske. Und you-- "
He swept the hospital room and its
occupants, curious doctors, with eyes that blazed
red from the skull-face. Scant muscle tissues, that
served to hold the jaw on and made the face still
more ghastly, tightened. A yell burst from the
teeth-rimmed mouth.
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"I hate you all. I hate every man and woman
who is normal!"
* * *
A newcomer entered the room, bearing a
package wrapped in paper. The Oberdoktor
advanced to meet him, holding out his hands.
When he had taken the package, he turned to
Herr Stahlmaske and tendered it to him with a
bow.
"I have anticipated your needs, Herr
Stahlmaske," he announced. "I had this steel
mask prepared against the time when you would
leave the hospital. May I present it to you with our
deepest sympathy?"
Stahlmaske turned his huge bulk, and picked
the mask from its wrappings. It was glistening and
ugly-looking. It rose on the sides like a wide
stovepipe, while at the top it came together in a
dull point. It was made of heavy steel with
openings in front and at the sides for sight,
hearing, breathing and speech.
Slowly, like one condemning himself to a
chained eternity, Stahlmaske turned to the glass,
raised the mask helmet and slipped it over his
head. For a moment he stood, his big body
trembling with hatred and emotion, then he turned
and faced the doctors once more.
"There," he said. "Perhaps I appear much
less offensive?"
His eyes glowed crimson through the wide
slits at the top of the helmet and fell upon the
Oberdoktor. "You will tell me now where I am to
find the Herr Leutnant who recognized the
Amerikaner who is to blame for my being like
this?"
"Bitte, he went back to his duties," the Herr
Oberdoktor apologized, "after he left this note.
The name is written here."
He handed Stahlmaske a slip of paper. A few
words were scrawled across the sheet. He read:
I have every reason to believe that the
Amerikaner who shot you down was the
verdammt one, G-8.
"Gut," Stahlmaske croaked. "I go now, Herr
Oberdoktor."
For days Stahlmaske roved from city to city,
recruiting the ugliest of humans as his assistants.
But, of all that motley crew he assembled in old
La Rocque Castle, none was so horrible looking
as Stahlmaske himself.
On the night that he established his
headquarters there, he spoke to them in that
hollow, inhuman voice of his.
"I have picked you to work with me as my
assistants. Other humans look upon us as brutes.
"You wonder why I have brought you here
and what you are to do. Know this, that when I
was placed in this condition, I was experimenting
with a wireless beam. When we have perfected
the Loscher machine, then we begin, each with
an instrument."
The blazing eyes of Stahlmaske swept the
ugly brutes assembled before him.
"But there is another beam invention I must
have. Which of you know the city of Freiburg
best? Step forward."
Two advanced. One was tall and agile, with
broad but stooped shoulders and one side of his
face almost completely gone. The other was
squat and built like a bull, with a head that
seemed a little larger than a pea atop the
extremely thick neck. The face that he had was a
mass of scars and sores.
"Do you know where Herr Doktor Frielinger
lives in Freiburg?" Herr Stahlmaske asked.
The heads of the two bobbed in agreement.
"Tonight, then," Stahlmaske finished, "you
and I make a visit to the Herr Doktor. He is one of
the Vaterland's most learned electrical wizards.
Before, I would not dare steal him and his
machine, but now-- we bring him back, together
with the newest development in wireless beam.
Come."
Under cover of darkness, they advanced on
Freiburg. Reaching the house where the taller of
the two brutes said that Herr Doktor Frielinger
lived, Stahlmaske knocked softly. They heard the
gentle steps of a woman, then Frau Frielinger
opened the door and peered into the night.
Her mouth opened to emit a scream, but no
sound came. Stahlmaske leaped for her, and
clapped one huge paw over her face.
"Now," he boomed. "Where is Herr Doktor
Frielinger?"
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The door was closed and all three brute men
were inside. Stahlmaske released his hold just
enough so that she could speak.
"I will not tell you where he is," Frau
Frielinger choked.
She was struggling wildly, pitifully. From the
back room of the house where a light glowed; a
boy's voice called:
"Who is it, mutter?"
The next second he came running into the
front hall. He stopped at the sight of the horrible
figures, his eyes widened. The two others lunged
for him, but the boy was quicker and leaped
away, darting into the back room.
Stahlmaske barked a command: "Stop him!"
He pushed the mother away, holding her with
his huge, scarred left hand, and doubling his right,
struck her full in the face, felling her where she
stood.
The two men held the struggling boy when
he reached the sitting room. There on the table,
beneath the lamp, were his studies that he had
been doing in the peace of their home.
A brute laugh leaped from the mask as the
huge one snatched the boy to him. For an instant,
the red eyes burned at the face of the lad, then
came that hollow laugh again.
"You are good to look upon, meine Junge,"
he croaked. "You will grow up to be an attractive
man-- such as I was-- if your face is left to grow.
Let us see what we can do to make you look like
us."
Stahlmaske dug his finger nails deep into the
flesh of the face, ripping parts off. The boy
screamed, Stahlmaske laughed and ripped
through again. Even the two brutes, who stood
aside watching, shuddered at the sight.
The boy sank to the floor, shrieking with
pain, and Stahlmaske kicked him in the temple.
There was no more sound from him.
"Was ist?"
A mild voice sounded from a side door of the
room as Stahlmaske turned from his awful work.
A meek little man with nose glasses and a firm,
determined chin looked in, then gasped in horror.
His face blanched as he stared at the three
figures. He leaped across the room as he caught
sight of his son lying on the floor with mangled
head pillowed in a pool of his own blood.
The great arm of Stahlmaske lashed out and
beat him back, and by the time the man had
recovered his balance, the two brutes were
holding his struggling form.
"You are Herr Doktor Frielinger?"
Stahlmaske demanded.
Fighting vainly, the prisoner cried out:
"Of course I am Herr Doktor Frielinger. What
has that to do with my son? What have you done
to him? Where is mein Frau? Why are you here?"
"Those questions shall be answered later,
Herr Doktor," Stahlmaske said with a low bow.
"Aber, for now-- "
The great right fist smashed out full in the
Herr Doktor's face. His glasses shattered and his
head snapped back and his body went limp.
"Be ready to move quickly," Stahlmaske
ordered. "I go to the laboratory."
He returned several minutes later with
several strange-looking machines and coils. The
brute assistants carried the unconscious Herr
Doktor Frielinger and the loot from his laboratory
into the waiting car.
Stahlmaske had done his work on Herr
Doktor well. The electrical wizard did not regain
consciousness until long after he was brought to
La Rocque Castle, high in the Black Forest.
As he awoke, he cried out with pain.
"My eyes!" he choked. "They burn like fire!
What has happened? Turn on the lights. Where
am I?"
The barrel voice of Stahlmaske came back:
"You need no light, Herr Doktor'" he
chuckled. "You are in the cell in the east tower.
The rays of the sun are already falling across you,
but you cannot see them. You are blind!"
"Blind!" The word that Herr Doktor Frielinger
repeated came in a whisper. He nodded slowly,
resignedly. "Jawohl I remember. A fist was
coming at me very fast. My glasses shattered and
the pieces are in mein eyes. That is what burns
so. Lieber Gott!"
Stahlmaske laughed again and this time
some of the brutes about him joined in the
demoniac chuckle.
"Bitte," Herr Doktor Frielinger said feebly,
"would it be possible to give me hypodermics so
that the pain of the ground glass will be
lessened?"
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"Hypodermics?" croaked Stahlmaske. "That
is gut. Do you know why you have been brought
here? So that you may describe to us the full
secret of this beam machine. As soon as you
have done that, hypodermics will be given and
you may rest."
"The secret of mein extinguishing beam?"
Frielinger's voice shook with emotion. "Ach, Gott!
So that is it!"
"You have tortured mein son. You may
torture or kill me, but I shall never let the secret of
my extinguishing beam be known."
"No?" Stahlmaske barked. "We shall see.
Men, first we string him to the ceiling by his
thumbs. His feet will be fastened to that rack that
I have brought from the dungeon. We begin the
stretch!"
Stahlmaske superintended the preparations
for torture. When Herr Doktor Frielinger was
strung up, he was left there, groaning, half-
conscious.
"Now," Stahlmaske said, "we go to make a
test of this apparatus."
Below, in the crumbled expanse of what had
once been the castle banquet hall, Stahlmaske
eyed his men.
"Can any of you speak English at all?"
Several stepped forward.
"I shall pick the-- " he broke off to laugh
hideously-- "best looking of you." He designated
four of the group. "You are to go to Le Bourget
field near Paris and bring back G-8. By the time
you return, I will have the machine working
properly. If this beam performs as I expect, it
shall eat the verdammt one away, one limb at a
time."
"Aber," one of the chosen argued. "That is
enemy territory and we cannot speak well enough
to pass for Amerikaneren or Englishers. We will
be-- "
Stahlmaske leaped for him, striking him such
a blow with his open right palm that it knocked the
ugly brute to the floor.
"I give the orders here," Stahlmaske
shouted. "Und I make the plans. We have no
arguments. Verstehen sie?"
Horrible heads nodded in the affirmative.
There was a sudden tinge of fear that had not
been there before. Stahlmaske was king.
"Und now," Stahlmaske went on. "Eine
minute. I write a warning to the verdammt one."
From the desk he took paper and ink and
began scribbling. When he had finished a short
note, he folded it, placed it in an envelope and
sealed it. On the front he wrote:
PERSONAL TO G-8
"Here," he barked, turning to the nearest of
his tense, respectful brutes. "See that that is flown
to Le Bourget at once and dropped outside the
apartment door at the end hangar."
It was the gaunt, stoop-shouldered one with
the half face who left.
Stahlmaske turned to those chosen for G-8's
abduction.
"Und now," he thundered, "I give you the
details for the capture."
CHAPTER FOUR
The Devil's Messenger
In the apartment of the end hangar at Le
Bourget, Battle was calling G-8 and his Battle
Aces into the dining room.
"If you ask me," Bull ventured as he took his
seat and dove into the ham and eggs and fried
potatoes, "this man's war will be over pretty
quick."
"Nobody asked you, you big ox," Nippy jibed.
G-8 smiled. "Let him go on, Nippy," he
urged. "Maybe Bull's decided, since everything
has been quiet for so long, that he's going in for
fortune-telling."
"Nuts!" was Bull's retort. "Lay off, will you? I
was just thinking out loud."
"You ought to know," Nippy grinned, "that
when you think, its time to declare a holiday.
That's for ordinary thinking, but when you think
out loud-- Jumping Jupiter-- that is something."
"All right, you birds," Bull grumbled over an
ample slice of ham. He pointed his fork
menacingly at Nippy. "But you see what I tell you.
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Heine's giving up. We haven't had a good bunch
of trouble in over a month. I never saw things so
quiet since Aunt Aggie-- she was the talker of our
family-- got laryngitis and lost her voice."
"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but could I get you
something more?"
Bull nodded and pushed his plate toward the
manservant.
"Fill her up again, will you, Battle?" he
requested. "You seem to be the only one around
here who thinks I'm worth anything."
"Yes, sir, quite," Battle bowed, taking the
plate. "And may I say, sir, that you are the most
appreciative glutton I've ever cooked for?"
Bull drew back his arm in a playful gesture
and Battle ducked.
"Go on," the big fellow boomed. "Get out and
fill up that plate or I'll wrap you around the stove
pipe."
"And while you're out there," Nippy called,
"look in the ice box and see if you can figure out
why the tomato is blushing."
"Seriously," Bull said, turning to G-8, "have
you got any dope that tells you the Heines aren't
just about ready to lay down and call it a finished
war?"
G-8 opened his mouth to speak, but instead
he closed it again and rose slowly, noiselessly,
from his chair. The sound of a screaming engine
came to all. In another second, G-8, Nippy, and
Bull, were running for the door that opened onto
the field.
Out of the northeast, a screaming thing with
wings grew larger. As it passed the trees at the
end of the field, the nose dropped and it came
roaring down the tarmac, straight for the end
hangar and G-8 and his Battle Aces. Over their
heads a message streamer ribboned out and fell
lightly to earth while the Fokker flew on.
G-8 tore the note from the sack at the end of
the streamers. Nippy and Bull stared at it over G-
8's shoulder and together they read:
You thought you saw me burn to death more
than a month ago, but although I tasted death I
did not die. Mein Loscher is nearly perfected. I
will test it upon you.
Herr Stahlmaske
"Herr Stahlmaske," Bull snorted. "I never
heard of him."
"I don't get it," Nippy chirped at the same
time. 'What does he mean by 'Loscher' and
who-- "
G-8 had spun around and was yelling to the
hangar mechanics to start their engines.
"There's no time, now, to explain," he barked
over his shoulder as he ran to give them a hand.
"You birds know German. Figure it out for
yourselves. "Come on!"
Three Spads were roaring on the line. G-8
climbed into his cockpit and yelled orders to
Nippy and Bull.
"Got to follow that Fokker and find out where
he lands. That will probably be the seat of the
trouble."
For almost two solid hours they chased the
Fokker. Strangely, the enemy ship did not swing
over to its own side of the lines, but headed in a
straight course for the farthest eastern front.
G-8 began reconstructing that flight. His own
gasoline was getting low. Fokkers didn't have any
wider cruising radius than Spades therefore, it
would have been impossible for this Fokker to
come from that eastern salient and return without
stopping along the route for fuel.
They had swept over Nancy, and far ahead
the Vosges mountains loomed. That meant that
the Black Forest would be on the other side.
Already G-8 was satisfied as to the general
location of the note sender who called himself
Herr Stahlmaske.
G-8 turned then and signaled Nippy and Bull
to turn back. They thundered high over the
Vosges mountains in the twilight and dropped
down at Nancy for refueling.
Questions flew at him fast when the three
were out of their cockpits.
"Hey," Nippy chirped. "What did you mean
by that crack about us knowing our German?"
"Yeah, and what's this note got to do with the
guy that burned to death more than a month
ago?" Bull wanted to know.
"Come on," G-8 encouraged. "I want to
telephone and on the way I'll tell you what I can. I
meant, Nippy, that you two should know what was
meant by 'Stahlmaske' and 'Loscher'."
"Sure," Nippy nodded. "'Stahlmaske' means
'steel mask.' But what's that got to do with-- "
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"Listen, squirt," Bull cried triumphantly, "for
once I can figure something out ahead of you.
Sure, 'Stahlmaske' means 'steel mask,' and I just
got the hookup. This guy that G-8 thought was
burned to death, lived. His face was so badly
burned that he goes around wearing a steel mask
and calling himself that. How's that G-8?"
"Swell," the Master Spy said. "Nice figuring,
Bull."
"Jumping Jupiter!" Nippy cut in. "Somebody
must have told you. You sure didn't figure that out
by yourself."
"Nuts to you," Bull growled. A pause and
then the big fellow said gravely. "There is one
thing I can't remember or figure out, though. I
don't recognize that German word, 'Loscher'."
"Loscher," G-8 explained, "means
'extinguisher'. A blotter-outer, an exterminator."
"Sure," Nippy cut in. "Anybody would know
that."
Bull was paying no attention to the terrier ace
than a great Dane would to a yipping
Pomeranian.
"But," the big fellow persisted, "what would
that have to do with a guy who got burned and is
wearing a steel mask?"
"Remember," G-8 reminded him, "that this
big German I shot down was experimenting with
some kind of an electrical machine that would
stop plane engines. He's probably referring to it
as the machine that extinguishes running motors,
like a fire extinguisher would put out a fire."
"Yeah?" Nippy chirped. "Well, try and figure
this one out, then! He says his exterminating
machine is about finished and he's going to try it
out on you. Think he means he's just going to
stop your machine with it?"
"You're right," Bull agreed. "G-8, he's got
something more than a machine that will stop
airplane engines. Suppose he has some kind of a
beam or something that will exterminate a human
being or an airplane."
"Then," G-8 said, "we'll have to exterminate
it."
They had reached headquarters, where the
commander greeted them and tendered the use
of his office. G-8 began a swift check by phone of
the Fokker's whereabouts before it had reached
Le Bourget. Minutes dragged into a half hour but
finally he turned from the phone, satisfied.
"It's quite evident," he told the others, "that
the Fokker bringing the note left from one field
and flew back to another. My check-up shows that
it came from somewhere opposite Verdun and
flew back to the region of Freiburg in the Black
Forest, a hundred and fifty miles away."
"That means," Bull ventured, "that this bird
who calls himself Stahlmaske has his
headquarters somewhere near Frieburg.
"I think so," G-8 agreed. "Although I can't be
sure."
Meantime, their engines had been running
on the line after their refueling, awaiting their
departure. Other ships were being tested on the
great Nancy airdrome. The rumble had been
almost constant since their arrival in
Headquarters. Now, suddenly, during a lull in the
conversation, all else became suddenly still.
The field commander turned, frowning
perplexedly. "What caused that?" he demanded.
"Those engines have been running on test. They
all stopped at once!"
G-8 was listening tensely. He was on his
feet, charging for the door. The others followed.
Several planes were standing about the
apron with mechanics staring at them in the dim
light of dusk.
"What happened?" the booming voice of the
C.O. demanded.
"We don't know, sir," a corporal saluted. "We
were testing our ships, Tim and me, and all at
once, they both went off."
"Come on to the motor blocks," G-8 advised.
Back of the repair hangar were motor blocks,
built of heavy timbers, and there were engine
beds where the Libertys and the Hisses and
others could be bolted down and run on test to
make sure mechanical repairs had been done
well. But the motor test blocks were silent, and
there again stood mechanics scratching their
heads and asking vague questions of each other.
G-8 whirled to face the field commander.
"This," he said, "is serious, sir. Will you call
aerial headquarters and advise that nothing be
mentioned of this? The lips of every mechanic
must be sealed tightly. We can't have the news of
this getting to the enemy side of the lines. Do you
understand, sir?"
"Exactly," the C.O. agreed. "I'll attend to it at
once."
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He left on a trot for headquarters office. G-8
faced Nippy and Bull.
"Feel anything funny?" he asked in a low
voice. "Stand still and see."
There was a tense silence. Bull was first to
speak.
"I do," he hissed in an awed whisper. "I feel
as though somebody was trying to make me
smaller."
"Yes," as nodded. "That's pretty close. It's
going away now."
Another tense pause and then:
"It's gone," Nippy breathed. "Let's see if our
engines will start."
Hissos barked. Mechanics wound up other
engines and they were roaring out over the field
once more. G-8 and Nippy and Bull were climbing
into their cockpits. The C.O. came trotting back
from headquarters.
"I've given the aerial commander your
advice. He will put through an order at once," he
yelled above the idling motor.
"Good," G-8 called back. "We're going back
to Le Bourget. If anything more turns up, call me
there."
Then Hissos were gunned and the three
Spads swept off the ground and headed for
home.
CHAPTER FIVE
Battle's Sacrifice
Hours before, back at Le Bourget, Battle had
watched the three Spads chew their way into the
evening skies. He stood in the doorway, muttering
to himself:
"There must be something beastly important
about. I haven't seen the master go tearing away
like that in weeks. There was a note dropped by a
German plane. I wonder what it could have said."
With a face unusually blank, Battle turned
inside when the drone of the three Hissos had
died away. He cleared up the mess from the
evening meal and was about to go to his room
when he heard the jangling of the telephone bell
on the living room wall.
Picking up the receiver, Battle called into the
mouthpiece:
"Righto, who is there?"
A strange voice came back to him.
"Iss G-8 dere?"
Battle opened his mouth to speak, but left it
that way without pushing any words out. His
usually slow brain was going round and round,
gradually working out a problem. He put his lips to
the mouthpiece again and asked, to make sure:
"I beg pardon-- I'm afraid I didn't get it, sir.
The voice at the other end repeated:
"Iss G-8 dere?"
That made Battle certain. The voice was
distinctly German in accent, and Germans were
enemies. He didn't stop to figure how one would
be on his side of the lines talking to him on a
telephone. He only thought of G-8 and of his trust
in him. Battle was thinking faster than he had
ever thought in his whole life.
"Yes, sir," he lied. "The master is right here.
I'll call him, sir, in a moment. Remain there and--
er-- hold everything."
Battle covered his tracks so well that he
even laid down the receiver so that it would make
a sound over the wire. He went into the kitchen
and began talking in normal voice.
"'Hello. Yes. Quite so.' No, confound it. I
can't seem to get away from the blasted way of
saying it. But I must! I must take the place of G-8
until he returns. I have a feeling that he is in great
danger and that this person on the phone is
coming to do him harm. I must carry on.
"Where was I? Oh, yes, of course. "Hello!
Yes. What do you want? Right to'-- blast it, I
mean, 'I see'."
Finished, but only half-satisfied, Battle went
back to the phone and picked up the receiver
gingerly. He lowered his voice.
"Hello!"
"Iss dat you, G-8?" asked the voice at the
other end.
"Yes," answered Battle.
"I will come over right away," the voice
gutturaled. "I haff just returned from de odder side
and I bring information for you. You will wait for
me?"
"Righto," Battle blurted and then: "I mean,
yes, of course-- or-- "
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He heard the receiver click at the other end
of the line and hung his own on its hook. He
walked to the center of the room and stared about
more blankly than ever, mumbling and talking to
himself.
"I must make up like the master. Yes, of
course. They must mistake me for him and then I
shall do my best to carry on until G-8 comes back
to surprise them. But he must not walk into any
trap."
He glanced at the clock over the mantel.
* * *
"It will be several hours before he comes
back. Confound it! I wish I knew how long it will
be before this fellow who sounds like a German
will be coming here."
Battle was hopping about like a beheaded
chicken.
"Dash it, what shall I do first?"
He solved that by getting out the old make-
up box. With it before him, he sat down in front of
the great mirror and, with deft touches, began
transforming his face so that it grew more and
more like that of the Master Spy.
When he had finished, he hastily put on one
of G-8's uniforms. Battle groaned as he looked
himself over in the big mirror for the final time.
"Blast it!" he breathed. "I'd make out well
enough as a scare crow, but as the Master
Spy-- " He shrugged his slim shoulders that came
inches from filling out the uniform coat. "I'll have
to have a fling at it, however. I never was meant
to impersonate anyone else but myself."
Battle paced anxiously from the living room
into the kitchen and back again. He was
mumbling to himself again. He made four round
trips before he could make up his mind, then he
turned on the oven in the kitchen so that it would
go full blast, took a pot of beans that he had
prepared to bake and placed them in the heating
oven.
"Perhaps that will do," he ventured. "I was
going to bake the beans this evening, anyway.
But I fancy the way I have the heat turned that
they'll be burning about the time the master
returns. Meanwhile, who knows what will
happen?"
Everything was ready. Battle fingered the
automatic in the holster at his side from time to
time. He sat down in a chair before the door and
took out the big Colt, handling it as gingerly as
though it were a small, poisonous beast.
"Ugh!" he shuddered. "When I think what this
might do to one's insides, I-- er-- "
He stuffed it quickly back in the holster and
leaped up. Darting from one window to another,
he pulled down window shades with a loud,
fluttering sound of haste. He stood in the center of
the room and looked about. A deep sigh escaped
him. He glanced at the clock and stole into the
kitchen to inspect the beans.
Before he reached the oven, he heard the
sharp knock of hard knuckles on the outside door
of the apartment. The back of Battle's neck, being
the only part of him that was not covered with
some kind of make-up, turned white.
For a long moment, he jittered between the
door into the living room and the oven. The living
room won. He stepped inside on tiptoe and took
one final peak at himself in the mirror, sighed
deeply-- shivered as he shook his head and
advanced toward the door. The knocking came
again-- louder.
"Buck up, old chap. Keep your nerve. You
are now the Master-- the Master Spy, do you
hear? Buck up and keep a cool head. Do not let
them perceive that you are nervous. Hold yourself
ready for any emergency. Now you must open the
door."
The knock sounded a third time and the door
trembled beneath those heavy strokes.
"One, two, three!" Battle counted to himself.
He took just long enough after that to
breathe a prayer and a sigh, then he turned the
key and boldly threw the door open wide.
For an instant, the dark hole that was the
yawning doorway seemed filled with ghastly
faces. There was one man directly before Battle
who leaped across the threshold and stood there,
grinning horribly.
He was a hammered-down sort of brute with
shoulders almost as broad as they were high from
the floor. His face appeared perfectly flat, with
chin, gaping mouth, nose and eyebrows all on the
same plane.
"Oh, I say," Battle exploded, shrinking back
from shock.
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The other three ugly, menacing brutes,
dressed in ill-fitting Yank uniforms, crowded in
behind. The squat leader pushed Battle before
him and the last man in, a bent, spidery sort with
long arms, short legs and only half a face
because his chin was gone, closed the door
behind him.
Battle shrank still farther away so as to be as
much out of reach as possible. The leader strode
after him. He stuck out a hand that was three
times the width of one of Battle's.
Battle was taking his part. He must act like
G-8, although the thought of touching one of
these foul-looking beasts gave him a new attack
of the jitters.
The powerful paw closed over his and held
on. Battle was jerked forward and the automatic
that he had counted on not a little was ripped
from its holster.
"So you are de verdammt one, G-8?" the
leader barked.
He released him now that the gun was gone.
Battle was making a terrific fight to keep hold of
himself. He bowed.
"Yes, sir," he stammered. "I-- I am G-8.
What do you gentlemen want?"
The other three joined in the laughter of their
leader.
"We want you," the squat one rasped. "You
are coming with us-- to Herr Stahlmaske. He is
ready to use you for testing his Loscher machine."
At a nod from the leader, the other three
leaped forward. Battle tried to get away from
them, but he was snatched into the center of the
room and half dragged toward the door, calling:
"I say, look here, you can't do this!"
Suddenly, the leader blocked the way of the
others.
"Wait," he ordered. "Eine minute. There is
something nicht gut heir. Let him go!"
Battle stood shaking a little before him. The
wicked eyes of the brute man burned into his.
"You are nicht G-8," he snorted. "Dere is
trickery here. I giff you one chance to tell. Who
are you?"
"I," he snapped, "am G-8." His fists doubled
in a pitiful effort at bravado but he was game.
"Who dares say I am not the Master Spy?"
"I say you are not G-8," the leader roared.
"Und I say that you are a verdammt liar."
The huge right paw of the leader zipped
through the air in front of Battle's face and
smacked him full with the open palm, hurling him
backward. He didn't go down, but landed against
the side of the room. He braced himself with head
still reeling and lunged at the brute.
His fists were flying, awkwardly, into the face
of the leader, but bouncing off like pebbles tossed
against the face of a cliff. The brute was laughing
at him and making no attempt to protect himself.
Desperately, Battle fought on. Righteous
anger welled up in him and spurred him on to try
the impossible.
The brute leader seemed to grow tired of his
joke. His left hand shot out and grasped Battle by
the front of his loose uniform coat and jerked him
nearer. The huge right fist shot across the
intervening space and landed between Battle's
eyes.
Stars blinked for only the briefest instant and
then everything went black for the master of
make-up.
Men talked while consciousness returned. He
heard the four brutes in far-off mumbling.
"The verdammt one and his assistants
should be back soon," he heard the leader say.
"Vee will catch them as they come in the door.
Two of us on each side and wait there. We wait
until all three are in the room and then-- "
Battle was lying on the floor. He could not
move his arms or legs for they were tied. He tried
to cry out but realized for the first time that
breathing was difficult because of something that
was tied about his head.
He strained at the bindings, but the ropes
only cut into his flesh more deeply.
The leader's voice lowered.
"Silence! Listen. They are coming now in
their planes!"
A hush fell over the room. The only sound
Battle could hear was the ever-increasing drone
of Hissos. In spite of the mass of cloth covering
his head, he could make out the three engines.
"Ach, gut," the Hun said. "Now they come to
land."
The sound of the engines died. Very faintly,
Battle could hear the whistle of wind tearing
through wires and over wings.
G-8 and Nippy and Bull were landing. They
were walking right into this trap.
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SCOURGE OF THE STEEL MASK January, 1937
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He struggled with renewed vigor to get free
but his efforts were in vain. There came the
rumble of wheels and skids as the three Spads
landed outside and motors blurped again, jerking
the three ships to the end hangar tarmac.
They would be getting out now. Battle was
frantic but helpless. He tried to make a sound with
his mouth, and when that failed, he found he
could pound with his heels on the floor.
There came a curse in German and the soft
padding of heavy feet toward him. Outside, he
heard G-8's voice speaking to his mechanic the
instant after the engines ceased to idle. He
thought he could hear their boots striking the hard
apron outside as they walked toward the
apartment door where the Hun brutes lurked.
Battle kicked with all his might to warn them.
It was all that he could do. Something like a
sledge hammer struck him at the side of the
head. It might have been the toe of the leader's
boot, or a club. Battle didn't know, for it blasted
him into unconsciousness again.
CHAPTER SIX
Bull Cleans House
G-8 climbed out of his cockpit and stretched.
Nippy and Bull gathered about him in the
darkness.
"G-8," Bull said seriously, "have you any idea
what made those engines stop at Nancy?"
G-8 frowned and gave a significant nod at
the mechanic sergeant who had come to take
care of his Spad. He called him over.
"Sergeant," he asked, "have you had any
engines on test here tonight?"
The sergeant looked puzzled for a moment
and then he nodded down the dark tarmac.
"You can hear 'em running now, sir," he said.
"Yes," G-8 agreed, "that's right. Have they
been running like that all evening?"
"I'll say so, sir," the sergeant nodded
savagely. "They could have picked nights that
would suit me better. I've had a head
ache all day big enough for a hippopotamus.
Warming engines wasn't so bad because they'd
stop once in a while, but those motors on test--
honest, sir, I'm about to go nuts."
"They haven't stopped once in the last three
hours?" G-8 ventured.
"The last three hours, sir? They haven't
stopped since they started before mess tonight."
"Good," G-8 nodded.
The sergeant stared, wide-eyed, and his
mouth dropped open.
G-8 turned to Nippy and Bull, and together
they walked toward the trap waiting to be sprung
on them.
"That settles one thing," G-8 said when he
was out of earshot of the mechanics. "Stahlmaske
has his headquarters over in the Black Forest, in
the general region of Nancy. We felt the force
there, but they didn't get it here."
"You mean," Nippy demanded, "that they've
got a device that will stop airplane engines that
are as far away as Nancy is from the Black
Forest?"
"I wouldn't bet they didn't have," G-8
advised. "And if that's all they've got, we'll be
lucky. I wonder what the force of the apparatus is
within a few hundred yards."
Suddenly, Nippy and G-8 stopped
simultaneously. Bull stopped two paces ahead of
them and turned.
"What's the idea of you-- " the big fellow
began but he got no farther because a low
warning hiss for silence came from G-8.
"Hey!" Nippy whispered. "Do you smell
something burning?"
"Yes," G-8 nodded. "Something's burning in
our kitchen and I'm sure I heard a thudding
sound, just a moment ago."
"I don't see anything to get excited about in
that," Bill rumbled.
"Shut up, you big ox," Nippy breathed. "Think
this over. Did you ever catch Battle letting
something burn?"
"Holy Herring! No, come to think of it," Bull
agreed.
"That and the pounding in there is what
started me thinking," G-8 admitted. "It seems
strange to smell the odor of burned cooking
coming from Battle's kitchen. He's always so
careful about things like that."
The Master Spy walked a little nearer and
stopped again.
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"There's something phoney going on," Nippy
ventured. "Either Battle isn't there or he's too sick
to look after things in the kitchen."
"Look at the windows. The heavy shades are
drawn. Never saw him do that before," G-8 said.
"Well," Bull growled. "What are we waiting
out here for? Let's go in and see what's wrong."
He started, but G-8 caught his arm and drew
him back.
"Not so fast," he whispered. "We'll take a
little look around first. Let's try the kitchen and
see if we can slip in there."
Around at the other side of the apartment
section of the hangar they found the kitchen door
locked.
"Looks like Battle's locked himself in
because he was afraid of something," Nippy
guessed.
"I don't know what you birds are talking
about," Bull snorted. "What would Battle be afraid
of, inside the apartment?"
"Maybe," G-8 ventured, "if you'll quiet down,
we'll find out. Come on. Quiet now, through the
storage end, and we'll have a look from that
door."
"You mean through the keyhole?" Nippy
asked.
"Yes," G-8 hissed, leading the way through
the hangar.
"But there's a guard over the keyhole," Nippy
objected.
"I know, but I think I can work it back without
making any noise."
"Better let me try it," Nippy suggested. "I'm
used to light-fingered stuff with my magic tricks."
They had reached the door in question. G-8
nodded assent.
Nippy produced a small piece of wire and
went to work. In less than two minutes he was
peering through the hole that he had opened. He
drew back as though someone from the living
room had jabbed him with a hat pin.
"Jumping Jupiter!" he gasped. "Wait until
you see what I saw. There are four of the ugliest-
looking things I ever saw in my life, crouched, two
on each side of the opposite door, waiting for us
to come in that way. Somebody with a uniform
that fits him like a circus tent is tied up over by
the fireplace. I can't see who it is because there's
a blanket tied over his head."
G-8 drew him away and was staring through
the small opening.
"I'll give odds of three to one that it's Battle,"
he offered. "Or at least it was Battle. He isn't
moving."
"You mean they killed Battle?" Bull hissed.
"Listen, I kid that guy a lot, but if they killed him,
I'll break every bone in their bodies. Ugly? They'll
be ugly when I get through with them. Let me
have a look, will you, G-8?"
Bull took one look and leaped up.
"Listen," he announced in a close whisper,
"there's only one way to beat these birds. We've
got to surprise them. This door is locked, so we've
got to break it down as we go and keep on
bucking the line. You birds follow your
interference. And this is going to be some
interference."
"Right," G-8 agreed, drawing his automatic.
Bull stepped back from the door. G-8
crouched beside him.
"We'll go through together," he said. "Nip,
you clean up what we miss."
"Yeah," the terrier ace hissed. "I sure will."
"One-- two-- three!" Bull breathed.
Bull and G-8 charged with heads together
and right shoulders jutting forward. Nippy tore in
behind them, pushing with his hands against their
hips.
There was a sharp report of wood and metal
shattering. The door went down before them like
the side of a child's playhouse and Bull plowed
on, with G-8 a close second and Nippy running
beside him.
All four of the brutes heard and saw their
danger at the same time. Their moves were ill-
timed and jumbled.
The squad leader drew a gun as Bull came
at him, head down. The brute's hand moved with
lightning speed, and before G-8 could little more
than realize it, he had swung the gun round and
was leveling it straight for Bull's middle.
The Master Spy tried to get in a shot from his
already drawn Colt automatic, but all was a mad
mass of movement and Bull was between him
and that squat figure.
Two things happened so closely together that
G-8 wasn't sure of the exact outcome until he saw
it definitely.
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The brute man had brought his gun up and
had pulled the trigger, but the lunging football star
had also moved so fast that G-8 didn't quite
follow him with his eyes.
Bull's body above his waist had tipped back,
and his right kicking foot had swung up like a
high-speed, murderous pendulum. G-8 couldn't
see what that tried and true toe of Bull's had
struck, but he saw the gun of the brute crash
against the ceiling and fall. He heard a scream of
pain.
The two brutes from the other side of the
door leaped at Bull, but the big fellow dropped to
a crouched position once more, ducked to the left
to let them slip by and hurled a right and a left
into the flat face of the leader.
The left sent him off his balance. The right
snapped the head back on the thick neck, and
with glazed eyes the leader crashed to the floor
and lay still.
G-8 fired his automatic with the muzzle not
three feet from the side of another contorted one
who was in the very act of sending a bullet for
Bull's head.
G-8's gun exploded with a deafening roar
and blasted a second time. The brute at the end
of the muzzle jerked, flopped and hit the floor with
a sodden thud.
G-8 swerved his gun to fire at another, but a
third brute was already charging from the side
with upraised arm and a wicked knife in his hand.
Bull made a frantic effort to reach him. It
seemed too late to call out and warn the Master
Spy of his danger. Nippy was already taking care
of the situation. His slim, wiry body was flying
through the air straight for the running feet of the
surprise attacker.
Bull let out a bellowing cry of warning, and
struck. His blow landed just in time to change the
aim of the knife hand so that the blade barely
ripped through G-8's coat and pricked his skin.
The human beast was far from knocked out.
He was on his feet instantly, the most powerful of
all the four brutes. As he rose, he snatched at
Nippy's shoulder and jerked the terrier ace
upward. The knife blade gleamed.
Nippy whirled in a frantic effort to jerk free of
the murderous grasp. He succeeded in part, and
let fly with a right that landed full in the stomach
of the brute.
Again and again G-8 pulled the trigger of his
automatic. Lead spat from the muzzle and
slammed into the living room wall. The brute had
leaped to the side and spun Nippy about to use
him as a shield.
Bull was there, his great hands closing on
the German. The brute dropped Nippy to fight off
Bull. The knife which had not yet touched Nippy
came slashing down at Bull. The big fellow
ducked in and caught the wrist on his shoulder.
He seized that wrist in his left hand and there was
a terrific struggle. Bull gave a sharp twist of the
other's arm and brought up his right to the jaw.
The knife thudded to the floor.
The brute made a wild attempt to pick up the
knife, but Bull kicked it away with a growl and let
go again with rights and lefts.
For a half minute, G-8 and Nippy watched
from the side. Bull was having no easy time of it,
but he was doing a thorough job, cleaning house
with his last brute.
Suddenly, Bull charged with head down. He
picked up the brute and tossed him with terrific
force against the end of the living room.
The flying body made a sickly sound when it
struck the masonry of the fireplace, head first. It
slumped, the head bashed in, not three feet from
where Battle's body lay.
All hands were working now to free Battle.
Bull ripped the blanket from his head and Nippy
and G-8 cut the ropes that bound his hands and
feet. All three stared in astonishment when
Battle's face, made up to look like G-8's, was
uncovered. They next took stock of his wounds.
He had an ugly bruise at his temple where the
leader had kicked him. The middle of his face
was swollen a little, too. He was out cold.
Nippy and Bull worked to revive the English
manservant while G-8 called guards and ordered
the bodies to be taken out. As they picked up the
brute leader, he showed signs of life.
"Keep him on ice for a firing squad," G-8
ordered.
Battle was coming around. He opened his
eyes and blinked about from one face to the
other.
"Oh, I say!" he gasped. "Was it a dream, or
have you gentlemen been calling me again?"
"Kidding, you mean," Nippy cut in. "Got your
milk animals mixed up."
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"Oh yes, of course!" Battle groaned, sitting
up.
"What," Bull panted, "gives you the idea that
we've been kidding you?"
"Perhaps I'm a bit off my bean as you might
say, sir," Battle blinked, rubbing his head. "But it
doesn't make much sense, you know. There were,
as I remember, four gentlemen-- oh, horrible-
looking specimens-- who entered and demanded
to know where you were, G-8, sir."
Battle stared about and his roving eyes
landed first on the pool of blood left by the brute
whom Bull had thrown against the masonry.
"Oh, look here, did someone cut his finger,
or-- "
"Or!" Nippy nodded. "Those horrible looking
birds you're talking about have been generally
cleaned up-- mostly by Bull." He turned to the big
fellow with a grin. "As a house cleaner, fella, I'll
bet you'll make some ragman a nice wife. You
don't leave the place very tidy, but you sure do
get rid of a lot of junk in a hurry."
"Alright," Bull growled. "Laugh, squirt. I got
my mind on serious things. What I'm trying to
figure out is why Battle is made up to look like
you, G-8."
"I've been a little curious about that myself,"
the Master Spy confessed.
They helped Battle over to the davenport
where he sat down with a relieved groan like an
old sheep dog dropping down beside the stove.
"I trust," Battle pleaded, "that I haven't given
offense, sir."
G-8 smiled.
"Not to me, you haven't, Battle," he told him.
"But from the looks of the treatment you got I'd
say that you seemed offensive to someone."
"Eh?" Battle blinked. "Oh, yes sir! I certainly
was on the offensive!"
"O. K.," G-8 laughed. "Have it any way you
like, Battle. We can sure tell that you got socked
a couple of times but you haven't-- "
"Oh, but I say, sir," Battle cut in, "I didn't get
socked twice. "Really I didn't. The brighter struck
me only once with his fist." He pointed to the
bruised temple. "This, I believe, was delivered
with the toe of his boot."
"Boy, that was clever ducking," Bull
observed. "You only let him hit you once with his
fist, eh? Sort of walked right into a good, swift
kick to change the monotony?"
"Oh, no, indeed," Battle hurried. "Not at all.
You see, sir, I was bound and lying on the floor as
a result of being knocked cockeyed. I was just
about coming to my senses once more-- no
wisecracks, if you please, about my senses--
when I heard you coming and tried to signal you
by thumping my feet upon the floor."
"That was what we heard," G-8 nodded to
the others.
"Righto!" Battle beamed. "I'm so glad I
helped matters! But as I was saying, I was
signaling when bang, biff and by Jove-- I felt
something like a sledge hammer battering
through the blanket into my temple. Then as you
might say, sleep came to a weary soul er-- rather
definitely-- if you gather what I mean."
By now Nippy was convulsed, Bull was
shaking and heaving with laughter, and G-8 was
chuckling.
"Oh, but I say!" Battle chirped on. "You're all
waiting for me to tell you how I thought of putting
this face on, aren't you, eh? Well, you see the
bounder that called to see if you were in, G-8,
spoke with a marked German accent. I suspected
that something was afoot at once and I said to
myself, 'Battle, you haven't done much for the
master and he's done much for you, so you'd
better have a go at impersonating him and taking
the er-- spot for him if there is trouble.' So"--
Battle shrugged his slim shoulders from which
hung the ill-fitting uniform-- "I just did it. It really
didn't come out so badly as I feared."
G-8 was suddenly grave.
"You mean, Battle," he demanded, "that you
were going to take anything for me?"
"Well, you see, sir, begging your pardon, I
thought I might-- "
Battle got no farther. G-8 threw one arm
around him and patted one of those slim
shoulders affectionately.
"You old son of a gun!" the Master Spy
exploded. "Don't you know it was just like
throwing yourself under a train to take my place?"
"A train?" Battle repeated blankly. "I say,
look here I didn't see any train."
Nippy and Bull burst out with a fresh roar of
laughter.
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"Shut up," G-8 barked. "We've all kidded
Battle enough. He's got a lot of guts and he
deserves some respect around here."
"Oh, but I say!" Battle said, blinking. "Kidding
and laughter I don't mind, sir. It's much better
than having persons angry all of the time." He
straightened. "You know," he said, "for many
years I've been a bit of a joke. They used to call
me 'Balmy' Battle, sir, because I was a bit slow in
catching on-- if you see what I mean. But I don't
mind, sir. I rather fancy it, you know. Sort of
makes me feel as though I'm worth something--
keeping people in good humor and whatnot."
There was a moment of awkward silence
during which Battle sighed. "I'm afraid I've proven
to myself that I'm not much of a fighter sir."
"Baloney," Bull roared. "You have the most
important requisite for a fighter. You have
courage, fella, and I'm all for you. Just to prove it
to you, I'm going to get the next meal and wash
the dishes for you while you take it easy."
A heavy knock on the door transformed the
interior of the apartment to a place of silence. G-8
rose from the davenport where he had been
beside Battle and strode toward the door.
"Hey," Bull hissed, "take it easy! It might be
some more of those birds."
"Don't worry," the Master Spy flung over his
shoulder. "I'm set."
His right hand had dropped to his holster. He
had his automatic half out when his left hand
turned the latch of the door. He flung it open and
stepped back.
A lone figure peered in out of the dark. G-8
let his gun fall at once, for this was a young flying
officer, dressed in his best O. D. uniform and
blinking in the light that sprayed through the
doorway. He had a newspaper-wrapped package
under his arm.
"Come in, won't you, Lieutenant?" G-8
offered cordially.
"Thanks," the other saluted. "I'm Lieutenant
Farber from the 46th observation squadron." He
stepped across the threshold and G-8 closed the
door behind him. "A few days ago an enemy
plane dropped this package of personal effects on
our field.'' He handed it to the Master Spy. "I'm
down here on a four-days leave, and I thought
you'd know what to do with it. I believe you were
flying the plane that this man dropped out of."
G-8 took the package and turned it over. His
eyes fell on a typewritten note pinned to the
German newspaper.
Enclosed you will find personal effects of
Captain Billings whose body was recently
discovered.
Lieutenant Farber saluted and turned toward
the door.
"I'll be running along, if you don't mind, sir,"
he said.
"Of course," G-8 agreed. "You'll want to
make as much of your four days as you can.
Thanks a lot."
The package fell partly open as G-8 laid it
out on the table. A pocket mirror and a small
Bible rolled out. Nippy and Bull were investigating
the other effects on their own hook.
G-8 stood soberly looking on. Suddenly, he
reached forward and picked up the old German
newspaper that had served as a wrapping. His
eyes flashed across the page and he tensed. An
exclamation escaped him.
"Look here!" he cried. "This is a Freiburg
paper of several days ago. We're in luck! Listen
to this."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Special Mission
G-8 began reading from a lead article on the
rumpled front page of the newspaper.
WIZARD ABDUCTED
WAS REPUTED SECRETLY
EXPERIMENTING WITH WIRELESS BEAM
The entire section of the country about
Freiburg is now being searched by police
for the eminent Herr Doktor Frielinger who
vanished from his home at 32 Ahornbaum
Strasse shortly after ten o'clock last night.
According to the story told by Frau
Frielinger, who is reported to be suffering
injuries met at the hands of the abductors,
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their home was entered about ten o'clock
by three horrible-looking men. One of
them, who seemed to be the leader, wore a
sort of steel helmet that covered his entire
head and neck to the shoulders. It was he,
Frau Frielinger says, who struck her,
knocking her senseless. When she
regained consciousness, she found that her
husband, Herr Doktor Frielinger, was gone
and her ten-year-old son Emil lay
unconscious on the dining room floor, his
face horribly mangled. The boy is now in
the Freiburg Hospital with an even chance
to live. Police and military officials are
investigating the story of Frau Frielinger.
G-8 lowered the paper and turned to Battle,
smiling significantly.
"Well, Battle," he said. "Do you feel like
doing a job?"
"Job, sir?" Battle asked.
"Yes," G-8 nodded. "I want to look like
someone else, before the night is over."
"You mean," Bull demanded, "you're going
over into Germany just because you get a chance
to read a week-old newspaper from a dump like
Freiburg?"
"You seem to get the general idea," G-8
admitted.
He held the paper up to the light so that he
could see through it.
"What are you doing, look for code writing?"
Nippy asked.
G-8 shook his head.
"Hardly," he said. "You see, I want to take
this clipping along with me." He smiled a little.
"So I can have some reading to pass away the
time with if I should get stuck in jail in Germany.
I'm going to tear out an article on the other side of
the same page of the newspaper. This one will do
nicely. It has a list of names of children who
assisted in a patriotic parade."
He began tearing the sheet in a jagged half
circle.
"I still don't get it," Bull persisted. "What is
there about the abduction of a guy by the name of
Doktor Flimdigger, or whatever you called him,
that makes you think you've got to go over into
Germany right away?"
"Maybe, you big ox," Nippy cut in, "if you'd
listened to what G-8 read, you'd know more about
it. Didn't you hear him say anything about a guy
with a steel helmet?"
"No," the big fellow admitted. "Does it say
that?"
G-8 held the clipping out and pointed with his
finger.
"Read it yourself," he suggested.
Bull stared.
"Holy Herring!" he said. "That's right. Then
that ties up with everything, doesn't it?"
"Pretty nearly," the Master Spy admitted.
"The way I have the thing figured out is this: Herr
Stahlmaske was working secretly with some kind
of a beam that would do harm to planes and
pilots. He had reached the point where he could
conk one of our engines if he was close enough.
He knew of Herr Doktor Frielinger's work with the
wireless beam. Perhaps he was associated with it
at one time. Anyway, he decided to go over and
take the doctor and also the invention. I've heard
of Doktor Frielinger before. He's noted as an
electrical wizard, second to none. I don't mind
telling you I'm a little worried about his beam
falling into the hands of this maniac, Stahlmaske."
"Gee," Nippy cut in excitedly, I'll bet the
force that stopped those engines at Nancy was
Frielinger's beam."
G-8 nodded in grave assent.
"There's no doubt about it," he agreed.
''That's why I'm anxious, now that I've got this
lead, to go over and start working at once."
"One thing I can't see," Bull insisted
stubbornly, "is how you expect to get anywhere on
it if the police and military forces in their own
country can't find out where he is. You've got to
go over as a spy, which means that you'll have
one strike on you to start with."
"Granted," the Master Spy admitted. "But did
you notice this?"
G-8 read again the last sentence of the
article.
Police and military police are investigating
the story of Frau Frielinger.
He looked up.
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"You see," he explained, "there seems to be
some doubt in their minds as to the authenticity of
her story."
"Yeah," Nippy admitted, "I was thinking of
that, too. Anyone would think she was lying to
cover up her husband."
"That," G-8 said, "is one thing that possibly
will hinder the German authorities in finding out
what has actually happened to Herr Doktor
Frielinger."
"Jumping Jupiter!" Nippy exploded. "Can it
be possible that the German command doesn't
know that there's such a guy as Herr
Stahlmaske?"
"He's probably on record somewhere," G-8
censured, "because he was burned so badly that
he must have gone to a hospital. But the chances
are that since he's gotten out, he's been more or
less forgotten by the officials. I'll gamble that they
wouldn't put any stock in his importance.
However, I'd be willing to bet my life against roast
duck for Christmas dinner that you'll find Herr
Doktor Frielinger a prisoner not a hundred yards
away from where you'll find Stahlmaske."
The Master Spy began pawing through his
wardrobe of disguise clothing.
"Here," he said, laying out a suit of German
cut that was a dark gray in color. "This ought to
go well with a scholarly looking man, don't you
think, Battle?"
The English manservant got up from the
davenport and nodded.
"Yes, sir," he said, "I think it would do
admirably, sir, for one of that stamp. You wish to
be made up, then, as a professor or teacher?"
"Not quite as strong as that," the Master Spy
said. "Let's say I'm about fifty years old and wear
glasses. I'll pick those out myself. I've almost
white hair and a white mustache. Not the Kaiser
kind but quite ordinary, rather close-cropped."
Battle bowed, taking out his make-up kit.
"It will be a pleasure."
G-8 was already reclining in one of the big
chairs with a towel back of his head. Battle went
to work. When he had finished, G-8 donned the
business suit. He glanced at the tailor's mark
along the inside pocket and saw that it was from a
modest custom tailor's establishment in Berlin.
When he had passed his own inspection before
the mirror, he turned to his Battle Aces.
"Bull," he ordered. "You go and arrange for
that German Rumpler two-seater plane in hangar
3 to be fueled and warmed. Then get into a set of
German flying togs and be ready for a night
flight."
"Jumping Jupiter, aren't you going to let me
take you this time?" Nippy asked.
"No, I'm going to give Bull a turn at it," G-8
smiled. "Besides, this is supposed to be an
authentic flight, and Bull's build makes him look
more like a real German than you do."
Bull grinned at the terrier ace.
"There, squirt," he said. "That will hold you
for a while."
The big fellow stalked triumphantly out on
the tarmac.
"Nippy, you can help me with the papers I'll
need," G-8 said. "I want to go at this thing very
carefully. Until I reach Freiburg, my name will
be"-- he glanced at the clipping-- "Otto Hempel."
"I've heard of writers getting names out of
telephone directories," Nippy said, "but I never
heard of a spy casually picking a name for
himself out of a week-old newspaper clipping."
G-8 smiled.
"I have a reason for that," he said. "Look,
here in this list of names on the back of the
clipping. You see, there was a girl, Augustine
Hempel, who was the leader of the patriotic
parade. Strangely enough she lives at number 20
Ahornbaum Strasse. That puts her on the even
side of the street, if you remember, with 32
Ahornbaum Strasse, the home of Herr Doktor
Frielinger. That's where I expect to go as soon as
I make sure the coast is clear."
"Jumping Jupiter!" Nippy exclaimed. "You
think of everything, don't you?"
"I try to, but sometimes I fall way short," the
Master Spy admitted. "How are you coming with
those papers?"
"I'll have them ready in a couple of minutes,"
Nippy assured him. "You get on your flying suit."
G-8 was selecting a pair of glasses for
himself. He found a pair of horn-rimmed
spectacles that suited him. Then he got into the
German flying suit that he had selected for
himself. As he finished, Nippy handed him the
papers.
The engine of the Rumpler roared outside
and Bull came in to announce that he was ready.
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G-8 gathered up the few necessities for his
mission and climbed into the rear cockpit.
"Got enough gas to make Kehl on the
Rhine?" he asked.
"I thought you were going to-- " Bull began.
Then he nodded. "Sure," he said. "That's across
the Rhine from Freiburg, isn't it? I've got a half
tank on this truck but I'll have to stop on the way
back."
"All right," G-8 nodded. He handed the big
fellow a map. "I've marked a field outside of Kehl.
I'll get there in time to catch the morning train for
Freiburg, if they're still running on the old
schedule."
For two hours they flew through the night,
dead on their course. The sky was thick with
clouds when they left Le Bourget but in the
mountain regions as they crossed the lines, it
began to clear. Stars came out and hung above
them. After a few minutes they could see, straight
ahead and slightly to the right, the higher peaks of
the Black Forest.
G-8 spoke to Bull through the tube:
"We ought to be pretty close to that field
now. When you go down, drop a flare and land
close by."
He heard the big fellow explode, "Huh? Holy
Herring, what's the idea, G-8? Have you gone
nutty? I can see a light down there by that field.
There's a house near there. Looks like
somebody's carrying a lantern."
"That's all the more reason," G-8 told him,
"why you should go down openly. You want to
make that farmer down there certain that
everything is 0. K. with our landing. If he's got any
sense, he'll be sure that an enemy spy wouldn't
dare land in the light of a flare."
"I'll bet that you'd kiss the Kaiser," Bull
croaked, "if you thought it would help turn
suspicion away from you."
"I would," G-8 laughed, "if it would help win
the war. Come on, there's the field down there
now. Drop a flare and get ready to land. The
minute I hop out, you turn around and shove off
again."
"You certainly put yourself in some swell
jams," Bull complained, shaking his big head.
"But anything you say goes, chief."
Below and behind, a flare plopped out and
began drifting down at the end of its little
parachute, brilliantly illuminating the space
beneath the Rumpler two-seater with a unnatural,
white light.
Bull dropped the nose of his Rumpler and cut
the gun so that the motor idled restlessly. He lost
one, two thousand feet, now three. In the last five
hundred he circled and came in over the
boundary to set his ship down.
G-8 watched the light that had been moving
at the side of the field. Now that they were closer,
he could see that the light was motionless,
located between two buildings-- a house and a
barn. He glanced at his wrist watch and found it
was well past four in the morning. This was a
German peasant farmer out doing his chores.
The Master Spy spoke softly through the
tube to Bull.
"Give me a chance to take off my flying togs
before you pull out. I'll say Auf wiedersehn when
I'm ready."
"O.K.," Bull agreed, centering all his intention
now upon landing in the little field. They jolted to
a stop over semi-rough ground. G-8 got out
instantly and began taking off the captured
German flying suit, helmet, and goggles. He was
still watching that light over near the buildings at
the side of the field. It was moving toward him
with the rapid, regular motion of a man's walk.
This, then, was the German peasant farmer
coming out to meet their ship.
The Master Spy stuffed the flying togs in the
rear cockpit, gave a soft, "Auf wiedersehn" to
Bull, and stepped out of the way so that his
severe gray clothing would remain clean.
The Rumpler motor roared. Bull was rapidly
taxiing down the field for a full length take-off. G-
8 pretended to be absorbed in the turn he made,
but out of the corner of his eye he was watching
the swinging lantern as it came closer.
In the next instant, a voice out of the
darkness gutturalled:
"Was ist?"
G-8 turned immediately. He knew the light
was shining upon him, so he bowed stiffly.
"Wie gehts," he greeted. "Has his
Excellency, the general, arrived yet?"
By now the farmer had come up to confront
him.
"Bitte," he said, speaking loudly so he could
be heard over the thunderous roar of Bull's plane.
"I do not understand, mein Herr. There is no
general here."
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"You mean," G-8 demanded, "that this is not
the Kehl airdrome?"
"Ach nein," the farmer said, "I am very sorry,
mein Herr, but you are more than twenty-five
kilometers from the Kehl airdrome. I am Hans
Neidderheim and this is my farm. I fear your
plane has landed in the wrong place."
"Ach du Lieber," G-8 cried.
He knew that Bull had already taken the air,
could tell by the free drone of his engine that he
had started on his homeward trip, but
nevertheless he whirled around and started to run
after the plane, waving his arms in movements
that he knew Bull couldn't possibly see in the
darkness. The farmer followed him, waving his
lantern but Bull kept on going.
"I am sorry," the farmer apologized. "I should
have let you know sooner, but Himmel, I did not
know that you were at the wrong place."
G-8 smiled.
"It is quite all right," he said. "There is no
hurry. Perhaps you could drive me to Kehl so I
can procure transportation to the airdrome."
"Jawohl," the farmer beamed, "it would be a
pleasure. I will tell Lena to milk the cows while I
go."
The farmer hurried away with his lantern,
calling his wife. G-8 followed.
Lena was a perfect match for Hans. Like
him, she was comfortably stout and in spite of the
war, jovial.
"Ach, Hans," she cried, "You have company
for breakfast."
G-8 bowed.
"Bitte, Frau Neidderheim," he said, "I regret
that I dare not take the time to accept your most
kind invitation. I am sure I shall be missing an
excellent breakfast."
"Ja," the husband grunted. "Do not interrupt
the gentleman. He has more important work to do
than wait until you cook breakfast." Neidderheim's
chest swelled out a little. "I am to drive him to
Kehl at once," he announced. "You will finish
milking the cows, Lena, while I hitch up the
horses."
Frau Neidderheim heaved a sigh of
disappointment and went obediently into the barn
while G-8 followed the farmer into the stable. He
was in the act of helping him hitch the old raw-
boned horses to the only wagon the farmer
owned, when from down the road there came the
roar of a swiftly-driven car.
The Master Spy steeled himself even before
the car had reached the group of buildings. It
scuffed to a stop in the loose gravel of the road
and he saw that there were two German officers,
both hurriedly climbing out of the front seat. But
the Master Spy made no attempt to run.
In the light of the lantern one of the offiziers
was demanding importantly, "Did anybody get out
of that plane that just landed here?"
The German farmer opened his mouth to
speak.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Spy at Work
It was plainly evident that an explanation to
these investigators was unavoidable. It was up to
G-8 to make that explanation as convincing as
possible.
Before the farmer could do more than open
his mouth, the Master Spy smiled, bowed, and
stepped forward.
"Bitte, herr offizieren," he said in a deep,
dignified voice. "It was I who got out of the plane
that landed."
For an instant the Hunn offiziers halted,
mouths agape. The smaller and apparently more
important one caught his breath first and blurted
out:
"So you admit you are the one?"
"Admit?" G-8 repeated questioningly. He
moved toward them casually. "I'm afraid, mein
herren, that I see nothing to admit."
The two offiziers strode up to the disguised
Master Spy. Now the larger Hun spoke.
"Mein herr," he said, "we have been sent to
investigate the landing of a plane a few minutes
ago in this vicinity. It is suspected of being an
enemy plane landing a spy."
"An enemy plane?" G-8 repeated. "Ach, Das
ist gut." He turned to the farmer who had left his
half-hitched horse and come to join him. "Herr
Neidderheim, I believe you said that was your
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name," G-8 began. "Did you see the plane that I
got out of.?"
"Jawohl," the farmer nodded. "I saw it very
clearly, mein herr."
"Perhaps you would tell these offiziers what
you saw on it," the Master Spy continued. "Did
you see colored circles in the light of your lantern
or did you see black crosses?"
"I saw black crosses, of course, mein
herren," the farmer said. "There was a black cross
on the side of the plane beside where the
operator sat and there was also another black
cross back on the up-right part of the tail."
Neiderheim looked a little fearfully at the
offiziers.
"Bitte, is there anything wrong?" he asked
timidly. "Am I in trouble for permitting this
gentleman to land on my field?"
"I can explain matters very simply," G-8 cut
in. "I am Herr Hempel, flown here on special
secret mission from Metz. My pilot and I became
confused in the darkness. He was going to land
me at the Kehl airdrome which Herr Neidderheim
tells me is far on the other side of the city. Before
I understood the mistake, the plane had taken off
once more. Herr Neidderheim has kindly offered
to drive me to Kehl. As you can see, he was
hitching up the horses when you gentlemen
arrived."
G-8 glanced at the farmer and the horses
and wobbly wagon and then at the headlights of
the car shining some yards away.
"I presume, now that you offiziers have
come, I might ride to Kehl with you," he said, "so
Herr Neidderheim will not be inconvenienced,
nicht wahr?"
This last stroke of the Master Spy completely
disarmed the investigating offiziers. The shorter
one took command once more with that same
important swagger.
"Bitte, mein Herr," he said, "it will be a
pleasure to take you to Kehl with us. We ask your
pardon for suspecting you, but of course, as a
matter of form, we must demand to see your
papers."
G-8 bowed, drew back the coat of his suit so
that the flashlight held in the offizier's hand shone
for an instant on the Berlin tailor's label inside and
drew out the papers that Nippy had fixed for him.
Both offiziers made brief inspections of the
papers and handed them back to the Master Spy.
"Are we ready to depart now, gentlemen?"
G-8 asked.
"Jawohl," the Huns nodded.
"Und may I," G-8 said, turning and holding
out his hand to the farmer, "offer my sincere
gratitude for your hospitality and aid, Herr
Neidderheim." He appeared to be in no hurry to
leave. "Perhaps before I go I should help you
unharness the horse."
"Ach du Lieber, nein," the farmer objected.
"Already you have your hands dirty enough."
"Very well, then," G-8 bowed. "Auf
wiedersehen. Und once more, danke schon."
But as the Master Spy turned he wasn't yet
sure whether these two offiziers really trusted him.
They had both been sitting in the front seat when
they arrived. Now, in another half minute, when
they reached the car, he would know for sure,
from the seat that they offered him. If it were to
be the front seat--
He kept his gentlemanly bearing even as he
halted there, waiting upon the wishes of the other
two. With light bag in hand, he stood where he
could easily step through either front or back door
when opened.
"Where, mein herren," he asked, "would it be
most convenient to have me sit?"
The tall offizier opened the rear door and
nodded.
"You may have the back seat all to yourself,
mein herr," he announced. The Master Spy knew
then that he had won his point.
G-8 bowed again and stepped in and the
door was slammed shut by the offizier who
climbed into the front seat. The tall one slipped
behind the wheel, turned the car about, and
headed for town.
* * *
Daylight came rapidly as they drove the
short distance. The gray light showed the
buildings along the main street when the short
offizier turned in the front seat to ask of G-8:
"Did you wish to have us take you to the
airdrome or call a taxi to take you there?" he
asked.
"The airdrome?" G-8 repeated
absentmindedly. "Oh, yes, the airdrome. I had
almost forgotten. Nein. I was only going to land
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there in the plane and then hire a car to bring me
into town."
The Master Spy glanced at the office
buildings on either side. There was one just
opposite, and glancing over the top of his thick
glasses for an instant, he saw the name on the
building.
SCHACHT
"Bitte," he said, looking about through his
glasses once more in a bewildered fashion. "I
have an early appointment with a high official in
the Schacht Building. My eyes are not so good in
this light."
"The Schacht Building?" the short one said.
"We just passed it in the last block."
"Ach, I am sorry," G-8 apologized. I must not
put you to any more trouble-- except for one
thing."
The car drew up to the curb.
"I am here on a mission of greatest secrecy,"
G-8 went on in a hushed voice. "It is most
important to His Excellency, the Chief of Staff,
that my visit be unmentioned." He leaned very
close to the two. "May I be assured of your
silence, mein herren, for our Kaiser?"
By now, both Huns were both sitting stiff,
with chests out. Heads nodded in the affirmative.
"Jawohl," they agreed in an awed whisper.
"Aber," added the driver, "I will turn the car
around und take you back to the Schacht
building."
"Better," G-8 ventured, "you should take me
to the railroad station, nicht wahr? My
appointment is for more than an hour hence, and
at the station the restaurant will be open where I
may eat my breakfast."
The car moved on two more blocks and drew
up before the station. G-8 climbed out and
bowed.
"Danke schon, mein herren," he said and
then closer, in a low whisper, "Remember, the
Vaterland trusts you to forget me."
As heads bobbed, he was gone, trying to
keep back the smile that persisted in wrinkling his
face.
He made sure that the two had driven away
after his exit, then he made his way to the ticket
window. A sleepy-looking old man yawned and
stroked his mustache when asked the time of the
next train for Freiburg. It was due to leave in less
than an hour. G-8 bought a ticket and went into
the little restaurant.
Later he boarded the train and settled into
the cushioned seat of his compartment. The
progress of the train was slow. There were many
delays for freights that were taking provisions
toward the front. It was late afternoon when G-8
stepped from the station at Freiburg. In the hours
of daylight that remained, he walked to
Ahornbaum Strasse and made a careful check of
the house of Herr Doktor Frielinger and the
community for several blocks about it.
The home of the electrical wizard was a
humble dwelling of two stories and an attic. It was
made of brick and set in an ample yard with a
high hedge of lilac bushes that bordered both
sides and the back. Across the front of the yard
was a neatly painted white picket fence.
Never once did G-8 walk on the same side of
the street as the house that was number 32.
When, early in the evening, he had the place with
its surroundings well laid out in his mind, he went
to a restaurant in the heart of town to eat and wait
for darkness.
At ten minutes before nine, G-8 strolled
leisurely along until he came to Ahornbaum
Strasse. There he turned and walked along the
side of the street where the house numbers were
even. He passed number 20-- the place where
Augustine Hempel lived-- and strolled on under
the maple trees that gave the street its name.
Beyond, he came to the house of Herr
Doktor Frielinger. He thought he saw a shadowy
form move at the side of the house but he wasn't
certain. There was only one way to learn whether
the house was being watched by German police!
At the picket gate, G-8 paused, and adjusting
his glasses, peered, as one whose sight was not
clear, at the front door. Stealing a glance over his
glasses, he could easily see the number 32
painted in white on a black background over the
door, but he continued his scrutiny.
Hesitantly, he pushed the gate inward and
began walking toward the front door. There was a
dim light that glowed through the shade of one of
the windows, but aside from that, the house was
dark. The street lamp some hundred feet away
brought out the number and the house details
clearly.
Still squinting through the thick-lensed
glasses, with head extended, G-8 made his way
to the entrance. He didn't even turn when he
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heard a faint rustling on his left. That would be a
guard coming to question and perhaps arrest him.
The place was surely guarded.
G-8 was staring blindly at the doorway when
a strong hand gripped his arm.
"Come away," a commanding voice hissed.
"Come away without a sound and you will not be
harmed. I must question you."
G-8 gave a perfect imitation of a scholarly
man of fifty being startled.
"B-Bitte," he stammered, "I-- I do not
understand. Or-- " he smiled-- "perhaps you have
come to tell me what the number is. My eyes
have failed me of late. I cannot see well, even
with mein glasses. I am looking for number
twenty."
While he talked, the guard was leading him
across the lawn to a dark spot around the corner
of the house. They stopped and G-8 had a
moment to size up this guard. He was well-built,
dressed in civilian clothes. In his right hand he
gripped a Luger while he still held G-8 with the
left.
"Now," the guard whispered in a husky,
guttural, voice. "What are you doing here?"
"Ach du Lieber, I am not a thief," G-8
stammered. "Look at me. I do not look like a thief,
do I, mein herr?" He raised his hand before his
thick glasses. "Mein eyes, they are very poor.
They say I am slowly going-- aber, you are not
interested in my troubles. I am looking for number
twenty Ahornbaum Strasse."
"Und you mean to say," the guard demanded
in the same low, rasping voice, "that you could
not see those large numbers in the darkness?"
"Bitte," G-8 answered. "I did not see the
numbers. I could not find where they were."
G-8 knew instantly that the guard did not
believe him. He hastened to allay his suspicion.
But the guard didn't seem to hear that last
sentence. He ached up and laid hold of G-8's
spectacles.
"I believe you are faking," he said. "If these
glasses are not equipped with strong lenses, then
you are under arrest."
He took the glasses from G-8's face, not
very gently, and held them up toward the distant
street light. For a long moment he stared through
them while G-8 waited-- knowing what the
outcome would be.
"Here, grossvater, I do not see how anyone
can look through lenses like that, anyway," he
said. "But you have my pity."
The Master Spy groped for the glasses, then
once they were in his hand, he laboriously slipped
them on his nose and over his ears.
"Und what are you going to number 20 for?"
the guard demanded.
"To see mein niece," G-8 said. He fumbled in
his pockets for the clipping and brought it out. He
made a pitiful gesture in trying to read it in the
darkness and then he handed it to the guard.
"Heir," he said, "Iss a piece in the paper
about Augustine, my niece, who led the patriotic
parade of the children here in Freiburg over a
week ago. I have taken time off to come and see
her and bring her a little present for her noble
work."
"Come," the guard nodded. "I'll show you
number 20 and I'll read this when I get under a
street light."
Several doors down the street, he stopped
and glanced at the clipping. He nodded as he
read the name and handed the clipping back to
the Master Spy.
"It seems to be correct," he said. "Here is the
house."
He turned G-8 and started him for the door.
The Master Spy knew that the guard was waiting
to see him enter, so he did not hesitate but
thanked him and advanced boldly. Walking
calmly up to the front door of Augustine Hempel's
house, he knocked.
His brain was working fast as the footsteps
within came nearer. The next procedure would
depend largely upon who opened the door. The
knob was turning and the door swung back.
A twelve-year-old girl stood in the doorway,
peering out into the night at G-8. The Master Spy
burst forth with a genial, disarming laugh.
"Hello Augustine," he cried. "Und how is the
brave girl who leads the patriotic parades?"
With that, he stepped inside. The girl had
smiled in answer to his laugh and his friendly
greeting, but she backed away as he entered. He
managed to close the door before she became
suspicious. Suddenly fear flashed into her blue
eyes. G-8 remembered there was a curtain on the
door so that from outside, the guard couldn't
watch them.
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"Mein brave fraulein," the Master Spy
whispered, bending down. "Do not cry out, for I
have come as a friend. I have come to you
because I know you are a brave girl. You must
help your country by helping me."
He did not attempt to touch the girl but tried
instead to win her confidence with his smile.
Someone was coming from the rear room of the
house. G-8 gave the girl a swift request.
"Please say that everything is all right," he
begged.
The girl obediently lifted her voice and said
an instant before the matron appeared in the hall
doorway, "It's uncle, mother. Everything is all
right."
The woman stared at G-8, her mouth open,
but the Master Spy raised his finger to his lips in a
sign for silence.
"Bitte, Frau Hempel," he requested, "I have
just told your fine daughter, Augustine, that I need
help. It is for His Majesty, the Kaiser. Even now,
waiting outside, is a police officer in plain clothes
to make sure that my reception here is welcome."
He turned to Augustine who was standing
quite close to him.
"Aber, mein fraulein, why did you tell your
mother than I am your uncle? That was very fast
thinking."
The girl was still a little frightened but she
forced a smile.
"I thought that would keep mother still
because, you see, I have an uncle who comes
here to see us sometimes," she explained.
G-8 chuckled like a kindly old uncle might
and said:
"That is excellent, because do you know
what? I told the guard whom I left outside that I
was your uncle. Isn't that funny?"
The girl admitted, laughing a little, that it
was. The mother stayed her distance and
demanded in a voice not unkind:
"Bitte, who are you and what do you want?"
"I," G-8 announced, proudly, "am special
agent for His Majesty, the Kaiser. I have been
sent here to secretly investigate the
disappearance of Herr Doktor Frielinger. You
knew him?"
The mother's eyes popped open.
"Ach du Lieber!" she breathed, half to
herself. "Special agent for His Majesty." And then,
as though she suddenly realized that a question
had been asked of her, she colored with
embarrassment and added hastily, "Jawohl, mein
herr. Herr Doktor Und Frau Frielinger have been
very fine neighbors. It is horrible what has
happened."
"Jawohl," G-8 nodded. "Und that is why I am
here. There is a guard of supposed police officers
about her house. Do you know about that?"
"Only," Frau Hempel admitted, "as I have
seen them about now and then. Of course, I
wondered. The neighbors say that they are trying
to catch someone coming into the house."
"You mean, then," G-8 probed, "that rumor
has it that perhaps spies from the enemy side of
the lines have abducted the doctor in order to use
his great extinguishing beam for themselves?"
The woman's face went white. "I do not
know," she confessed. "Perhaps that is correct. I
have been so worried, even of Augustine, when
she goes out. If her father were only back from
the war, I would feel much safer," she sighed.
"But that cannot be."
"But I am not afraid, mother," the girl said
stoutly.
"Ja, I know, Augustine," the mother nodded,
patting the girl's shoulder. She turned to the
Master Spy. "That is another thing which worries
me," she admitted. "Augustine has no fear of
anything."
"She is a very brave girl, I know," G-8
agreed. "But now that I am here, I hope I can
count on your help, Frau Hempel?"
The woman did not hesitate in her answer.
"Anything for His Majesty, the Kaiser," she
said. "What do you want?"
"Something very simple," G-8 told her. "I
only require to be let out of your back door--
quietly-- and then it is the wish of His Majesty, the
Kaiser, that I move in the greatest secrecy. Do
you understand?"
G-8 let his eyes flash from the mother and
rest upon the daughter's face. Both heads nodded
and the faces were grave.
"It must be wonderful to be a secret
operator," the girl breathed.
G-8 smiled now.
"It is very dangerous," he confessed. "I've
been very lucky, Augustine. Und I am so glad that
you live close to the house which I must enter.
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You have been a great help to me-- Und our
Kaiser. I must talk with Frau Frielinger without the
knowledge of the guards."
He turned toward the rear of the house.
Frau Hempel led the way to the back door.
There was no light in that back room. G-8 was at
the door, waiting while Frau Hempel drew back
the bolt. She opened it without a sound and G-8,
with a farewell pat on the girl's shoulder, slipped
out into the dark rear yard.
CHAPTER NINE
Man of the Night
No light had streamed out of the rear door.
So far as G-8 could tell, he was alone in the night.
He turned to the left, following the side of the
house, and crouched there for some time to make
sure that no one else was about.
Minutes passed. He heard the padding of
feet inside and knew that Frau Hempel and her
daughter had gone to the front of the house and
were acting as though nothing had happened.
They would keep their promise to the Master Spy
and, as they thought, to their Kaiser.
When he was certain that he was not being
watched, he crept silently to the rear boundary of
the yard. There were two fruit trees that
shadowed the space and helped him with their
added shadow.
At the rear of the yard a four-foot wood fence
blocked him. He skirted this, climbed over a wire
entanglement, and was in the next yard. He
climbed over now into the yard of a house facing
on the next street, then on over a variety of
fences and hedges.
He knew when he had come to the yard of
Herr Doktor Frielinger, for the lilac hedge was
higher than any of the other divisional structures
and there was, too, the smell of lilacs that were
just breaking into bloom.
Here his keenest cunning must be brought
into play. He must outguess the guard who, he
was certain, lurked somewhere along this back
hedge. It seemed strange that a hedge of sweet
smelling, beautiful flowers should shelter anything
so sinister as a dog of war. He remembered a
lilac bush at the corner of his home in the States
when he was younger.
Up to now he had been moving in a
crouched position, noiselessly. He changed his
method. Straightening, he let some of the lilac
bushes scrape by his clothing. A fragrant bunch of
blossoms caressed his face. There was a rustling
sound.
Now he heard what he expected. There was
an answering rustle in the hedge about fifteen
feet ahead of him. Instantly, G-8 hissed across
that space in a stage whisper.
"Is that you?"
It was a silly question when he didn't know
who the other was, but it served his purpose. It
would, he hoped, be assuring to the guard that
he, G-8, felt that he was expected. At least he
wasn't trying to disguise his movements.
And strangely enough, the answer came
back, "Jawohl," in a tense, almost inaudible
whisper. "What is it?"
G-8 was moving toward the man in the
hedge. He stretched out his hand and, touching
the fellow's shoulder, crouched beside him.
"I have come from headquarters to relieve
you," G-8 said. "The chief has sent me to take
your place. There is something he wishes you to
do."
He tensed for the answer which wasn't long
in coming.
"The chief?" inquired the man. He was
standing beside G-8 now-- a man half a head
taller than the Master Spy and much heavier. "I
am the chief! What are you talking about?"
That was enough to stop an ordinary spy, but
G-8 was thinking like mad.
"Eine minute, Bitte," he whispered. "I will
show you. I have written special orders from your
superior and mine. Here."
He held out the identification papers that
Nippy had forged for him before leaving Le
Bourget. If this big guard could see them, they
would not be very convincing, but it was dark.
"Ach!" G-8 hissed, "Bitte, I forgot it is dark!
Perhaps I can find mein light. Here, I have it sir. I
will shine it for only a moment so that we are not
seen. If you will, mein herr, keep your eyes on the
paper and be ready for the light. Das ist gut.
Now!"
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G-8 hadn't picked his light from his pocket.
Instead, he had lifted an ugly Mauser pistol,
hammer fashion, and was raising it to strike. He
saw the Hun bend his head down ready to read
the special orders.
The pistol wasn't very heavy, so he had to
put plenty of force in the blow. He was standing
so that his right arm could swing freely and that
was a help. He brought the pistol down with all
possible force.
The guard never suspected his move until he
had struck. There was the thud like the dropping
of a cracked coconut and the body slumped. G-8
leaped in to catch it so that it wouldn't fall into the
hedge with a crashing sound and alarm the other
guards.
Gently he lowered it to the ground just
outside the bushes, took a Luger from the pocket,
reclaimed his identification papers, and stepped
across through the hedge.
There in the shadows he waited for warning
sounds. And while he waited, he made a study of
his approach to the house. Like all of those back
yards that he had passed through, there were fruit
trees here that added to the gloom.
The back door, even though his eyes were
very accustomed to the darkness now, was only a
dark outline. He chose that as his point of
entrance.
The rear door of Frau Hempel's house had
been locked by a bolt at the back. He'd have
some trouble with that, but the conventional type
of key lock-- his hand closed tentatively over a
slim bundle of skeleton keys that were snugly
wrapped in a soft leather case to guard against
their making noise.
G-8 moved those keys from a secret pocket
in his trousers to an outside pocket of his coat
where they could be gotten at easily.
His crossing of the yard was slow. Nearly ten
minutes passed before he was standing in the
rear doorway's shadow. The keys came out of his
pocket and he tried the first without success. The
second was no better than the first, but the third
one turned easily. He heard a slight grating of the
lock as it slid back.
Ever so slowly he pushed in the door. It was
free except for the latch so he turned the knob
and it opened. He dared open it only a fraction of
an inch at a time to guard against squeaking.
Slowly, he swung it back a little more than a foot.
That was enough.
The Master Spy slipped through and closed it
as silently from within, locking it again.
He caught a glow of light from the front room
which showed him that he was in a sort of rear
hallway. There was a door to the left that was
partly open.
He moved into that room-- a kitchen-- and
tiptoed on toward the room in front. Peering
through the door, he saw a bed on which a small
figure lay. There was something on the pillow
turned toward him, but although there was hair at
the top, there seemed to be no face. A closer look
showed him that the head was small-- about the
size of a boy of ten years- and, except for the
hair, swathed in bandages.
On the other side of the room, sitting
motionless in a chair beside the very dim table
lamp, was a woman. She would be Frau
Frielinger. There was a strip of white adhesive
tape over her nose as though that member had
been broken.
The woman sat pitifully with hands folded in
her lap and eyes staring straight ahead. There
was some neglected sewing in her lap.
The interior of the house was deathly still, so
much so that G-8 wondered why the woman didn't
hear his slight breathing. He could hear her
across the room and once the boy roused a little
to groan in his sleep.
When that happened, the mother's face
twitched into an expression of pain and she jerked
up quickly and shifted her eyes to the restless
form of her son.
"Ach, Gott! Mein liebchenl! Mein klein
liebchen!"
But the boy slept on and the mother sighed,
shuddered and then stared suddenly into the dark
doorway where G-8 was standing. At the same
instant, G-8 stepped into the light with a warning
forefinger laid across his lips. He smiled and
bowed.
"Bitte, Frau Frielinger, I am a friend," he
announced. "Do not cry out. I have come to help
you and your husband."
The woman looked as though she were
going suddenly insane. Her eyes widened in a
mad stare-- her hands flew to her throat and she
opened her mouth to scream.
G-8 could have rushed her and might have
succeeded in clapping a hand over her mouth
before she could cry out, but he took a long
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chance and bet on another method that would not
antagonize her. Hurriedly, he said:
"Your son, Frau Frielinger, I am here to help
him."
That seemed to snap her mind back to
imperative things. She had half risen out of her
chair when G-8 first spoke. Now she sank back
with a resigned sigh.
"It does not matter," she choked. "Little more
can happen to us. Who are you? What do you
want?"
G-8 bowed low before her chair.
"Bitte, Frau Frielinger," he said, "I have
come, as I told you, to help you and your husband
and your poor little son there. If you will tell me
what I wish to know, I will do my best to bring your
husband back and bring the guilty one, Herr
Stahlmaske, to punishment."
The woman shrugged and shook her head.
"You do not know what you are saying," she
said. "How did you get in here?"
"May I answer that after I have asked you a
few questions?" the Master Spy said. "Do you
know who the men are that guard your house?"
The woman nodded without a change of
expression.
"They are police officers sent by the
government and dressed in plain clothes to spy
upon those who come and go. I am not allowed
out of the house. The grocer brings food and I
wait. That is all."
"But why," G-8 demanded, "do they hold you
under suspicion?"
"Because," Frau Frielinger said bitterly, "my
husband believed in peace. He refused to use his
inventions to kill the enemy. He said that he
would not sleep at night if he knew that his
wireless beam had disintegrated men. He had
intended it for medical uses-- for healing. The
government thinks perhaps he had conspired
against the Vaterland. You are from the
government and do not believe me. You are here
to trick me."
The woman had raised her voice to a
dangerously high pitch. G-8 raised his finger in
warning once more.
"Bitte, Frau Frielinger," he begged. "Not so
loud-- or those outside will know that you are
talking to someone. I have decided to tell you
truthfully who I am. You must believe me. I am
not German, or for the German cause. I know
very well that your husband, Herr Doktor
Frielinger, has not turned over any invention to
the Allies."
Frau Frielinger sighed and shook her head.
"If I could only be sure that you are here to
help me," she breathed. "But that is impossible.
Everyone is against us in our trouble. If mein
husband had been perhaps a tailor or a meat
cutter we could be happy without suspicion."
"It is not impossible," G-8 hastened to assure
her. "Listen closely to me, Frau Frielinger."
He put his lips near to her ear and
whispered, "I am G-8, the American spy!"
The woman's face went white.
"You!" she gasped. "You are really here to
help me to bring back my husband?"
"Jawohl," G-8 nodded. "If Herr Stahlmaske
succeeds in the use of the extinguishing beam, he
can wipe out our troops in a few hours. I must
reach him in time to prevent his learning the
secret from your husband."
Frau Frielinger rose from her chair and
clutched the Master Spy's arm.
"Mein Herr," she said, "I must be certain. It is
treason for me to help you, but my own people
are against me. I want mein husband back. I have
suffered enough."
"If you will help me," G-8 said, "I will give
you my word. I will do all I can to help you and
your husband, Frau Frielinger. The police are
confused. They do not understand."
"Yes," she said, calm again, "I would rather
think that. But I have decided! Come to the desk
here."
She led as to a large desk at the other end of
the room. Lowering the front, she opened a panel
and took out a small, flat box. It measured about
six inches by four inches by one inch thick.
"This," she said, "is a pocket wireless set that
my husband invented some months ago. He
refused to let it be used in the war."
"And why do you show it to me?" as asked.
"It is the only means of finding him," Frau
Frielinger explained. "It is tuned to his set. I would
have given it to the police but they would believe
nothing I told them. Here, I will show you."
To G-8's astonishment, she snapped open
the lid of the box and took out a small, cone-
shaped object made of hard rubber. To the large
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end was attached a pair of wires and they
vanished in the intricate workings of the box.
"This," she explained, "is the earphone. You
place it in your ear and give it a slight turn so it
will stay."
Frau Frielinger demonstrated on her own
ear. There was also a tiny wireless at the other
end of the box. There was a thin metal case over
the working parts, leaving nothing but a two-way
switch showing.
"Mein herr," she said in a hushed whisper. "I
have received messages from mein husband
every night at midnight. He tells me that he is still
alive but"-- her voice broke-- "he cannot hold out
much longer."
"Does he tell you where he is?" G-8 asked
tensely.
She shook her head. "He does not know. He
says it is a long, rough journey from Freiburg. He
believes he is up several stairs, but he has not
been able to see about him. He is blind, mein
herr."
"That is terrible," G-8 sympathized. "You say
he has a pocket radio set like this one?"
"Jawohl," the woman nodded. "It is smaller
and the concentrated battery is becoming weaker.
He only talks to me for a few minutes each night
at midnight. He tells me that Herr Stahlmaske is
afraid he will die before he gives him the secret,
so he only tortures him during the day."
"Stahlmaske must be a considerate devil,"
G-8 ventured. "Und you can let me have this set
to take with me, Frau Frielinger?"
Frau Frielinger nodded quickly and took the
tiny ear phone from her ear. She replaced it in the
case and held it out to G-8.
"You see, mein herr," she explained, "if you
wish to send a message, you push the switch over
to the right, and if you wish to receive his
message, you turn it to the left. It is in the center
now-- turned off completely."
G-8 nodded, closed the lid, and slipped the
box into his inside coat pocket.
"Und now tell me about the beam," he asked.
"You say it is really deadly, Frau Frielinger?"
The woman's face paled and she nodded.
"Mein herr," she said in an awed voice, "it is
the most deadly instrument ever invented. The
Doktor worried night and day after he made his
discovery for fear someone unscrupulous would
gain control of it. He had only made one
demonstration with it. Then the rat he turned it on
und the table top und a portion of the side wall of
the house disintegrated, leaving nothing but dust."
"You saw this, Frau Frielinger?" G-8 asked.
The woman nodded solemnly.
"With these two eyes," she said.
G-8 looked at his watch.
"It is growing late, Frau Frielinger," he said.
"I must hurry if I am to be in the air by midnight."
"In the air?" the woman gasped. "Aber, I
thought you were going to talk to him tonight--
over the wireless."
"I am," G-8 nodded. "I've got to be flying so
that I can get his direction. I'm satisfied that he is
somewhere in the Black Forest. It will tell me
whether I'm flying in the right direction or not. You
see, the signals will grow dimmer as I go away
from him and stronger if I am getting nearer."
The Master Spy bowed politely.
"Und now I must slip out of your back door
and trust that I have as much luck eluding
discovery as when I entered."
She walked with him to the back door and
waited until he had slipped into the shadows.
There he dropped on his stomach and began to
crawl back along the row of low bushes.
He reached the lilac hedge and slowly got to
his feet. Suddenly, he became a shadow-covered
statue. There was a sound from close by. It was
only the crackling of a very small twig and the
light brushing of a few leaves, but it told him that
someone was there within three feet of him.
Someone-- waiting!
CHAPTER TEN
Wings of Disaster
Two things happened simultaneously. The
Master Spy flashed out a name that should bring
the proper results, but in doing so, he was almost
a split second too late to make it seem
convincing.
As soon as he heard the sound and knew
that someone was close to the body of the police
chief, G-8 hissed in a clear whisper:
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"Herr anfuhrer-- Chief!"
At the same instant, something hard was
poked into his side and he knew it was the muzzle
of a gun.
He took a long chance and burst out with a
low chuckle but he was careful not to move his
body.
"Ach, du Lieber, herr anfuhrer!" he laughed,
"That is a good joke on you. I come from the
special mission into the house that you have sent
me on and when I come back you suspect me as
someone else and stick a gun into my-- "
He got no farther, for the gun was prodded
harder into his ribs and a guttural voice rasped
out of the darkness.
"Silence! Der anfuhrer is dead."
"Dead!" G-8 breathed in astonished awe.
"Gott im Himmel!"
"Und perhaps you are the one who knows
most about his death, Ja?" the other snapped.
G-8 had tried to catch a familiar note in his
voice. If it was the guard who had directed him to
Augustine Hempel's house, then the sooner he
got rid of him, the better. But if it was another of
the guards, he might have a chance of doing a
smoother job.
"Aber, der anfuhrer cannot be dead." G-8
groaned. "It is impossible! I left him here not more
than half an hour ago. I have come from Metz by
special request. I am a secret agent, and my work
is to obtain information which is desired by His
Majesty, the Kaiser. Who could have done this?"
The gun didn't press into his side so hard
now. G-8 took hope and boldly moved away from
the gun, kneeling at the same time.
"Let me see him," he breathed. "Where is
he? Und bitte, stop holding that gun against my
ribs as though I were a burglar."
He was feeling over the body of the chief.
Now in the almost total darkness, he made out
the figure of another guard. There came the soft
padding of feet and a voice, which G-8 instantly
recognized as belonging to that first guard, spoke.
"Was ist?"
The taller guard beside G-8 was about to
speak. The Master Spy heard his quick intake of
breath but beat him to the first word.
"Silence! Go back to your station," G-8
snapped with a ring of authority in his voice.
"Macht schnell!"
"Jawohl," the first guard answered obediently
and hurried away before the second one could
interpose.
"Silence!" G-8 hissed again to the second.
"Do you realize what this will mean? The death of
your anfuhrer will mean that you will be brought
before a firing squad for permitting such a thing to
happen. We must have time to clear up the
mystery so that you can produce the guilty party
when the announcement is made. I will help you
all I can."
"Gott im Himmel!" the guard breathed. "Do
you mean to say they will suspect me of this?"
G-8 stood up and faced him toe to toe. He
poked his fingers against the other's chest to
make his words more emphatic.
"You know the tension there is over this
affair. You know that we are not sure what has
happened. We are not sure whose side Herr
Stahlmaske is fighting on. I tell you, mein herr, I
believe that one of his agents has killed your
chief. We must investigate quickly, but first we
must take away the body. There is a car here we
may use for that purpose?"
"Jawohl," the guard admitted. "What shall we
do, carry him to it?"
"Certainly, dummkopf!" G-8 snapped. "He
cannot walk. Come you take the shoulders and go
first and I will take his feet. All together."
The body came up limp as a sack of
potatoes. They carried it from the back of the
house and staggered into the deep shadows of
the side yard. G-8 heard the other guard grunt
and groan under the weight.
Halfway to the street, the Master Spy
stopped.
"This is very heavy," he admitted. "Let us
rest a minute."
The other willingly let down his end. G-8
could see him quite plainly in a shaft of light that
shone through the side yard from a street lamp.
The Master Spy moved closer to him. His right
hand was drawing the chief's Luger from his
pocket, club fashion.
He was going to use the old, simple trick of
diverting attention that he had used since
boyhood.
The Master Spy had come around the body
casually and now stood in the same dim light
shaft as the other. Suddenly, he tensed and
pointed to the back street where the tree
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branches cast strange shadows as they shifted to
and fro in the breeze.
"Look!" G-8 hissed. "What is that?"
The Hun fell into the trap. He spun around
and looked the way G-8 was pointing directly
away from him.
The execution of that act was swift and sure.
G-8 had planned well. His right hand rose and fell
like a bolt of lightning in the night. The butt of the
heavy Luger struck true and sank a little way into
the skull. The guard's body fell across the form of
his dead chief.
G-8 turned quickly and strode to the back
street. About a hundred feet down the street he
made out a car, parked under an exceptionally
large spreading maple.
A smile grew on his face as he came closer
to it. It was a large black vehicle with a step at the
rear and seats along each side of the dark
interior. He climbed into the front seat and tried
the switch. The key was still there and the big car
was ready to go.
G-8 stepped out once more and focused his
eyes on the painted letters on the side. He read:
POLIZEIWAGEN
FREIBURG
"You can't beat that much for service," the
Master Spy chuckled. "The police wagon of
Freiburg. That ought to get me places in a hurry."
He started back for the driver's seat, then
hesitated and looked back to where the two police
officers lay. Quickly, he retraced his steps and
returned a moment later with the badge and
credentials of the police chief.
As the engine started, G-8 breathed
encouragement to the patrol wagon.
"Come on, Black Maria, we're going to the
airdrome faster than you've ever been driven
before. This has got to look important."
There was a grinding of gears and the car
shot into motion. He drove reasonably slow until
he was out of town, then he bore down and the
old, top-heavy bus roared and swayed as he went
charging for the airdrome that lay on the flats
below Freiburg.
Once he saw a pair of lights blink behind him
when he took a turn, but they were far back and
gave him no immediate alarm. As he drove on,
he seemed to have lost them.
He glanced at his watch. It was now fifteen
minutes before twelve o'clock. He must be in the
air by midnight, ready to contact and take his
direction from Herr Doktor Frielinger.
The country grew level. To the left G-8 could
see dark, square blotches of light and shadow and
large, squat buildings lining one edge of a field.
Those would be hangars.
He raced his engine as he swung into the
field. Guards stepped out in front of him, flashing
their lights in his face. G-8 slowed but did not
stop.
"I'm the chief of police of Freiburg!" he
yelled. "I must have a plane at once."
He yelled it again as the airdrome came
suddenly to life. An offizier leaped on the running
board and stuck his head in for a closer look at G-
8.
The Master Spy drew back his coat and
displayed the polished metal police badge that
gleamed in the glow from the dash light.
"Jawohl, herr anfuhrer," the offizier shouted
above the roar of the engine. "Drive to the end
hangar. There is, I believe, a two-seater plane
warming already."
"Gut," G-8 replied. "We go at once."
The Master Spy's foot grew heavy on the
accelerator again. Mechanics scurried before the
onrushing police patrol. G-8 found the bell cord
and set up a loud clanging that added to the
confusion and excitement that he was purposely
creating.
He jammed on the brakes and skidded to a
stop at the far end of the field. There was a
Hannoveraner two-seater with an Opal-Argus
engine ticking over while mechanics checked.
"Macht schnell!" the offizier shouted to them.
"Prepare the plane for instant flight."
The offizier had leaped from the running
board of the car. G-8 was running close behind.
He heard the nearest mechanic make an answer.
"Herr Leutnant," he saluted, "The plane is
already to fly at once. We have just been making
final checks. It is ordered ready at dawn."
"It will be back at dawn," the Leutnant
nodded. "Come, herr anfuhrer, we take off first,
then you will find a speaking tube in the rear
cockpit through which we can talk. When we are
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in the air, you will tell me where you wish to be
taken."
Even as he spoke, he was climbing into the
front cockpit. G-8 was in the rear seat.
With a roar, the one hundred and eighty
horsepower Opal-Argus sent the whirling propeller
kicking up a cloud of dust. The two-seater
lumbered into motion. They droned across the
dark field and climbed into the night.
G-8 found the speaking tube and spoke
through it.
"Bitte, Herr Leutnant," he said, "I wish to be
taken to an altitude of perhaps five thousand feet.
Perhaps you will think this is strange. I am not so
much interested in going anywhere as to make a
test."
"A test, mein herr?" the Leutnant ventured
skeptically.
"Jawohl," G-8 answered. "But not with this
plane. I will make the test with a certain wireless
apparatus which I have. It must be sufficient to
tell you that I have been in charge of secret work
about the house of Herr Doktor Frielinger at
Freiburg. You have read about him and his
wonderful death invention, I suppose?"
"Jawohl," the Leutnant answered, interested.
"There was something about a story of a man with
a steel mask who kidnapped him. He is suspected
of being one of the Allies, perhaps working with
the verdammt one, G-8, nicht wahr?"
"That is what we fear," G-8 said. "It is my
work to discover where the Herr Doktor has been
taken for there we will find the demon with the
steel mask as well."
He glanced at his watch once more. It was
one minute before midnight. He slipped the
wireless case from his pocket, released the lid
and inserted the earphone plug in his left ear. He
pushed the switch to the receiving side, plugged
his right ear with his finger to keep out engine
noise and tensed to listen.
Seconds dragged by with maddening leisure.
Then there came, ever so faintly, the humming of
a code. G-8 strained to pick up the message that
flashed to him so dimly. He spelled out the words.
They were coming with astounding speed, but he
was following.
I HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO TELL WHERE
I AM. IT IS HIGH UP SOMEWHERE FOR I CAN
HEAR TREE TOPS RUSTLE AND THE BIRDS
SING IN THE MORNING. THE TORTURES I
HAVE BEEN THROUGH THIS LAST DAY HAVE
ALMOST FORCED ME TO GIVE UP THE
SECRET BUT NOT QUITE. I CANNOT HOLD
ON MUCH LONGER. PLEASE CAN YOU NOT
GET HELP TO ME IN SOME WAY? I AM
DESPERATE.
The Master Spy pushed the switch over to
the sending side and began ticking the key
rapidly. He was sending a reply to Herr Doktor
Frielinger. A reply of encouragement and hope.
HERR DOKTOR FRIELINGER. I AM G-8
THE AMERICAN SPY. I HAVE JUST TALKED
WITH YOUR WIFE AND AM NOW FLYING IN A
GERMAN PLANE IN THE HOPE OF FINDING
YOU. I AM COMING AS FAST AS I CAN. SEND
ME OTHER MESSAGES EVERY FIVE
MINUTES. I WILL FLY IN A STRAIGHT
COURSE MEANTIME AND SEE IF YOUR
SIGNALS AT THE END OF FIVE MINUTES ARE
STRONGER OR WEAKER.
Again G-8 swung over the switch and
listened to the answer.
I DO NOT KNOW WHY YOU ARE TRYING
TO HELP ME BUT I WILL DO AS YOU SAY. IN
FIVE MINUTES, AS NEARLY AS I CAN GUESS,
I WILL SEND YOU ANOTHER MESSAGE AND
EACH FIVE MINUTES FROM THEN ON UNTIL
YOU TELL ME TO STOP. BUT THERE IS VERY
LITTLE TIME LEFT. MY BATTERY IS NEARLY
EXHAUSTED.
The Hun pilot turned about and stared back
through the darkness at G-8. The Master Spy
waved and spoke into the tube.
"The experiment is working perfectly," he
assured the German. "Fly straight on the course
as you are headed."
"Jawhol," came the reply.
G-8 could see by the compass up front that
the Hannoveraner was pointed slightly south of
west. He guessed that was the wrong direction but
he let the experiment take its course.
Five minutes passed. Meanwhile, he was
tuned in because Herr Doktor Frielinger must
guess at the time.
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After almost exactly five minutes, the
humming started again in the ear piece. It was
very indistinct now. G-8 could scarcely catch the
signals. He shouted to the pilot.
"Turn around quickly and fly east."
The pilot banked the two-seater about. The
signals grew slightly stronger while they lasted. G-
8 sent an answer.
YOU ARE TO THE EAST OF US. I AM
SURE NOW THAT YOU ARE HELD SOME-
WHERE IN THE BLACK FOREST. WILL BE
WAITING FOR YOUR NEXT SIGNALS.
Minutes dragged on and the Hannoveraner
droned to the east. Once more the pilot, driven by
curiosity, turned in his seat and G-8 assured him
through the tube that "everything was working
nicely."
In four and a half minutes the signals came
again. This time they were strong. G-8 caught
them without any trouble at all.
SENDING MESSAGES AS ORDERED SO
THAT YOU MAY CHECK MY LOCATION.
That was repeated over and over again for
two minutes. It grew louder all the time. Once
more, the master spy sent back an answer.
REPEAT AGAIN IN FIVE MINUTES. WE
ARE GETTING CLOSER.
Four minutes passed and G-8 spoke to the
pilot.
"You have flares?"
"Jawohl."
"Be ready to drop one when I give you the
signal. I must learn where we are."
"You are now over the Black Forest," the
pilot told him. "Do you see that blotch of dots over
there? That is the town of Waldheim."
"Danke," G-8 answered.
Waldheim, then, was near La Rocque
Castle, that half-ruined feudal fortress atop the
rock cliffs that lifted above the rest of the country.
He called through the tube.
"Herr leutnant, do you know anything about
the present use of La Rocque Castle?"
"So far as I know," the pilot told him, "it is not
being used. There are enough stories of ghosts
and haunts in the castle to keep anyone away
from there. Besides, it is half in ruins."
"Jawohl," G-8 agreed. But he was searching
the Black Forest for it and he thought he saw it,
pushing its cracked towers above the highest tree
tops.
The signals began coming again after five
minutes. They were very loud. G-8 shouted in the
midst of them to his pilot.
Drop a flare and head your plane straight for
La Rocque Castle at once."
The flare plopped out. The nose of the
Hannoveraner lowered and the plane picked up
speed. The humming of the radio signals were
ever growing stronger as they headed down the
beam. But there was something in the message
that caused G-8 to give another order quickly.
Herr Doktor Frielinger was saying with his key:
I CAN HEAR THE DRONE OF A
PLANE COMING NEARER. IF THAT IS YOUR
SHIP I WOULD ADVISE GOING AWAY. YOU
MUST APPROACH MORE STEALTHILY. HERR
STAHLMASKE HAS THE BEAM MACHINE. HE
CAN DESTROY YOU AND YOUR PLANE
INSTANTLY. GET AWAY WHILE THERE IS
TIME.
G-8 transferred that order to the Leutnant
and the big two-seater lumbered over and started
away. Now that the Master Spy knew that Herr
Doktor Frielinger was in the La Rocque Castle,
there was no need of flying any closer.
As they sped away, he began to plan his
movements. He could use the uniform on the
pilot. He was about his size. There were dual
controls in the rear cockpit. That part of it would
be quite simple. He looked back and saw the flare
still drifting down on its parachute, flooding the
Black Forest with light and picking out the castle
on its promontory like a crumpled piece of quartz
raised on an ebony setting.
The Master Spy felt about for a suitable
weapon. But another circumstance came to save
the life of the Leutnant for the moment.
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Lights suddenly began blinking from far to
the southwest. G-8 watched them, fascinated by
something familiar about their comings and
goings.
After a few flashes, he recognized them as
signal lights. They, too, were sending signals in
dot-dash system. Why, that was in the secret
code that only he and Nippy and Bull knew. They
were sending the same words over and over
again.
LA ROCQUE CASTLE. LA ROCQUE
CASTLE.
Nippy and Bull were coming into the danger
zone to tell him that Stahlmaske had his
headquarters in La Rocque Castle, when he, G-8,
had already found that out himself. But how had
they learned of it?
"Mein herr," the Leutnant cried. "Do you see
those flashing lights over there? They must come
from other airplanes."
"Jawohl," G-8 answered. "Fly closer to them
so that we can tell who they are and what they are
doing here."
The big Hannoveraner turned quickly and
headed for the light flashes. G-8 strained to see
the fire darting from their exhaust stacks. The
flash signals had stopped for the moment.
The sky ahead of them was black. He
contemplated once more putting the Leutnant out
of the way, but that could wait until he had come
into closer contact with Nippy and Bull.
The signals started up again, five minutes
later.
LA ROCQUE CASTLE. LA ROCQUE
CASTLE.
"Can you read their signal, mein herr?" the
Leutnant asked.
"Nein," G-8 lied. "A little closer."
Then something happened that took all other
thoughts from G-8's mind. A strange power seized
hold of him and his pilot and their ship. They
couldn't get their breath. The Leutnant was
gasping, trying to speak, but without success.
G-8 was aware of several things. His middle
felt as though a large amount of alum had been
released there and was tending to draw all the
rest of his body toward that nerve center. The
engine of the Hannoveraner had stopped dead.
They were falling in a sickly spin and the Leutnant
seemed able to do nothing about it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Stahlmaske Strikes
G-8 was fighting to get control of that
whirling plane. The stick and rudder felt as though
they were lashed fast. But his own muscles did
not act freely to the will of his brain. Every part of
his body was drawn taut-- seemed tied up in
knots.
In the reflected light from the flare they had
dropped, the head of the Leutnant in the front
cockpit stood out. Perhaps the pilot's limp body
would offer less resistance on the controls.
G-8 found it difficult even to draw the Luger
from his pocket and raise it to aim, but he
managed it. The explosion of the gun seemed far
away. His ear drums weren't functioning normally.
Everything was contorted.
He had aimed at the base of the leutnant's
skull. The head snapped forward due to the
limpness of death and the force of the bullet. The
controls of the plane were movable once more.
After a struggle he brought the
Hannoveraner out of its deadly spin and upon an
even keel. He stared about frantically for Nippy
and Bull. The flare had gone out and darkness
surrounded him. His eyes didn't act normally, for
even they suffered from that tendency to be
pulled inward.
Suddenly, the ghastly force vanished. G-8
was left breathless with the big two-seater going
down in a long, gradual dive for the trees of the
Black Forest.
He dropped a flare and when the magnesium
lighted, stared in search of his Battle Aces. He
found them gliding down toward a dull blotch of
field that showed plainly in the ghostly white flare.
It was easily within their gliding range.
As the Master Spy glided down, he raised
from his seat, leaned forward and pulled the
upper portion of the dead pilot's body partly out of
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the cockpit. He was going to need that uniform as
free from blood as possible.
After a struggle and the loss of another
thousand feet he managed to hang the body over
the padded cowling of the front cockpit in such a
way that the blood flowing from the wound in the
head would run down the side of the fuselage and
not down the collar of the coat and shirt.
The Master Spy took stock of other things
below. Nippy and Bull had tried to revive their
engines, but without luck. G-8's propeller was still
turning over. He made a last minute try at it by
clicking the switch back and forth and working the
throttle. But the engine was truly dead, beyond
aerial repair. The field that the Battle Aces had
chosen lay in the center of a thinner tree growth.
Obviously, at one time this had been a fair-sized
farm, but in later years only the flatter portion had
been worked, permitting the surrounding cleared
land to grow up into bushes and scraggly, small
weeds.
Nippy was already gliding into the field and
Bull was close behind him. G-8 dropped one more
flare and turned to come in. Now, for the first
time, he caught sight of lights bobbing along on a
road that led from the Black Forest toward the
field.
A strong suspicion rose within him.
Stahlmaske had sent the cars out to investigate
these planes. G-8 had a plan worked out that
might prevent capture. The big Hannoveraner
jolted and rumbled to a stop. He leaped out to
meet Nippy and Bull running toward him.
"Quick!" he shouted. "Help me get this pilot's
body out."
He was straining at the form. Bull and Nippy
made that simple. The Battle Aces stripped the
uniform from the dead Hun pilot while G-8 took
off his own uniform. Quickly he dressed in the
other outfit, strapped the Luger holster to his side
and jerked the gun out, holding it on Nippy and
Bull and marching them toward the road as the
cars drove up.
It was dark and the flash lights from those
who piled from the autos somewhat blinded the
Master Spy. The men from the cars, a dozen in
all, were upon him before he could see them
clearly.
That first glimpse of the faces was quite a
shock. They were brutes of the ugliest possible
description.
There was a big, hulking one in the lead
whose head was almost flat in front and whose
nose was four times the normal size. It made him
look like an elephant with a clipped trunk. The
eyes were tiny and wicked and set wide apart.
The great mouth stretched nearly from ear to ear
and was half hidden by the bulbous end of the
oversized nose.
He sort of sniffed as he bellowed in German:
"You are under arrest!"
G-8 had meant to get the first word in, but he
hadn't been sure of these brutes. Now he said:
"Bitte, they are my prisoners, mein herr. I
shot them down myself and I am taking them to
Waldheim to obtain verifications for my two
victories."
The other laughed.
"Who do you think you are? You, a leutnant,
telling me, Herr Stahlmaske's chief aide, what to
do. Now I will tell you what goes on. You are
coming with me, all three of you, to Herr
Stahlmaske. He will decide who gets the credit for
these captures. Come!"
He turned toward the waiting cars. G-8,
Nippy, and Bull were pushed into the rear seat of
the first car. The leader crowded behind the wheel
and turned the car about.
The rest of the brutes followed in the other
cars. Through the darkness the procession gained
speed and soon they were winding through the
steep roads of the Black Forest. Conversation
with Nippy and Bull was too dangerous, for
another brute, a squat fellow with a flat face on a
head twice the normal size, had turned around in
the front seat so that he could see the
movements of G-8 and his Battle Aces.
It was later in the great banquet hall of La
Rocque Castle that G-8 and Nippy and Bull first
faced Herr Stahlmaske.
The brute towered at least two inches above
Bull Martin. He stood in the center of the hall and
about him in a half circle, his brute men leered at
the procession of their fellows who brought with
them as prizes, Nippy and Bull.
G-8 strode in behind them. Up until the
moment when they had stopped in the rutted road
that had once been the stone paved courtyard
before the castle, he had clutched the Luger. But
now it was gone. The brute leader had seen to
that.
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In these early hours of morning, electric
lights hanging chain fashion about the back wall
of the great chamber lent a strange atmosphere
to the old and crumbling ruins. Bats fluttered in
corners, vainly searching for their world of
darkness.
Herr Stahlmaske was dressed in a German
uniform as were the others about him. They were
a motley crew, unkempt, ghastly-looking, and for
the most part, filthy.
Stahlmaske waited until all had their places
and the banquet hall was still as death. His eyes
glowed like crimson brands through the slits in the
steel, cone-shaped helmet mask that sat on his
shoulders. The blazing eyes were not on Nippy or
Bull, but upon G-8.
The Master Spy felt them fairly burning into
his very soul. He struggled to keep perfect control
of himself. He was the German flying offizier who
had shot down and captured these two
Americans!
He broke the silence with that announce-
ment, finishing with:
"Bitte, I request that your men give my report
the verification that it deserves. I landed
immediately after disabling their engines."
Stahlmaske's huge shoulders moved as
though he were laughing, and a hollow, hacking
chuckle-- inhuman and nerve-racking-- came out
of the hole in the mask where his mouth should
be.
"Ach, Das ist gut!" he croaked. "You tell me
that you shot down these two Amerikaners?"
G-8 had known this was coming and he was
ready.
"Bitte," he cut in, "I am quite sure that I shot
them down. I made out their markings in the light
of the flares that I dropped. Perhaps you could
see those flares from here. I fired into the engines
of both but, of course, in the dim light. I could not
follow my shots into their cowlings. However,
shortly after I fired, they came spiraling down to
land at the field where your men found us. I went
down at once and made them prisoners."
Stahlmaske hesitated for an instant. It was
plain to G-8 that for a brief moment, he was not
certain. He laughed again to cover his hesitation
and then:
"Dummkopf!" he rasped hollowly. "I suppose
you mean to tell me that you did not know that I
turned on the extinguishing beam and stopped all
of your motors in that way."
"Ach du Lieber!" G-8 gasped. "You mean to
say that-- "
He paused and let Stahlmaske's laugh cut
him off. But Stahlmaske was laughing at
something far more sinister than G-8 guessed.
The Master Spy was taken completely off guard
when Stahlmaske bellowed:
"I have played with you long enough,
verdamnt one. You thought I was about to believe
the story of your being a German leutnant. You
thought you were making a fool of me like you
have made of Herr Doktor Kreuger and others!"
The brute laughed in high triumph.
"Gott im Himmel, this is my moment!" he
said. "I have here the man who shot me from the
balloon basket and made me like I am-- so
horrible that the world would shudder to look upon
what is left of my face. You think that you have
tricked me, but you are for once mistaken,
verdamnt one. I know you are G-8!"
The vaulted halls screamed with the echo of
mad laughter until skulking rats dived for their
holes and bats battered their heads blindly
against the stones in their frantic efforts to get
away from the ghastly sound.
The Master Spy stood motionless. Nippy
shot a questioning glance at him as if to say,
"Where do we go from here, chief?" Bull shifted
nervously, like a pent-up fighting machine eager
to spring into action.
And in the faces of the brutes and Herr
Stahlmaske, G-8, Master Spy that he was, shook
with mirth and chuckled, as though the giant fiend
in the mask had just finished telling about a
humorous incident.
The laughter from Stahlmaske and the
others suddenly ceased and except for G-8's
laughter, which rippled on for a moment, the
banquet hall was still. Brutes, now in an ugly
mood, moved closer to their demon leader in
anticipation of sudden action.
The chuckle died and G-8 spoke.
"Herr Stahlmaske," he bowed, "may I be the
first to offer my congratulations. You've made
rather a clean sweep of your enemies. Permit
me"-- he turned toward Bull-- "to present my
assistants, Bull Martin and"-- he turned and
swept a graceful arm toward the terrier ace
"Nippy Weston."
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"Donnerwetter!" Stahlmaske blasted. "Und
perhaps you are going to try and convince me
that you will work on my side. Save your breath,
dummkopf. We need no help from you."
"For once in your life," G-8 replied, still
smiling and keeping his voice to a normal pitch,
"you are wrong, Herr Stahlmaske. My introduction
of my assistants was done, you might say, in the
form of a confession. There is nothing more we
may hope for. I assume that we, and particularly
I, will be used for experimental purposes with
your disintegrating wireless beam. Frau Frielinger
had told me what a horrible death it will be."
"Frau Frielinger?" Stahlmaske croaked. "She
has told you about the beam?"
G-8 smiled and nodded at leisure.
"To be sure," he answered. "I had a very
pleasant visit with her in her home. You knew, of
course, that I have been there, but you did not
know that she told me secrets of the beam that
even you have not yet learned. I have written
them down and have sent them to the Allied side
of the lines. They are working now on a device
such as you have, but we can make many. You
have only the original."
"You lie!" Stahlmaske thundered, beside
himself with uncertainty. "You lie, otherwise, you
would not tell me this."
G-8 shrugged calmly.
"Again you are wrong, Herr Stahlmaske. You
see, I have simply explained that I know how
horrible a death this disintegrating will be. So-- "
he shrugged again-- "I wish to get it over with as
quick as possible."
He shot a glance at Stahlmaske and took
another desperate step in his hurried plan.
Turning to Nippy and Bull, he asked:
"You agree with me, gentlemen? You also
wish to die at once by the beam, rather than
wait?"
Nippy and Bull nodded obediently. But there
was much in the looks that each gave the Master
Spy, showing that they thought him suddenly
insane.
"That's settled, then," G-8 nodded. "You see,
the greatest horror in our lives, Herr Stahlmaske,
has been waiting-- not knowing what moment we
should die. Usually, there is no prolonged pain in
death. We three suffer mental pain to a much
greater degree than others for the simple reason
that we use our mental powers much more than
most people. So may I beg of you, Herr
Stahlmaske, for myself and my assistants, kill us
with the ray now, and end this horrible
uncertainty."
The brutes had moved in so that they formed
a close ring about the three prisoners.
Stahlmaske had not moved from the one spot
during G-8's entire speech. His whole body was
shaking with indecision. Suddenly, he burst out in
a bellow roar of rage.
"Take them to the dungeon room!" he cried.
"Three of you guard the entrance. I will have my
revenge. I will deal with them at an unannounced
time not far away."
His red eyes blazed and he continued.
"You will suffer the torments of mental hell.
Und when I decide to turn on the beam, I shall
make it as slow and painful as possible. I shall get
rid of you slowly, an arm or leg at a time."
Nippy took the cue. He rushed forward with
outstretched, supplicating hands.
"Bitte, Herr Stahlmaske," he pleaded. "Be
merciful! Kill us now and let us rest in peace."
Brutes snatched the terrier ace back and
dragged him toward the far end of the great hall.
Others dragged G-8 and Bull, who was making an
excellent show of his resistance.
Pulling, tearing and cursing them, the brutes
dragged their prisoners down the stone stairs to
the under part of the old castle. Stones were
loose beneath their feet. A heavy door swung
open in the dimly lighted labyrinth of corridors.
They were plunged into a dark hole and the great
door clanged shut behind them.
For the first minute, the three took time to
get their balance and orient themselves. There
was a wide grating in the door through which the
dim light streamed. In a few moments, the eyes
of the three became accustomed enough to the
darkness to enable them to see each other and
their surroundings.
Bull was first to speak.
"Holy Herring!" he blurted. "I never was so
sure that anybody was nuts as I was of you."
"Shhhhh," G-8 warned in a whisper.
"Remember there are three guards outside our
door."
"Okay," Nippy hissed, "but I felt the same
way Bull did. Boy, you had my hair standing on
end, G-8! I thought sure you'd given up and
wanted to get it over as soon as you could."
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"I still think it was more luck than anything
else," Bull ventured, "that made Stahlmaske
decide to wait."
"When you win in a deal like that," G-8
smiled, "you can always rack most of it up to luck,
getting the breaks, or whatever you may call it.
Anyway, we've got a little time to work. To tell you
the truth, I was desperate. Before I spoke, I
expected Stahlmaske to bring out his gadget and
start work on us right there in the hall. I'm glad we
bluffed him."
"That would sure be a funny sensation,"
Nippy grinned. "He'd get out his magic lantern or
vanishing machine or whatever he calls it. You
turn around and shake hands with me to say
good-by and then all of a sudden I'm gone. I'll bet
you'd feel foolish shaking hands with nothing.
Talk about looking sheepish."
"Holy Herring, squirt!" Bull groaned. "This
isn't any time to make wisecracks. Do you know
that any minute we're liable to go up in smoke?"
He turned to G-8. "Or is this guy with the closed-
in stove pipe on his head just kidding us?"
"He's not kidding," G-8 assured. "You felt the
action of the beam when you were flying a little
while ago. We must have been ten miles away
from here. If the beam is that powerful at ten
miles, it ought to be pretty potent at fifty or a
hundred feet."
"You think it really does make you vanish--
sort of disintegrate you, so that there's nothing
much left?" Bull asked.
"Absolutely," G-8 nodded. "But let's go back
an hour or so. How is it that you two came
highballing over to tell me that Stahlmaske was in
La Rocque Castle?"
"We thought you would want to know, and
we figured you'd be somewhere in this general
location. You said you suspected Stahlmaske was
in the vicinity of Freiburg," Nippy told him.
"Sure," G-8 nodded patiently. "But how did
you find out that it was La Rocque Castle?"
"Remember the leader of the ugly-looking
foursome that came to get you at the hangar?"
Nippy asked. "Well, he confessed, to keep
himself from being shot. He told us where
Stahlmaske's quarters were."
Bull was pacing the great, dank stones of the
dungeon floor restlessly.
"What I want to know," he grumbled, "is how
we're going to get out of here. I'll be nuts in
another ten minutes, waiting for that beam to be
turned on. I'm expecting to lose a leg or an arm
any minute."
"You could lose about half of that carcass of
yours, you big ox," Nippy grinned, "and still have
a lot left."
"All right, squirt," Bull shot back. "But for
once in my life, I'd like to shrink up and slide
through the grating in that door and get moving."
There was a sudden pause, broken by Nippy.
"Hey, listen," he said, "I have an idea. If this
works, we'll be out of here and moving plenty in
less than ten minutes." He turned to the Master
Spy and asked, "Have you got your make-up kit,
G-8?"
"As usual," the Master Spy admitted.
"All right," Nippy hurried on. "Listen. You've
got a little bottle of ammonia in that kit, haven't
you?"
"Yes," G-8 admitted, "I use it for mixing one
of Battle's ingredients, but what's the idea of-- "
"Listen," Nippy cut in. "Take out your case
and give me that little bottle, will you? Now here's
what we'll do."
G-8 handed over the bottle of ammonia and
Nippy raced on:
"We'll blow this ammonia into the eyes of the
guards and that will make them-- "
"Hey, wait a minute," Bull growled. "How are
we going to blow ammonia or anything else into
the eyes of the guards if we haven't got anything
to blow it through? Maybe you want us to throw
them ammonia kisses."
"Yeah," Nippy admitted. "That's right. I
forgot. I sort of figured we could just go to the
drug store and get some soda straws and-- ''
"Or some bean shooters," Bull cut in.
"Hey, wait," the terrier ace hissed. "What's
this around our feet?"
A rustling sound came to their ears as he
kicked about toward one corner of the dungeon.
"Straw," he gasped, bending down. "It's old,
but maybe it will do. All we've got to do is find
three pieces big enough and straight enough to
make bean or ammonia shooters."
There was a gentle scramble along the floor
at the end of which the three rose triumphant.
"We're all set," Nippy breathed excitedly.
"We each have a straw, so we pour it full of
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ammonia and hold the bottom end to keep it from
running out. We'll call over the guards, get them
close to the grating of the door and then when I
say blow, we let them have it right in the eyes.
We line up and pick the guy that's opposite us.
Get it?"
"Right," G-8 nodded. "So what?"
"When they get the ammonia in their eyes,
they'll start running. They won't think about
anything but their eyes."
"If you ask me," Bull grunted, "it sounds
crazy. We got them running down the corridor,
but we're still locked up here in the dungeon.
They aren't keeping us in here, it's the lock on the
outside of the door, and we can't reach it from
inside. I looked."
"Sure," Nippy admitted. "But when they run,
you, G-8, holler in perfect German, 'They've
escaped. G-8 and his assistants are getting away',
and we'll see what happens. From then on you do
as I say. All set?"
"It still sounds dumb to me," Bull admitted,
"but anything is better than standing here, waiting
until that guy does the vanishing act on us. When
do we start?"
"Right now," Nippy told him. "Come on over
to the door."
They followed the terrier ace to the door.
Each one held his straw filled with ammonia by
pinching the lower end. They lined up in front of
the door. The three guards were plainly visible
outside. One turned around and stared at the slit.
"Hey, you three!" Nippy cracked. "Let us out
of here! Come on, you ugly-looking mutts get
close enough and I'll smack your homely faces."
The three brutes turned and glared. They
brought up their guns in a threatening attitude. G-
8 and his Battle Aces raised their straws in
preparation.
"Blow!" Nippy ordered.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Aces Wild!
At the signal from Nippy, all three raised
their straws. Each man picked his opponent
through the bars and pointed his straw straight for
his eyes. There was a quick intake of breath and
then the sound of liquid spraying through the air.
As though at a given signal, the three ugly
brutes clapped their hands to their eyes as the
ammonia blinded them. One cried out with pain
and the other two turned and started running
blindly down the corridor. The sound of their feet
pounding the great stones of the floor echoed
from the vaulted, crumbled walls.
At that moment, G-8 bellowed in a disguised,
guttural voice, "Stop them! G-8 and his assistants
are escaping!"
He yelled it again and again through the
bars. Then Nippy pulled him back from the door.
Others were shouting by now.
In a fast whisper, Nippy was giving orders:
"Now here's the way it's going to work from
now on," he said. "Some of these smaller stones
that make up the floor are loose. Pick some up in
your hands. I think Stahlmaske will suspect
something funny and before he does anything
else, he'll come down here and look in. But he
won't see us because we'll be hiding right under
his nose, down here by the door where it's dark.
He'll unlock the door and come in to make sure
that we've gone, while the rest of his men chase
those three with the ammonia in their eyes. He
may not be alone, but at any rate, we'll make a
break for it. Bull, you lead the way. You'll
probably have some line-bucking to do and these
brutes aren't going to be any tin soldiers to bowl
over."
"O. K.," G-8 agreed. "We're all set. Quiet! I
think Stahlmaske is coming now on the run."
They could hear the sodden beat of heavy
boots outside the door. Someone was looking
inside the grill, breathing heavily. An angry curse
sounded and then:
"I cannot see them in here. Wait; I will unlock
the door to make sure."
They heard the heavy bolt sliding back and
the door was thrown open. Stahlmaske himself
barged in, followed by three of his ugly
henchmen.
"Let's go," G-8 hissed.
The Master Spy and his Battle Aces sprang
from their hiding places behind the door. The
paving stones came up and connected with the
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heads of the brutes. Two of them went down;
Stahlmaske and the third turned to fight.
Bull Martin rushed the giant fiend with head
down and his right shoulder and fist forward. He
struck him in the pit of the stomach with the force
of a battering ram. Stahlmaske grunted as the air
went out of his big chest. He was borne over
backward. Bull struck again, but by now, Nippy
had lashed in from the side. As G-8 let a right fly
to the jaw of the one remaining brute, he saw
Nippy grab the steel helmet mask that the fiend
wore and jerk it around in a half turn. Then the
terrier ace pushed Bull away.
"Come on!" he yelled. "We've got to get out
of here while there's still time. I got Goliath's
stove-pipe turned around so he don't know
whether he's coming or going."
Other booted feet were approaching-- more
brutes to help in the chase. G-8 whirled and
charged through the door with Nippy and Bull
close behind him. They were cut off from the
stairs, down which they had been dragged, by
more than a dozen men who were coming from
that direction. G-8 and his Battle Aces swerved
and raced down the corridor in the opposite
direction. Four hulking brutes were approaching
from that direction.
"Follow your interference!" Bull yelled,
charging forward with lowered head.
The men blocked the passage and braced
themselves for the attack. G-8's hand was on
Bull's back and Nippy was running in the same
position as the Master Spy. They were braced to
push each other through that line. Beyond was a
partly opened door.
The human battering ram struck that wall of
scarred flesh and Stahlmaske's men flew against
the sides of the corridor. Before they could regain
their balance, Nippy and Bull, and G-8 had
charged through and were making for the door.
The door flew open before Bull's onslaught and
he plunged headlong out into the darkness with
G-8 and Nippy streaking behind him.
For a brief instant, they dropped into space,
then they were scrambling wildly and splashing
about. Cold water penetrated their clothing.
"We'll get you, you big ox," Nippy chirped.
"You lead us out of the cooler into an ice
pond."
"Nuts," Bull spluttered. "How did I know this
was the moat that surrounded the castle?"
"Not so loud," G-8 hissed. "Swim for the
other side as fast as you can. They're after us
now."
The sound of running feet came to their ears
and all three struck out for the opposite side of
the great ditch. They reached the bank and began
scrambling up the ancient stone wall of the moat.
They had just reached the underbrush when a
flashlight beam stabbed out over the water and
focused full on them. But it was only for an
instant. G-8 ducked behind a bush and dropped
flat. A gun cracked and the bullet cut a twig above
his head and whistled off through the trees.
The Master Spy led his Battle Aces along the
edge of the moat through the thick brush. It would
be logical, he knew, for Stahlmaske and his
brutes to expect them to climb directly up the low
bank of the moat in order to get out of range as
quickly as possible. The attackers continued to
fire into the brush over the spot where the three
had first climbed out of the water.
Meantime, G-8 and his Battle Aces climbed
over the ridge farther down where it was dark.
Once free, they ran out around to the front of the
great chateau. Three cars were waiting there.
Stealthily, G-8 and his Battle Aces crept up on
those cars. No one seemed to be about; all
attention at the time had been concentrated on
the capture of the three in the dungeon corridors.
The Master Spy halted behind a screen of brush,
drew the tiny wireless set from his boot, and
handed it to Bull.
"Take care of this," he ordered, "and be
listening for me. I may want to send you a
message if I contact Herr Doktor Frielinger." He
turned to the terrier ace. "Nippy, you get in this
last car," he said. "Bull, you and I are going to
disable these other two busses so that they won't
be able to follow us."
The three strode across the opening to the
parked cars. Nippy slid in behind the wheel of the
last car in the line.
"Start the engine," G-8 ordered, "and back
the car around so we will be ready to go."
Bull was working on the first car in the row
and G-8 was giving his attention to the center one
when Nippy started the engine. Quickly, the
Master Spy raised the hood of his car, grasped a
handful of wires and pulled hard. The wires came
loose and he threw them into the brush nearby.
Nippy was backing the car around. There
was wild shouting from the interior of the castle.
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Men were running toward the front door as G-8
and Bull leaped aboard Nippy's car. Nippy sent
the car tearing down the road that led along the
face of La Rocque cliff.
"You two go back to the place where we left
our ships," G-8 said. "I think you can take off if
you do a little repair work. I'm going back into the
castle to see if I can get in touch with Herr Doktor
Frielinger."
Nippy slowed for a hairpin turn.
"So long," G-8 called. Then he dropped off
into the road and started climbing directly up the
side of the cliffs. It was a difficult job but he made
it, arriving on top of the plateau once more,
panting for breath. Far off, he could hear the
angry, bellowing voice of Stahlmaske. Probably
he was bawling out his men for permitting the
prisoners to escape. The Master Spy crept nearer
until he could make out the fiend's words:
"They think they can escape," he said, "but it
is impossible. I will give them fifteen minutes to
reach their planes. If they succeed by that time in
repairing the damage that the wireless beam has
done to their electrical apparatus, they will get
another shot of the wireless beam. Some of you
dummkopfs get these two cars working and go
after them."
G-8 realized immediately that he had
another job cut out for him. He must prevent
Stahlmaske from turning on the deadly ray when
Nippy and Bull were ready to take off. There was
only one way to do that. He had located the
electric wires that came into the castle by the light
of the car as it sped down the hill. He
remembered now where they entered the
building. He must sever those connections just
before Herr Stahlmaske was ready to turn on the
beam. Otherwise, he might have time to find the
break and repair it.
In the seclusion of a hollow between two
rocks, G-8 took out his make-up kit and began
remaking his face by the light that was part of the
kit. For almost ten minutes he worked,
manufacturing the most grotesque countenance
possible with the few materials he had with him.
He spread his nose out horribly, made his mouth
appear twice as large and twisted. He built lumps
on his cheek bones to make them stand out, then
made his eyebrows larger and heavier. He had to
admit that it wasn't nearly as ghastly as it might
be, but he hoped it would do.
With the kit strapped once more in its place
under his arm, he advanced to the point where
the electric lines ran from a tree to a point on the
side of a castle some ten feet from the ground. If
he broke one wire, it would do the trick. He
measured his distance in the light that slanted
from the cracks in the walls and saw that there
was a large limb extending above the wires. He
climbed the tree, balanced on the limb and
jumped feet first for the wires ten feet below. He
caught a wire beneath the insteps of both feet and
it sagged with his weight. Then there was a
whistling snap as it severed and blue flame
leaped up directly beneath him as the live wire
contacted the ground.
G-8 fell in a heap dangerously near it, and
leaped away instantly as the wire coiled and
sprang back. The castle was instantly plunged
into darkness. The Master Spy ran around the
rear of the great structure and kept going until he
reached the front.
Stahlmaske was shouting to his brutes to
repair the line immediately. In the light of the blue
flame that shot up from the live wire, G-8 saw one
of the brutes seized by the shock and hurled a
few feet away.
Under cover of that confusion, G-8 mingled
with the ugly Huns, forced his way inside the
castle and searched for the stairs that would lead
to the only tower left. He was feeling his way up
the ancient, spiraled steps when suddenly a voice
barked out:
"Was ist?''
"Someone has cut the electric line," G-8
explained hastily. "Herr Stahlmaske sent me to
get Herr Doktor Frielinger. He wants him brought
down at once."
Keys jangled. It was so dark that G-8 could
only sense the size of the guard. He strained to
see how tall he was and to locate his face and
head. The guard seemed to be having trouble
unlocking the door, which gave G-8 the chance
he was waiting for.
"Perhaps if I held your gun," he suggested,
"you could use both hands."
"Of course," the brute agreed. He poked the
bayoneted gun at the Master Spy and G-8 felt him
turn his back, facing the door once more. G-8
turned the rifle about and stepped behind the
guard so that the heavy butt was pointed at the
base of the man's skull. He heard the key turn in
the lock. That was his signal. He brought the rifle
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up like a pile driver and the other's body went
limp as a rag. G-8 dragged it away. Still holding
the rifle, he threw open the tower prison door and
stepped inside.
"Herr Doktor Frielinger!" he whispered.
For a moment there was only a faint, rustling
sound.
"Herr Doktor Frielinger," G-8 repeated. "I am
G-8. I have come to help you. We must move
fast while the lights are out. And you must tell me
one thing."
"Anything," Herr Doktor Frielinger said in a
meek voice, "except the secret of my beam. I will
die before I give that up."
"Good," G-8 said. "But that isn't what I want
to know."
He was already lifting the doctor, preparing
to take him out.
"I want to know," the Master Spy said, "if
there is any counter-acting beam that will
neutralize the action of this disintegrating ray of
yours."
"It is possible," Frielinger said. "If I had had a
little more time in my laboratory to work it out, I
could invent one. I had my plans for it all made.
But you are an American spy, an enemy to the
Vaterland."
"Yes," G-8 said. He threw the doctor over his
shoulder as gently as he could and started for the
door, carrying him fireman fashion.
"If you can get me and my wife and boy to
France, I will do all in my power to develop the
neutralizing beam that will combat the ray," the
doctor promised. "If I die, the secret of the
disintegrating beam dies with me. There is only
one machine, Herr Stahlmaske has that."
"O. K.," G-8 said briefly. "Hang on. We're
going to make a break for it."
He was almost running down the pitch-black
stairs. He reached the banquet hall and realized,
from the reflection of a blue light outside, that the
wires had not yet been repaired.
The Master Spy could make out some
figures near the door, but he must take a chance.
The corridor into the moat was blocked off. He
felt the stone paving of the hall underfoot and
moved along the wall, working his way toward the
door.
As he came nearer, he saw a crack in the
great wall, some ten feet away from the door, that
might serve as an exit. He tried to push through it.
It was a tight squeeze, but he was making it. He
reached the outside and tensed for a moment.
The blue light had flared again, silhouetting him
against the side of the building.
At the same instant, Stahlmaske, who had
turned to stare inside, saw the Master Spy. He let
out a wild roar of anger and drew his Luger. G-8
knew there was nothing to be gained by staying
here, and that a wild break might save him, so he
tried it. He plunged headlong into the thicket
outside the castle. The Luger cracked. Other guns
began barking. G-8 raced on and broke into a
small clearing. The gun fire grew heavier. A bullet
tore through his coat and creased his flesh.
Herr Doktor Frielinger, still lying across his
shoulder like a bag of meal, gave a convulsive
movement and emitted a gasp. Then his body
went limp.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Death Rides the Dawn
Instantly, G-8 knew that the doctor had been
hit. As he continued his mad charge across the
open space, he dropped the rifle. A single clip of
bullets wouldn't be much good to him. He pulled
the doctor down from his shoulder and held him in
his arms. He saw then that a bullet had blasted
the skull of the doctor half apart. It was the end of
Herr Doktor Frielinger. There was no use carrying
him any farther.
But there was something on this person that
G-8 must have. Awkwardly, the Master Spy
searched for the tiny wireless set that must be
somewhere about him. But Stahlmaske and his
brutes were closing in. G-8 had enough of a lead
so that he was sure of fifteen or twenty seconds
before he would be caught. He knew that the
place was surrounded, for Stahlmaske had yelled,
when he had dove into the thicket, "You cannot
escape. All places of exit are guarded."
It was easy to understand how Stahlmaske
had known that G-8 or someone opposed to him
was still there. The break in the light line would
tell him that.
G-8 found the little wireless set strapped to
the inside of Herr Doktor Frielinger's left leg
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where it wouldn't be easily noticed. Running and
carrying the body as he was now, G-8 had
difficulty in detaching it. He dropped the doctor
suddenly in a clump of brush, knelt down, and
quickly loosened the thin box, slipping it into his
boot top. He then ran on, but his escape was
short-lived.
In the early morning light, grotesque figures
rose at the edge of the cliffs and held guns
pointed at G-8's middle. The Master Spy stopped.
A few seconds later, Stahlmaske and the others
caught up with him. While two brutes held the
Master Spy, Stahlmaske struck him across the
face with the palm of his hand. It was a brutal
blow that nearly floored G-8.
"You tricked me once," Stahlmaske rasped.
"But you shall not do it again."
He turned to his brutes and ordered, "Take
him into the dungeon once more and hold him
there until we have the electric line repaired and
the balloon is ready to go up. Then I shall use him
for my test."
Once more G-8 was thrown into the
dungeon, this time alone. There was almost no
hope of getting out alive, but if he could contact
Nippy or Bull, there would be a good chance of
destroying Stahlmaske, his brutes, and the death
beam.
The door closed behind him. Daylight was
filtering through the slits in the dungeon as G-8
took Herr Doktor Frielinger's little wireless set
from his boot. He turned the switch over to the
sending terminal and began ticking off his
message:
NIPPY AND BULL. NIPPY AND BULL. IF
YOU CAN HEAR ME ANSWER.
He switched back to the receiving post and
listened. No answer came. In five minutes he
repeated that call and again each five minutes for
half an hour. Then a reply came.
O. K. WE MADE NANCY. REFUELING.
WHAT'S UP?
Frantically, G-8 began ticking out orders:
BRING ALL PLANES FROM NANCY AS
QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE. COME TO LA
ROCQUE CASTLE. FLY MAXIMUM CEILING.
BOMB ENTIRE CASTLE AND CLIFFS.
EVERYTHING MUST BE DESTROYED.
The answer came back:
BUT WHERE WILL YOU BE?
G-8 hastened to assure his Battle Aces.
I'M GETTING AWAY. DON'T WORRY
ABOUT ME. BLOW EVERYTHING TO BITS.
Then he heard:
O. K. WE'RE COMING.
G-8 whirled in sudden alarm at a sound
outside the dungeon door. He turned just in time
to see flame spurt from the muzzle of a Luger
that was poked through the grill. The tiny wireless
machine that he had held on his knee flew apart,
and in the next instant, Herr Stahlmaske's
fiendish laugh rang through the dungeon.
"Das ist gut," he chuckled. "You have been
calling your assistants. Und I know what you have
told them. You have given them orders to bring
over planes und blow up La Rocque Castle." He
laughed again. "Ja, Das ist gut. We shall be ready
you and I. I was going to kill you first, but now you
shall see what happens to them before you die.
You will have-- what do you call it in America-- a
ringside seat."
He turned to his brutes and commanded,
"Bring him out."
Minutes sped by while G-8 was taken from
the dungeon and transported by car to the very
field where he had shot down Herr Stahlmaske.
Under the trees at the side of the field he saw a
large captive balloon straining at the winch. There
was much activity going on.
Herr Stahlmaske brought the Master Spy an
American uniform.
"Put this on," he commanded. "Your
assistants and the other verdammt Allies shall
know that you are an American. They will not
dare destroy me or the balloon for fear of injuring
you. In the meantime, I shall destroy them"-- he
made a puffing sound with his mouth-- "like that."
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G-8 said nothing. He was powerless to do
anything to free himself. The brutes were tying
him to one side of the basket with stout ropes
bound around his arms, legs, and waist.
More minutes passed while preparations for
the ascent were completed, then Stahlmaske
climbed into the balloon basket. He leered
through his mask at the Master Spy and pointed
the strange-looking weapon at him. G-8 saw the
long electric cables running from the winch over
to the machines of coils and tubes.
"All I have to do is pull this trigger,"
Stahlmaske chuckled, "and where you stand now
there will be nothing but a vacant hole. You and
the side of the basket and the ropes will vanish."
From far to the southwest, G-8 heard a
rumbling sound. Stahlmaske heard it, too, and
turned quickly to give orders to his brute men.
"Rise the balloon," he rasped. "They are
coming."
The winch growled as it released the giant
bag. G-8 and Stahlmaske shot into the air and
rose rapidly.
The Master Spy could see a great swarm of
planes storming out of the southwest over the
northern tip of the Vosges mountains. He couldn't
pick Nippy and Bull out of the mass, but he knew
they were there.
Above the roar of the engines, Stahlmaske
laughed triumphantly. With all his might, G-8
strained at the ropes that bound him. He must get
free and stop this wholesale murder that was
going to take place! Suddenly, something
snapped behind him. He guessed that it was one
of the reeds in the basket that pulled loose, but
whatever it was, it gave him more freedom of
motion. The ropes grew slack. He was slipping
out of them.
Stahlmaske braced himself against the
corner of the basket and raised the death
machine to aim it at the lead plane, an S.E. 5
loaded with bombs. Behind it, on either side, flew
Nippy and Bull.
Stahlmaske screamed with fiendish glee and
pulled the trigger. G-8 was staring open-mouthed
as he struggled to get the last of the ropes off.
Part of the S.E. 5 was vanishing. The whole
center, including the fuselage, engine, and the
inner half of the wings, suddenly disappeared. For
a brief instant, there was a slight trace of the
members that had made up the gaping hole. The
wingtips and outer struts, which were the only
things remaining of the plane, began falling by
themselves.
With another scream of triumph, Herr
Stahlmaske turned his way toward Spad number
13. But G-8 was throwing off the last rope. He
leaped for the beast, grabbed his shoulder and
hurled him back off his balance. With his right
hand, he reached over and grasped the wireless
instrument, jerking it partly out of the steel-
masked fiend's hand.
With a roar, Stahlmaske turned on him, still
clutching the machine in his left hand. He had
enormous strength-- twice that of the Master Spy!
G-8 would be little more than a rag doll in his
hands if he didn't act quickly.
Stahlmaske's left arm that still clutched the
machine was against the edge of the basket. With
a lightning movement, G-8 brought his right fist
down on the arm. The blow fell on a vital nerve
center. If it was hard enough, it would numb the
entire arm. G-8 saw the beam gun drop over the
side of the basket and knew that he had won that
point!
What happened after that was rather hazy in
the Master Spy's mind. He and Stahlmaske were
fighting furiously in that small balloon basket. The
steel-mask protected Stahlmaske's head from any
possible injury, so G-8 concentrated on his
middle. Suddenly, the air went out of the Master
Spy. Then he sensed vaguely that he was going
over the side, grabbing a parachute harness as
he dove.
Machine guns were shattering the air and
bombs were exploding below him. A crack just
above told him that his parachute had opened. He
hung on desperately to the harness that he hadn't
had time to put on.
Even with his senses dulled, these moments
were a nightmare to the Master Spy. Death, the
grim pursuer who seemed to haunt his every day,
was leering still in mockery at his side. Then his
head cleared a bit as the frightful vision passed
out of his jumbled thoughts.
A great ball of flame that was left of the
captive balloon-- was settling down on him. He
saw Stahlmaske leaning over the edge of the
basket. Brutes were running from the field and the
Allied planes were after them, bombing and
strafing them as they went.
Suddenly, the Master Spy knew he was
down. His head struck something hard and things
became more hazy about him than ever. Next, he
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was being picked up and carried off. There was
the vibration of a motor.
Regaining consciousness, he knew he was
tied to the wing of a Spad. He stared up into the
grinning face of Nippy Weston.
"Good morning," the terrier ace shouted.
"And how would you like your eggs this morning?"
G-8 grinned back.
"Sunny side up," he answered.
And that's the way they were, for Battle had
breakfast ready shortly after their return.
It was good to look about and see his pals
and faithful Battle, G-8 thought. These moments
of reunion, with death and disaster finally
overcome, seemed to be worth the effort. It did
not, however, compensate for the thousands of
lives eaten away each day by the ravaging hands
of War. It did not, for example, bring back to life
these airmen who had died to satisfy the bloodlust
of Stahlmaske. But now, for a time at least, G-8's
mind turned to happier thoughts and events.
"Boy!" Bull exploded as he sat down to the
table. "It sure is a pleasure to get back to one of
Battle's good meals."
"The main thing I'm looking forward to," G-8
said, "is taking a shower and dressing in-- "
"Oh, I say," Battle cut in eagerly. "Beggin'
your pardon, sir, but that's it. I've got it!"
Three faces turned to stare blankly at the
English manservant.
"Got what?" Bull demanded.
"Why, the rest of that joke, sir," Battle
explained.
"You mean," demanded Nippy, "that you just
thought of the answer to that joke you started
more than a month ago?"
"Oh, quite," Battle enthused. "Yes, I've got it.
Now don't stop me. I must say it before I forget it.
The answer is because it sees the salad
dressing."
"What's all this about?" G-8 asked, "This
salad dressing business?"
"It's about the joke, sir," Battle said. "You
remember! I tried to work it over a month ago and
I couldn't think of the end? All I could think of was
'because it saw the mayonnaise,' and that wasn't
right. And now I have it. 'Because it sees the
salad dressing!' That's the same thing as
mayonnaise, isn't it?"
"Sure," G-8 laughed. "Let's try it again,
Battle, and see if we can get the whole thing
straight. Go on, you ask me."
Battle's face grew suddenly blank.
"Oh, I say," he groaned in dismay. "Dash it
all, now I've forgotten the first part of it!"
THE END
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