Where Eagles Dare

Carraciola believed him. He slid down the rope until first his feet then his hands found the security of the supporting bracket of the cable-car. Smith gestured with his gun towards Thomas. Thomas went without a word. Ten seconds later Christiansen followed him. Smith watched the cable-car begin to move up inside the station, then looked upwards to the window from which the rope dangled.

“Mr. Jones?”

“I'm still here.” Carnaby-Jones's voice had a quaver to it and he didn't as much as venture to risk a glance over the window-sill.

“Not for much longer, I hope,” Smith said seriously. “They'll be coming for you, Mr. Jones. They'll be coming any moment now. I hate to say this, but I must. It is my duty to warn you what will happen to you, an enemy spy. You'll be tortured, Mr. Jones—not simply everyday tortures like pulling out your teeth and toe-nails, but unspeakable tortures I can't mention with Miss Ellison here—and then you'll finish in the gas chambers. If you're still alive.”

Mary clutched his arm. “Would they—would they really do that?”

“Good God, no!” Smith stared at her in genuine surprise.

“What on earth would they want to do that for?” He raised his voice again: “You'll die in a screaming agony, Mr. Jones, an agony beyond your wildest nightmares. And you'll take a long time dying. Hours. Maybe days. And screaming. Screaming all the time.”

“What in God's name am I to do?” The desperate voice from above was no longer quavering, it vibrated like a broken bed-spring. “What can I do?”

“You can slide down that rope,” Smith said brutally. “Fifteen feet. Fifteen little feet, Mr. Jones. My God, you could do that in a pole vault.”

“I can't.” The voice was a wail. “I simply can't.”

“Yes, you can,” Smith urged. “Grab the rope now, close your eyes, out over the sill and down. Keep your eyes closed. We can catch you.”

“I can't! I can't!”

“Oh God!” Smith said despairingly. “Oh, my God! It's too late now.”

“It's too—what in heaven's name do you mean?”

“The lights are going on along the passage,” Smith said, his voice low and tense. “And that window. And the next. They're coming for you, Mr. Jones, they're coming now. Oh God, when they strip you off and strap you down on the torture table—”

Two seconds later Carnaby-Jones was over the sill and sliding down the nylon rope. His eyes were screwed tightly shut. Mary said, admiringly: “You really are the most fearful liar ever.”

“Schaffer keeps telling me the same thing,” Smith admitted. “You can't all be wrong.”

The cable-car, with the three men clinging grimly to the suspension bracket, climbed slowly up into the header station and jerked to a halt. One by one the three men, under the persuasion of Schaffer's gently waving Luger, lowered themselves the full length of their arms and dropped the last two or three feet to the floor. The last of them, Thomas, seemed to land awkwardly, exclaimed in muffled pain and fell heavily sideways. As he fell, his hands shot out and grabbed Schaffer by the ankles. Schaffer, immediately off-balance, flung up his arms in an attempt to maintain equilibrium and, before he could even begin to bring his arms down again, was winded by a diving rugby tackle by Christiansen. He toppled backwards, his back smashing into a generator with an impact that drove from his lungs what little breath had been left in them. A second later and Christiansen had his gun, driving the muzzle cruelly into a throat gasping for air.

Carraciola was already at the lower iron door, shaking it fiercely. His eye caught sight of the big padlock in its hasp. He swung round, ran back towards Schaffer, knocked aside the gun in Christiansen's hand and grabbed Schaffer by the throat.

“That padlock. Where's the key to that bloody padlock?” The human voice can't exactly emulate the hiss of a snake, but Carraciola's came pretty close to it then. “That door has been locked from the inside. You're the only person who could have done it. Where is that key?”

Schaffer struggled to a sitting position, feebly pushing aside Carraciola's hand. “I can't breathe!” The moaning, gasping breathing lent credence to the words. “I can't breathe. I—I'm going to be sick.”

“Where is that damned key?” Carraciola demanded.

“Oh God, I feel ill!” Schaffer hoisted himself slowly to a kneeling position, his head bent, retching sounds coming from his throat. He shook his head from side to side, as if to clear away the muzziness, then slowly raised it, his eyes unfocused. He mumbled: “What do you want? What did you say?”

“The key!” If the need for silence hadn't been paramount, Carraciola's voice would have been a frustrated scream of rage. Half-a-dozen times, in brutal and rapid succession, he struck Schaffer across the face with the palm and back of his hand. “Where is that key?”

“Easy on, easy on!” Thomas caught Carraciola's hand. “Don't be such a damned fool. You want him to talk, don't you?”