It was bitterly cold up on the bleak mountainside, but Gregory had filled his flask with the Norwegian Punch when he was down at the hotel and the airman had another which was two-thirds full of Brandtwein, so they were able to stall off the chill by swapping pulls at each other's flasks.
They had been there for over an hour when von Ziegler said, 'Hush!' and, sitting forward, began to listen intently. Gregory, too, listened, and the low note of a distant aircraft became increasingly distinct.
'That's one of ours,' said von Ziegler, and he switched on the spotlight again.
From the second Gregory had caught the sound of the plane he had tumbled to the idea. They were in the dark phase of the moon, so it was black as pitch all round them, but down in the valley he could just make out the distant lights of Hamar, some of which shimmered on the waters of the lake. That gave him his direction and he realised that von Ziegler had carefully oriented his car so that it was pointing due south down the valley, and that from their position high up in the mountains a light would have a clear field for many miles in the direction of Oslo. With swift, well-practised fingers von Ziegler began to flash the spotlight rapidly on and off, and Gregory knew that he was signalling to the German plane somewhere up there in the dark skies to southward.
For a split second it occurred to Gregory to pull his gun and stop the German, but an instant's reflection convinced him that he would be crazy to do so. If he killed von Ziegler some other Nazi would be sent in pursuit of King Haakon—someone whose intentions he would not know and so would have no chance of frustrating. It was sounder to let von Zeigler go ahead, learn his plans and then take every possible measure to wreck them.
Almost at once a pinpoint of light showed in the sky. Von Ziegler's signal had been seen and acknowledged. For several moments his fingers pressed the switch swiftly up and down. Gregory knew Morse and he tried to read the message, but soon found that it was in code so it was quite useless for him to follow it any further. The plane was much nearer now as it winked again several times before roaring high overhead. It then turned and sped back towards Oslo.
'Well, that's that,' said von Ziegler cheerfully. 'Now for some sleep. We'll find a sheltered spot somewhere down in the valley outside the town,' and he proceeded to get his engine running.
'You told them that we've located the King?' Gregory said.
'Yes. And since he's too closely guarded for us to get at him I've given them instructions to . . .' Von Ziegler's sentence was never finished. While he had been backing his car to turn it down the narrow road another car had come hurtling around the corner behind them. It pulled up with a scream of brakes.
Next second there was a blinding flash in the darkness. A bullet whistled over their heads and angry orders were shouted in Norwegian. Several men had sprung out of the other car and were running towards them brandishing revolvers. One man yelled in German as he ran:
'We saw you ruddy Nazis signalling to that plane when we were three miles away. Hands up, both of you! Hands up!'
The appearance of the newcomers had been so startlingly swift that neither von Ziegler nor Gregory had had time to draw their guns. As they raised their hands above their heads the horrid thought flashed into Gregory's mind that the next few moments might see him shot—as a German spy.
CHAPTER 7
'Think Fast, Herr Oberst-Baron'
The running figures flung themselves at the car. Two of them tackled von Ziegler, a third thrust an old-fashioned revolver into Gregory's face and the fourth dragged him out into the roadway. The light from the dashboard and the shaded headlamps was sufficient to show that they were Norwegian police.
The man who seized Gregory was a huge fellow with hairy hands and he did not use them lightly.
Wrenching Gregory's wrists behind his back he clapped a pair of handcuffs on to them, then lifting his great boot he gave him a kick on the behind that sent him flying head first into the ditch under the rock wall. His yowl of pain was cut short as the fall drove the breath out of his body and, since his hands were secured behind him, he went down flat on his face, cutting his cheek badly on a stone. For the next minute he was practically out and when he got back his wits he found that he had been lugged to his feet.
Von Ziegler had evidently fared no better, as between gasps of pain he was cursing fluently in German.
The two of them were thrown into the back of the airman's car and the big fellow sprawled on the seat, planting his huge feet on top of them, while another policeman took the wheel. The car started with a jolt and began to run down the road towards Hamar.
'Here's a pretty kettle of fish!' thought Gregory. 'To be pinched while operating as a British agent against the Germans is the fortune of war, but to be caught and shot as a German spy is a bit too thick! What the devil does A. do now?'
He realised that there was nothing to stop him producing his British passport and disclosing to the Norwegians the real reason for his being with von Ziegler; but at the back of his mind persisted the nasty, worrying thought that they might not believe him. Von Ziegler was carrying a pass to which he obviously had no right, so Gregory felt sure that when they were searched the Norwegians would also regard his passport as a forgery.
In ordinary times he would at least have been allowed to get in touch with the British Consul and would have been assured of a proper trial at which steps could have been taken to prove his true identity, but from that morning of Tuesday, April the 9th, the times in Norway had become extraordinary. After a hundred years of peace the people had suddenly woken to the unbelievable—they were at war—a full-scale invasion of their country was taking place. Under cover of darkness, foreign troops had entered all their principal cities. Screaming shells, hurtling bombs and spates of machine-gun bullets were exploding and spattering amongst them. They had been taken entirely off their guard, and were now fighting for their very existence. With such an upheaval in progress all normal judicial procedure would have been thrown overboard and they were living from minute to minute while they took such steps as they could for their protection. Two enemy spies, caught red-handed, would almost certainly be shot after the barest formalities. Gregory did not at all like the look of things.
The cars pulled up in the main street of Hamar and the two captives were lugged into the police-station.
For the time being they were allowed to sit on a worn pitch-pine bench while the German-speaking police sergeant who was in charge of the party that had caught them held a long telephone conversation.
The other policemen stood round eyeing them malevolently, and only waiting for a chance to give them another beating-up should they show the least signs of any attempt to rush the door which led to a short passage and the street.
Gregory's bottom hurt him abominably where the big fellow's boot had landed, and he had to sit sideways on the hard bench, which was extremely uncomfortable, but the cut on his cheek was not deep and the blood had already dried. Von Ziegler, he noticed, had a lovely black eye which was beginning to colour up, and his white collar had been torn away from its stud where somebody had grabbed him at the back of the neck.
After about twenty minutes the dumb-looking, walrus-moustached inspector arrived whom they had seen outside the house occupied by King Haakon. The sergeant made his report and the inspector stared grimly at the prisoners, after which he gave some order and the other men moved towards them.