He switched it off and ran back, in the cover of the shadow, to the corner of the house and stood near the open side-door. He put the torch back into his left hip-pocket and pulled the Lüger from the right. This time he held it by the butt, and slipped off the safety-catch. He must be ready to shoot now—but he must not shoot unless it were absolutely, vitally necessary. Somewhere near, there might be—there could be—other men. . . .
He looked out into the bright silver square of moonlight beyond the trees and saw two figures quickly cross it and go back into the shadow again. He could hear the swishing of their feet in the grass, coming towards him.
He stood motionless. He was in the deep darkness cast by the eaves of the house and they could not—they must not—see him until they were close upon him. He could hear them approaching. They were only a few yards away. His body was cold again and his mind raced.
Then they stopped. They were almost opposite to him, just the other side of the narrow strip of moonlight which separated the two black fields of shadow. Altinger’s voice came out of the darkness. It was pitched low, but it carried. It said:
“Where is that big fool?” and then, louder, “Carson! Carson, where are you?”
Otto did not breathe: he was utterly still.
“Carson!” Altinger called again.
The man Flecker said something in his high-pitched nasal whine, but Otto could not hear the words.
Altinger snorted contempt—and he came out into the strip of moonlight, making for the door. Flecker came behind him. Altinger’s hands were empty, but Flecker carried a gun and it was held ready.
They came into the shadow of the house—and Otto struck. With the barrel of the Lüger he struck Flecker a downward, deliberately glancing blow upon the back of the skull—and then, as the man crashed against Altinger, he leapt around the falling body and jammed the pistol into Altinger’s back with a thrust so savage that it jerked the air from Altinger’s lungs and Altinger’s hand from the gun for which he reached.
He said to Altinger: “Keep your hands up! Stand still!” The motionless body of Flecker lay huddled by his feet and he hoped against hope that he had not struck too hard—or, alternatively and worse perhaps, that he had not struck hard enough.
But he dared not take his eyes or any part of his attention from Altinger. By Flecker’s head lay a fallen gun, and he kicked it away into the shadows. It was the best he could do.
He jabbed Altinger again with the muzzle of the Lüger. He said:
“Go on—into the house. Do not make one move except to walk! And keep your hands where they are.”
Altinger went forward, his hands held at shoulder-level, and passed through the door and into the darkness of the passage. Otto stayed close to him, very close.
They reached the hallway and the white spreading beam of the flashlight. They reached the centre, and were beside the table and the chair in which Clare had been tied. The light spread about them in a circle here.
Otto said: “Stop now. And turn around!”
Altinger halted. He had made no sound since the gun had first been at his back. He kept his hands where they were as he turned. His eyes were bright and shrewd and something like a smile twisted one corner of his mouth. He said:
“So what, young Jorgensen?” His eyes were fixed upon Otto’s eyes.
Otto did not answer then. He reached out his left hand and pulled Altinger’s pistol from its shoulder-holster and threw it to the far dark end of the hallway. He stepped closer to Altinger and felt all over him and found no sign of any other weapon and stood away again. He said:
“I am going to kill you. You remember what I said to you—and what you would have said to me if you could have spoken?”
“Sure,” said Altinger. “I remember.” His eyes flickered a glance at the Lüger.
Otto looked at the chair and the cord which lay by its feet. He lowered the gun, and a gleam came into the bright, dark eyes which were watching him. He tossed the gun away from him—and even before it landed clattering upon the table and slid with a heavy clanging to the floor, Altinger leapt forward. His left fist swung, and then his right foot.
He moved with astonishing speed for a man of his bulk—and though Otto blocked the fist with ease, the man’s heavy shoe caught him squarely upon a shin bone and a flame of agony licked a jagged path up through the leg to his body.
His arms closed around Altinger, outside Altinger’s arms. And his left hand closed about Altinger’s right wrist and dragged it upwards.
Against his chest and his arms he could feel great muscles swelling hugely, but he was steel. He began to move forward, slowly—and Altinger, his face distorted by tremendous, useless effort, moved with him.
The edge of the heavy table caught Altinger’s back, just above the waist. Otto’s free right hand came from behind Altinger’s back and thrust itself beneath Altinger’s chin.
Sounds came from Altinger’s grimacing lips, but if they were words Otto did not hear them.
Very slowly, inch by inch, Altinger’s body was forced back . . . and back . . . and back. . . . At last his shoulders met the wood of the table-top: he lay, across the corner of the table, with the captive, tortured arm pulled up to his shoulder blades and his head unsupported; his head which dangled, in spite of all effort, over the table-edge.
The hand beneath his chin was inexorable. It no longer thrust upward, but outward and downward: it was being forced back, toward his immovable body. . . .
He did not hear the sound which meant that his execution was over; the sound like a lath being snapped beneath layers of wool. . . .
Otto picked up the Lüger. He did not look at Altinger’s sprawling body. He ran down the passageway, pulling aside as he did so the chair in front of the cellar door. He shouted:
“Clare! Come to the side door!” and, with barely a check, ran to this door and through it.
He was only just in time—and he had not struck too hard. The man Flecker was on his hands and knees, trying to struggle to his feet. He was shaking his head from side to side.
Otto thrust him down again, on his back, and knelt beside him and kept him to earth with a heavy hand.
There was a sound behind him, and he turned his head and saw Clare standing in the doorway. He said:
“Go on!” and pointed ahead. “Go near to the road and wait—near their car.”
She seemed to hesitate—and he said sharply:
“Do as I say! Go on! This man is going to tell me what we have to know. . . .”
In the small hangar, the roaring engine of the Lockheed made a bedlam.
But neither Kurt Kummer nor his mechanic was distressed by the din. They were used to it—and when it was smooth and right-sounding like this, it was even music to their hardened ears.
Kummer glanced for the fifteenth time at the watch upon his wrist—and then glanced at the mechanic and saw that the man was looking out across the level field to the winding roadway which led to the hangar from this particular entrance to the Bjornstrom estate.
Familiar headlights were speeding towards them—and the mechanic went quickly out of the hangar as Kummer turned back to the plane and climbed into the cabin and made quick check of the things which should be there.
He climbed out again and went to the open doorway. The car was not in sight now: it must have pulled up in the usual place behind the hangar—and in a moment the mechanic would come running back, over-officious, leading the way for Rudolph Altinger.
But the mechanic did not come. A frown pulled Kummer’s thick black brows together, and he walked out of the hangar and looked across the moonlit grass.