Faked Passports by Dennis Wheatley Page A

footsteps at the front of the cottage and a terrific battering upon the door. Freddie was nearest and, turning, he began to fire with his revolver at the panels of the door, hoping that the bullets would go through the wood and wound some of the men who were trying to smash it in.
    â€œThat’s no good!” yelled Gregory. “Here, give me a hand with this table.” Sweeping the things that were on it to the floor they heaved the table over sideways and dragged it up against the door; then hastily stacked up all the furniture they could lay their hands on behind it to form a barricade.
    Snatching up his gun Gregory ran back to the window. He meant to lean out, shoot along the side of the house and take the Nazis who were trying to force the door in a flank attack. But the second he raised his head under the tattered curtain the submachine-gun was brought into play again; a bullet zipped through his hair and others began to splinter the woodwork of the window-frame.
    After three minutes of furious thudding the Nazis gave up their efforts on the door and silence fell once more. This time it continued for much longer and Gregory had a feeling that it forebode yet more serious trouble. A quarter of an hour later he began to hope that he had been wrong and that some of the Nazis had gone to fetch reinforcements, in which case the time had come to attempt a sortie.
    He estimated that at least five out of the ten or twelve attackers must have been killed or seriously wounded. If one or two more had been sent off to Dornitz to get help, that considerably reduced the odds. To break out and rush the remainder, who would certainly have been left to watch the exits of the cottage, was a most desperate venture; but even if only one of the besieged party got through that would be better than their all remaining there to be massacred, as they undoubtedly would be in due course, unless they could manage to break out.
    Leaving Charlton for a moment he slipped into the bedroom to consult the Baron, but before he had a chance to put up his suggestion he was struck by something peculiar about the atmosphere of the room. It was not the close fugginess in which Hans Foldar and his wife usually slept, since the window of this room, too, had been smashed to atoms by the Nazis’ bullets. It was something else. Gregory sniffed quickly twice—then he knew. It was the faint smell of wood-smoke.
    Von Lutz was almost indistinguishable in the darkness but his voice came from near the window.
    â€œHow does it go with you?”
    â€œWe’re still all right. But what are they up to now? Can you smell anything here?”
    The Baron drew a long, deep breath through his nostrils and, exhaling it, suddenly exclaimed: “
Himmel, ja!
I haf not notice it before but it comes from the window. I can smell smoke.”
    â€œThat’s it. I had a hope just now that they’d sent to Dornitz for reinforcements and we might stand a chance of breaking through while their numbers were reduced; but my firsthunch—that they were planning something pretty nasty for us—was right. They’ve been collecting wood all this time and now they’ve fired the place.”
    As he ceased speaking a faint hissing and crackling caught their ears, proving him to be right. The Nazis had piled up all the loose wood they could find against the blank wall at the bedroom end of the cottage and the bonfire was just beginning to get well alight.
    The smell of smoke grew stronger; soon great puffs of it were drifting in through the broken window and the crackling of the flames increased to a low roar. Gregory put his hand on the far wall of the bedroom and withdrew it quickly; the timbers were already scorching to the touch.
    There was nothing they could do about it—nothing whatever. They could not get at the blaze to attempt to put it out, while it was still small, and once the flames had eaten their way through the wall it would have much