Faked Passports by Dennis Wheatley Page B

too strong a hold for them to get it under. Even the possibility of delaying its action by throwing buckets of water from the kitchen tank against the threatened wall was denied to them since they were compelled to crawl about the floor; not daring to stand upright in case the Nazis started shooting again through the shattered windows.
    Von Lutz began to cough from the acrid smoke which was now filling the room, so Gregory called to him and they both returned to the kitchen. Freddie looked up quickly from where he was kneeling behind the barricade. “They’ve fired the place, haven’t they? There’s been a strong smell of smoke for some minutes.”
    Gregory nodded and the airman went on: “Well, what are we going to do? Break out or stay here to be roasted alive?”
    â€œBreak out,” said von Lutz; “but not yet—not till the flames haf goot hold. They will gif us light to see by so we can shoot more of these swines before we ourselves are shot.”
    â€œThat cuts both ways,” Gregory replied promptly. “The brighter the light the easier it will be for them to pick us off from a distance as we come out.”
    Although his argument for an immediate sortie was sound they still hesitated, knowing that once they were outside with their backs against the flames they would make a perfect target for the sub-machine-guns of their enemies. It was a foregone conclusion that within two minutes of crossing the threshold they would all be dead.
    The voice of the flames had swollen to a sudden roar and,now that it had properly caught, the old wooden cottage was going up like tinder. Von Lutz stepped across the narrow passage and opened the door of the bedroom. A great cloud of smoke billowed out, choking and half-blinding him. The far wall was now a solid sheet of flame. Curtains, bedding and draperies had also caught, making glowing red patches in the blackish murk. He hastily thrust the door to again, brushed his hand over his watering eyes and gasped:
    â€œWe haf another few moments only—at the most. Let us go now to die like brave men.”
    Gregory picked up his shot-gun then he smiled at Charlton. “Sorry I let you in for this, Freddie.”
    Charlton smiled back. “I might just as well die riddled with bullets on the ground as in a plane; and that would have been my end for certain if this filthy war is going on for long.”
    Frau
Foldar was still seated in the corner where Freddie had put her, well out of danger from shots coming through the windows. During the fight she had remained there, wide-eyed, terrified, unspeaking, seeming hardly to understand what was going on. Glancing towards her he said to the others:
    â€œWe can’t leave her here, although I am afraid having to lug her along with us puts paid to any chance we might have had of getting through by a sudden dash.”
    â€œI’ll take her,” said Gregory and von Lutz simultaneously, but the Baron added:
    â€œThis my affair is. She is one of my peoples. Go, please—both of you. Good luck! Make no delay—it is an order.”
    Gregory did not argue. He knew that whoever led the way would make the target for the first burst of the Nazis’ fire, whereas whoever took the old peasant-woman would be screened behind the leaders of the party; so if it could be considered that there was a chance of any of them getting through at all the odds were about even.
    Their eyes were smarting from the smoke that now filled the kitchen. The heat was stifling and the fierce crackling of burning wood—much nearer now—showed that the flames had advanced from the bedroom and were already devouring the partition wall beside which they stood.
    â€œLet’s go,” said Gregory, and they moved out into the tiny corridor which gave out on to the back door. As he lifted his hand to pull back the heavy wooden bolt a fresh burst of shooting suddenly broke out behind the house. Pausing