The Man who Missed the War by Dennis Wheatley Page B

against a stanchion. Stooping he grabbed it up and raised it high above his head. Philip was still half-crouching on the floor, now absolutely at his enemy’s mercy.
    In the split second that he huddled there staring up he knew that one blow from the great key would be enough to bash out his brains. In a desperate effort to save himself he flung his body back, sprawling headlong across the floor. The blow fell but, overshooting its mark and with its force largely spent, caught him on the thigh. In his violent twist to avoid the blow his head struck the leg of a chair and his right arm shot under it. As he thrust out his hand to raise himself his fingers came in contact with the butt of Eiderman’s automatic. Snatching at it he rolledright over. The German was towering over him and had lifted the heavy iron to strike again. Philip thrust up the pistol and pulled the trigger.
    For a moment Eiderman remained quite still, his arms above his head, a demoniacal look of hate and fury on his lean features. The shattering report of the pistol seemed to echo round and round the cabin, a wisp of blue smoke trickled from its barrel. Then, as the reverberation died away, the light went out of the German’s eyes, his knees buckled beneath him and he slumped sideways across Philip’s legs. As Philip strove to free himself, there was a loud rattling from Eiderman’s throat, one of his hands clawed spasmodically at the air, then dropped, and the sound ceased.
    Still gasping for breath, Philip stumbled to his knees and stared down at his would-be murderer. The Nazi was not a pretty sight. His mouth lolled open, the flashing upper denture had fallen forward and from below it oozed a trickle of dark blood. There could be no doubt that he was dead.
    Philip’s first reaction on seeing Eiderman fall had been one of triumph: Never before had he had to fight for his life, and all the exhilaration of primitive man at his first victory surged through him as he savoured his own escape and witnessed the death throes of his adversary. But he was hardly on his feet when the full implications of what had happened struck him.
    Eiderman could have killed him and, no doubt, got away with it; but his having killed the German was a very different matter. He could not go to Captain Sorensen and say that Eiderman had died of a sudden haemorrhage with the least hope of such a statement being credited. Neither could he call on the walleyed Hans Auffen to sew up the corpse in canvas for burial at sea.
    For one wild moment he thought of attempting to arrange matters so that Eiderman’s death looked like suicide. But that was impossible. Even if a motive could be suggested, the position of the wound showed at a glance that it could not have been self-inflicted. The bullet had gone in under the ribs, travelled up through the body and come out at the neck. And when it came to a motive for murder Philip saw at once that Sorensen would think they had quarrelled. The Captain knew that one of themhad wanted to turn back at the last moment. He might quite reasonably assume that the other had large financial interests in the venture and so had refused to do so. High words could easily have followed, and although the pistol was Eiderman’s only the person with him could have fired the shot.
    All these thoughts rushed through Philip’s brain in a few seconds. Hardly a minute had elapsed since the shot had been fired. The rain was still pelting down overhead, but Philip cast an anxious glance at the door. When the pistol had exploded it had sounded like the bursting of a bomb. It seemed impossible that no one should have heard it.
    Some strange instinct caused Philip to tiptoe as he stole to the door, opened it, and peered out. There was no one in the passage. Shutting it again he bolted it and stood for a moment gazing down at Eiderman’s body in bitter despair. It seemed to him now that this unscrupulous servant of a maniac master had trapped him as surely by his death