The Black Baroness (17 page)

On their rounding the bend the young Norwegian farmer
gave a whoop of joy. There on the road ahead, barely a mile farther up the slope, were the Germans. Their car was halted and they were changing the ruined tyre. Gregory wondered if he should risk a shot with his rifle over the windscreen but decided that the car was bumping too badly for him to stand the least chance of scoring a hit. Next moment he regretted his decision as the Germans had completed their work and, jumping into their car, went on again.

The farmer settled down to the grim chase but it soon became apparent that his old Ford was not up to the job of catching the car that von Ziegler had stolen. From a lead of a mile the Germans drew ahead to a mile and a half and as they rounded a second bend, about three hundred feet above the river, the pursuing party saw something which greatly perturbed them. They now had a view right across a broad bend of the valley and they could see the distant line of the road on the far side of the great dip. A little cloud of dust immediately caught their attention; it came from four cars, all proceeding at the same pace and close together. None of them doubted for a minute that it was the Royal party, and the cars were only about four miles ahead of the Germans. Some members of the Royal party might be armed with automatics but it was most unlikely that they would have anything more lethal, whereas von Ziegler had a tommy-gun with him; if he managed to catch up the King and his ministers things might go very badly with them.

Resting his rifle on the top of the windscreen Gregory began to fire over it, but after wasting half a dozen rounds he gave up. It was quite impossible to get the Germans at that distance when both he and his target were in constant and erratic motion. He spoke urgently to Gussy, who held a short conversation with the farmer.

After a moment Gussy turned and shouted: ‘Yes. He says there is a road—or track, rather—which serves a few sheep-farms up in the hills ahead; it joins the road at the inner bend there and comes out on the far side of the spur. It’ll be a close thing, but if this old bus doesn’t jib at the gradients there’s just a chance that we might cut von Ziegler off.’

Right!’ yelled Gregory. ‘Tell him to take it.’

A mile further on they left the road and took the track which wound up into the mountains. It was only about six feet wide and its surface was absolutely appalling. Patches of loose shale alternated with stretches of bare earth intersected by deep
gulleys down which water from the melting snows was now trickling. In parts it was more like a river-bed than a highway. There were periods when they had to fight down their impatience as their speed was reduced to six miles an hour, but the old Ford stuck it gamely and climbed slope after slope until they reached the pass, where the track wound for about two miles between grassy hillocks.

Up there they had difficulty in keeping to the winding way, as they had reached cloud level and the misty wisps half-obscured the lonely scene making it seem utterly unreal, so that they all felt as though they were only dreaming this nightmare chase. It was very cold and their clothes were soon half-saturated with the damp, clinging mist; but at last they reached the end of the level stretch and began to descend on the far side of the spur.

This proved even worse than the climb as they slithered and skidded from turn to turn, often in considerable peril of their lives; but the farmer had been born and bred in these lonely, inhospitable mountains and was used to driving his rickety old bus along just such tracks in all weathers. His performance absolutely staggered his two passengers, who perpetually had their hearts in their mouths, but each time the car seemed within a second of hurtling over the unguarded precipice, which was always within a few feet of them, he managed to check it and bucket down to another hairpin bend until he finally brought them safely back on to the main road.

They glanced swiftly to right and left. The King’s party was out of sight but the Germans were streaking towards them less than a mile away. Gregory’s heart gave a bound when he saw that they had succeeded in intercepting the enemy, but he knew that without the farmer they could never have done it as they had achieved their object only by a matter of minutes.

Without waiting to be told the young Norwegian drew his car right across the centre of the road so that there was no more than three feet between its rear and the rock wall or between its bonnet and the precipice. The Germans could not possibly pass. Gregory and Gussy jumped out with their rifles and knelt down behind it, while the farmer, who had no weapon, ran to the side of the road and grabbed up a large piece of rock.

With a screech of brakes von Ziegler’s car pulled up ten yards away. Gregory had crawled under the Ford and in one swift glance from beneath it he saw that the airman was driving.
Instantly the car stopped his companion opened fire with a tommy-gun. The bullets spattered into the old Ford like lumps of hail bouncing on to the corrugated-iron roofing of a henhouse. Gussy gave a cry and, grabbing his shoulder, dropped his rifle. He had exposed himself too soon.

For a second there was silence, then Gregory fired from beneath the Ford. His bullet drilled a neat round hole in the unbreakable-glass windscreen of the German’s car and the man with the tommy-gun fell backwards spitting blood.

Unnoticed by the others the farmer had crept along the gully by the cliff-face, where a mound of outcrop gave him a little cover, until he was within six feet of the other car. Suddenly he sprang up and hurled his lump of rock. It saved von Ziegler’s life as he ducked back at the very second that Gregory fired again; while the rock, landing on the wheel of the car, first smashed it then fell into the airman’s lap. A second later an automatic which he must have obtained from one of the soldiers spat twice and the farmer clutched at his throat. Gregory saw the blood well up between the young Norwegian’s fingers before he uttered a gurgling cry and sank down on the heap of shale.

‘Now,’ thought Gregory, ‘it’s von Ziegler or myself.’ But he was mistaken. The third German had not been killed as the car sped out of the town; he was only wounded, and suddenly he came into action, leaning out of the back of the car to throw a hand-grenade.

It bounced and rolled until it came to rest near the rear of the Ford. Gussy was kneeling there, holding his injured shoulder, and Gregory knew that his friend might be blown to bits in a matter of seconds. Reversing his rifle he thrust it along under the car and knocked the hand-grenade away so that it rolled towards the cliff-face. Next instant it went off.

They were protected by the car from the flying pieces but the blast caught both of them. Gussy was knocked backwards in the roadway and Gregory was rolled sideways from beneath the car. The bomb, having exploded at the back of the Ford, had had the effect of driving it forward so that of its own accord it suddenly ran across the few feet of road. Its front wheels went right over the precipice but with a loud clang of metal on stone it came to rest hanging half over the gulf.

When Gregory picked himself up he saw that the explosion had knocked Gussy unconscious. Grabbing him by the coat
collar he dragged him back under cover of the rear end of the Ford, which was still on the road. But the German who had thrown the bomb had wrought better than he knew, as by blowing the Ford half over the cliff he had cleared the way for von Ziegler’s car.

Gregory heard the engine start into life. His head was still rocking but he seized his rifle, and as the car roared by he poured the remaining contents of the magazine into it. But it did not stop. It charged on in a wavering, zigzag course and Gregory remembered having seen the rock hurled by the young farmer come hurtling down on the steering-wheel. Snatching up the unconscious Gussy’s rifle, he fired after it, aiming for the petrol tank. His third was a lucky shot; the car limped on for another hundred yards then came to a halt. Springing to his feet he gave chase.

He knew that in doing so his life was hanging by a thread as now that he was running down the open road without any sort of cover one of the Germans might lean out of the stationary car at any second and shoot him; but his blood was up and he was determined to get von Ziegler or die in the attempt. Dodging from side to side and ducking as he ran, to make himself a more difficult target, he raced on. To his amazement no shots came at him, but when he was within fifty yards of the car von Ziegler got out of it. The airman held an automatic in his hand but he did not attempt to use it. Instead he took to his heels and ran.

Pulling up with a jerk Gregory raised his rifle and called on him to halt. Von Ziegler took no notice so he aimed at the middle of the airman’s back and gently squeezed the trigger. The rifle clicked but it did not go off; he pressed the trigger again and still there was no report. Jerking back the bolt he saw that the magazine was empty.

Instantly he set off in pursuit. A glance at von Ziegler’s car as he reached it showed him that both the other Germans were dead. One was slumped in the front seat, having been killed by the bullet that he had sent through the windscreen; the other lay sprawled across the back with his mouth hanging open, and Gregory knew that he must have finished him only a few minutes before when von Ziegler had driven past the wrecked Ford.

Jumping on to the running-board of the car Gregory hauled
aside the dead German in the front seat and pulled out the man’s tommy-gun; but its lightness told him what to expect. A swift examination of the magazine showed him that he had been right—that, too, was empty—and evidently that was why von Ziegler had not taken it.

The airman was now half a mile away, still pelting down the road with his automatic clutched in one swinging hand. Gregory wondered how many bullets remained in the weapon. When one is unarmed it is no picnic to go after a man who has a gun, but Gregory knew that if the adventurous Air Attaché once got away he would get in touch with some more of his Fifth Column people before many hours were past, and that might cost King Haakon his life that night or on the following day; so it never even occurred to him to give up the chase.

Instead, he stripped off his overcoat so that he could run faster and, picking up the empty rifle, set out at a steady, loping trot. He was not a crack runner but he was tough as nails and he felt confident that if he husbanded his strength he would be able to wear the German down.

It was getting on for six o’clock but Gregory knew that there was little fear of his losing von Ziegler in the darkness, as up there in central Norway at this season of the year there were still many hours of daylight to go.

Had his mind been less occupied he might have admired the scenery, since it was truly magnificent. The great mountains swept away on either side of the valley, their lofty peaks shrouded in mist and snow. Many of the slopes were fringed with pine-woods and down in the bottom of the valley, where the river curved like a silver ribbon hundreds of feet below, the young green of spring was already showing in the herbage that fringed the river-banks.

As it was, he thought of nothing but the bent figure ahead of him pounding along the twisting road. Twice he lost sight of it as it shot round a corner, and his only fear was that von Ziegler might halt and ambush him from behind one of the spurs round which the snaky road curved every half-mile or so. But apparently the German’s only idea for the moment was to try to outdistance his pursuer.

After turning the second corner there was a longer stretch of road ahead and Gregory saw that he was gaining on the airman. He had decreased the distance between them by several hundred yards and he thanked his stars that he had had the fore-thought
to abandon his overcoat, as the skirts of von Ziegler’s coat were flapping round his legs.

Gregory’s breath was coming in gasps but he was a long way from being beaten yet and he saw that von Ziegler was now glancing anxiously over his shoulder from time to time as he ran. Deciding to try to end the business Gregory put on a spurt and in another half-mile he had come up to within fifty yards of his quarry. Von Ziegler glanced over his shoulder again, ran on for about ten yards, then suddenly halted and swung round. Gregory knew that the next second spelt life or death.

He was staring right down the barrel of von Ziegler’s pistol and decreasing his distance from it every moment. He counted three as von Ziegler aimed and suddenly bounded sideways. The pistol flashed but the bullet sped harmlessly past its mark. ‘One,’ thought Gregory; and recovering his balance he jumped again. ‘Two,’ as the pistol cracked again—and again von Ziegler missed. ‘I wonder how many more bullets he’s got.’

But von Ziegler did not fire a third shot. As Gregory lurched back to the centre of the road he saw that the airman had turned and taken to his heels once more. Now there were only twenty yards between them.

Gregory’s spurt and the great effort of springing from side to side had taken it out of him; he was sweating now and panting like a grampus. For about five minutes the German kept his lead, but Gregory had reverted to his old loping trot and gradually he drew ahead again.

Fifteen yards—twelve yards—ten yards—eight yards—five yards—three yards. Every moment Gregory thought that von Ziegler would swing round and fire at him again; this time point-blank and with little chance of missing. Yet he dared not act prematurely. When only two yards separated them he lifted his empty rifle and, gripping it by the stock and the barrel, swung it up above his head; then with all his force he hurled it at the back of von Ziegler’s neck. The rifle caught the German right across the shoulders; his automatic went off in his hand as he staggered and pitched forward on his face. Next second Gregory had flung himself right on top of him with a triumphant gasp.

For two minutes they lay there struggling in the roadway. Von Ziegler was tough, but Gregory was even tougher. By twisting the airman’s wrist he made him drop his automatic, then he got his hands upon his throat.

It looked as though von Ziegler was finished. But suddenly he kneed Gregory in the groin. The stab of pain forced Gregory to relax his grip, and the agile German wriggled from under him. Both of them struck out at each other’s face as they lay for a second side by side, but both landed only glancing blows. Then, as though by mutual consent, they rolled apart and staggered to their feet.