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been attempted and the guilty parties brought from Dachau to this prison. Of course it might be

that this was some execution that had nothing to do with Dachau. Shootings were frequent in

Nazi prisons, all refugees agreed. Perhaps they shot people every night at twenty-two o'clock,

German time!

After the most careful thought, Lanny decided that the Nazis had him nailed down; no

chance of wriggling out. He had come to Germany to get Freddi Robin, and the picture-dealing

had been only a blind. He had had a truck brought from France—they would be sure he had

meant to take Freddi out in that truck! And there was Jerry—with two one-thousand-mark

bills which Lanny had handed him! Also with the passport of Cyprien Santoze, having the picture

of Freddi Robin substituted! Would they catch the meaning of that?

Or would Jerry perhaps get away? He would be walking about, passing the appointed spot,

waiting for the prisoner and for Lanny to appear. Would the Nazis be watching and arrest

anybody who passed? It was an important question, for if Jerry escaped he'd surely go to the

American consul and report Lanny as missing. Would he tell the consul the whole truth? He

might or he might not; but anyhow the consul would be making inquiries as to the son of

Budd Gunmakers.

VI

More drum-rolls and more shooting! Good God, were they killing people all night in German

prisons? Apparently so; for that was the way Lanny spent the night, listening to volleys, long or

short, loud or dim. He couldn't tell whether they were inside or out. Did they have a special

execution chamber, or did they just shoot you anywhere you happened to be? And what did they

do with all the blood? Lanny imagined that he smelled it, and the fumes of gunpowder; but

maybe he was mistaken, for the stink of a rusty old slop-pail can be extremely pungent in a

small cell. An art expert had seen many pictures of executions, ancient and modern, so he

knew what to imagine. Sometimes they blindfolded the victims, sometimes they made them turn

their backs, sometimes they just put an, automatic to the base of their skulls, the medulla; that

was said to be merciful, and certainly it was quick. The Nazis cared nothing about mercy, but

they surely did about speed.

Every now and then a door clanged, and Lanny thought: "They are taking somebody to his

doom." Now and then he heard footsteps, and thought: "Are they coming or going?" He

wondered about the bodies. Did they have stretchers? Or did they just drag them? He imagined

that he heard dragging. Several times there were screams; and once a man going by his door,

arguing, shouting protests. What was the matter with them? He was as good a Nazi as anyone

in Germany. They were making a mistake. It was eine gottverdammte Schande— and so on. That

gave Lanny something new to think about, and he sat for a long time motionless on his straw

pallet, with his brain in a whirl.

Maybe all this hadn't anything to do with Freddi and a jailbreak! Maybe nothing had been

discovered at all! It was that "Second Revolution" that Hugo had been so freely predicting!

Hugo had been shot, not because he had tried to bribe a Dachau guard, but because he was on

the list of those who were actively working on behalf of Ernst Rohm and the other malcontents

of the Sturmabteilung! In that case the shootings might be part of the putting down of that

movement. It was significant that Lanny's captors had been men of the Schutzstaffel, the "elite

guard," Hitler's own chosen ones. They were putting their rivals out of business; "liquidating"

those who had been demanding more power for the S.A. Chief of Staff!

But then, a still more startling possibility—the executions might mean the success of the rebels.

The fact that Hugo Behr had been killed didn't mean that the S.S. had had their way

everywhere. Perhaps the S.A. were defending themselves successfully! Perhaps Stadelheim had

been taken, as the Bastille had been taken in the French revolution, and the persons now being

shot were those who had put Lanny in here! At any moment the doors of his cell might be

thrown open and he might be welcomed with comradely rejoicing!

Delirious imaginings; but then the whole thing was a delirium. To lie there in the darkness

with no way to count the hours and nothing to do but speculate about a world full of maniacal

murderers. Somebody was killing somebody, that alone was certain, and it went on at intervals

without any sign of ending. Lanny remembered the French revolution, and the unhappy

aristocrats who had lain in their cells awaiting their turn to be loaded into the tumbrils and

carted to the guillotine. This kind of thing was said to turn people's hair gray over night; Lanny

wondered if it was happening to him. Every time he heard footsteps he hoped it was somebody

coming to let him out; but then he was afraid to have the footsteps halt, because it might be a

summons to the execution chamber!

He tried to comfort himself. He had had no part in any conspiracy of the S.A. and surely they