WITH DOVER BETWEEN.

Ashburton Guardian, Volume 63, Issue 271, 26 August 1943, Page 6

WITH DOVER BETWEEN.

SERIAL STORY.

A Secret Service Thriller.

(Copyright).

(By COLIN HOPE).

CHAPTER XXV. UNDERGROUND.COM BAT. For the split second in which Lorbrook held the man who called himself Smith, he felt that supreme satisfaction of having his hands upon the enemy. Lorbrook, as a soldier, had known, many times and in several forms, combat with the same breed. There was the intense concentration of mind on the rifle shot.; the excitement of spraying bullets from an automatic weapon; the dash forward with the bayonet and the hurling of a grenade had their own special thrills, but always with these there was the sub-conscious knowledge that the enemy might prove elusive. Results could hot always be observed, but with your quarry in your hands, there was no doubt of accuracy, and with physical contact 'there came a strange upsurge of primitive strength. Yet in that moment, when tremendous instincts within him urged him to kill, he checked himself. The thought that the woman in the scene would pay the price rose superior to other impulse. He let the Hun fall. Mingled with ft Teutonic curse came the sound of Benny Conners’ voice. “Hold him! Leave the rest to me!” a Conners had taken excellent advantage of the diversion created by Lorbrook. With that inborn genius for cooperation in a tight corner which made Benny a priceless partner to the Secret Service man, he had darted along the shadow of the wall and had reached the so-called Barton just as he tired the warning shot. Contact was achieved by the toe of Benny’s right foot in the pit of Barton’s stomach — not a form of combat suited to the ring, but this was a fight for life, and foot to middle was the only form of attack which, in the flash of opportunity, seemed likely to be effective. He was right. The effect was beyond doubt. Barton yelled and doubled up in pain. If Lorbrook had held Smith, and had rammed his square, blonde head against the wall, the moment for escape would have arrived. But Smith had not been held, and, as became a former storm-trooper and ornament of the Gestapo, the German had presence of mind. In a second, he had put himself in a commanding position, pistol in hand, back to the door. “No move! Not one!” he cried, forgetting the diploma he had taken, in a Rhineland academy; for the excellence of his English. “I shoot to kill,” he added, and moistened his lips at the thought. His beady eyes. Were taking in the situation, passing quickly from the baffled Whenbawne to Jane, serenely calm in this squalid scene of violence, thence to the groaning Barton, to rest fiercely upon Lorbrook and Conners. Hi§ mind was working swiftly, framing an order for a difficult situation. Suddenly his ear, sharpened to that fine degree of perception which danger alone can give, detected the faintest noise. The beady eyes again made a swift glance round the room, this time counting those present. Yes, they were all there, in front of him. Then what was that sound he heard slightly behind him, to the left. He dare not turn, nor would it have helped him had he done so, for at that moment the substantial door was pushed open with a degree of force more than sufficient for the purpose of those on the outer side of it. As it swung it caught Smith’s back, so that he fell forward on his face, and a shot from his pistol ricochetted from the wall and almost hit Whenbawne. It was the last shot either Smith or Barton were to hear, unless those King’s enemies who are accorded a soldier’s death on the- rifle range in the moat of the Tower of London, hear the volley that puts an end to the career of military agents, which the two ultimately confessed thmselves to be.

But their capture was not effected the moment the cannoning door sent Smith crashing to the floor. Barton, as a man who lives dangerously, found instantly a desperate courage. He leapt forward, hurling himself against the three new-comers near the door. Had he paused to pick up hi* pistol he might have done some injury, but his object was to give Smith a chance to regain his feet before the intruders could secure him. To that extent he succeeded. Smith rose, and though his firearm was beyond reach, he struck out wildly, offering Lorbrook the satisfaction which he had denied himself earlier. With a sledge-hammer blow to the chin, Lorbrook sent the Hun spinning into the arms of the leader of the intruding party. “I think we can call it a day,” the leader remarked quietly. ‘‘The other chap lias been collected, I see.” Still holding Smith, he turned his head towards the door where two men in plain clothes, but obviously policemen, were holding the exhausted Barton. “A very timely arrival, Fenston,” said Lorbrook a little breathlessly, as he straightened his tie. ‘‘Many thanks, and congratulations.” ‘‘So it is Mr Lorbrook,” replied the other. “I hoped so. This light doesn’t help identification, but that punch seemed unmistakable.”

Lorbrook did not prolong the conversation at that moment, but he understood Fenston’s remark about the punch, although it was a long time since they had sparred together. Conners was already at Fenston’s side helping to secure Smith, while it was characteristic of Whenbawne that he should be making distinctly sympathetic inquiries about the condition of Barton, safely secured to the arm of the policemen, a picture of mingled arrogance, frustration and discomfort. (To be Continued.)