Part 6 (2/2)

'Yes. I now go back to Berlin for further orders.' Stresser started to walk on, but a thought seemed to strike him. 'Which way are you going?'

he asked.

'We are to wait here for the time being.'

'So. Ah, well. I may see you on the Berlin plane.'

'We'll look out for you if we go that way,' promised Biggles.

Stresser walked on. But he was not out of sight when the proprietor came back and, picking up his broom, continued his task of sweeping the floor.

Biggles moved towards the object Ross had dropped. But he was just too late to retrieve it. It had fallen on that part of the floor which had already been swept, but the hotel keeper spotted it, and with a deft flip of his broom it was in a dustpan.

Ginger, whose nerves were on edge, could have cried out. 'Hark!'

exclaimed Biggles, raising a warning finger.

The proprietor stopped what he was doing to look at him. 'What is it?'

'I thought I heard someone call out in the kitchen.'

The proprietor put his dustpan on the reception desk, rested the broom against it, and then turned towards the rear of the building. The instant he was out of sight, Biggles'

fingers were in the dustpan, turning over the dirt, match sticks and cigarette ends it contained. An exclamation of satisfaction told Ginger that he had found what he was looking for. Without looking at it, Biggles put it in his pocket.

'What is it?' asked Ginger.

'No time to look now,' snapped Biggles. 'Jump to it. We've got to get back to the airport.

Our only hope is to find Ross there. Every second counts.' So saying he slammed on his hat, s.n.a.t.c.hed up his bag, and, striding through the open door to the pavement, looked up and down for a taxi.

None was in sight.

'Are you sure Ross is flying?' queried Ginger.

'No, I'm not sure,' replied Biggles crisply, 'but Stresser's remark about the weather suggested that he was. Come on.'

Together they hastened down the street towards a broad thoroughfare that crossed it at the end. Here there was a good deal of traffic, and after a brief delay they were able to pick up a cab. Biggles ordered the driver to take them to the airport.

'What's the drill when we get there?' inquired Ginger in a low voice.

'If we can't get on the same plane as Ross we might still be in time to see which way he goes,' replied Biggles.

'What was the thing he dropped?'

'A sc.r.a.p of paper rolled into a ball.' Biggles took the object from his pocket, unrolled it, and smoothed it on his knee.

Ginger saw that only one word had been written. The word was 'Kratsen.'

His eyes went to Biggles' face. 'Does that mean anything to you?' he asked.

'Not a thing.'

'Looks as if it might be the name of a place.'

'If it is, I haven't the remotest idea where it is on the map. It could be the name of anything, or a person. One thing is certain. Whatever the word stands for it must have meant something vital to Ross. He must have been pushed for time when he wrote it, or he would have said more. He had time for just one word, and that's it. Pity we couldn't have spoken to him; but it's no use thinking about that now. We can't expect the luck all our own way. We'll deal with the mystery later. Here we are.'

The car was now pulling up at the airport, outside the main entrance.

Biggles jumped out, paid the fare, and walked on into the big booking-hall, looking around anxiously. It was, it seemed, the busy hour, and there were a lot of people about, both coming and going.

From the concrete ap.r.o.n beyond came the clatter of aero motors. A big Berlin transport was discharging its pa.s.sengers. Biggles paid no attention to them, his efforts being concentrated on finding Ross and his new escort.

It was Ginger who at last spotted them. 'There they go,' he said shortly, inclining his head towards a barrier through which the men they sought were at that moment pa.s.sing.

Biggles strode to the gate, but not having a ticket was not allowed to go through; so all he and Ginger could do was stare at the retreating figures as they walked towards a twin-engined pa.s.senger plane that was clearly on the point of taking off.

'Call him!' urged Ginger desperately.

'Daren't risk it,' muttered Biggles. 'If we call attention to ourselves here, we've had it.

The place will be stiff with snoopers.'

'What machine is that they're making for?'

'An L 1-2. Russian job. Crib of the Douglas.'

'Find out where it's bound for.'

Biggles turned to the man in charge of the barrier and put the question.

But at that moment the man slammed the gate, drowning his words, and walked out on to the concrete. The engines of the aircraft roared.

Biggles stared at the machine as it began to move. There was nothing he could do. 'We'

ve lost him,' he muttered bitterly. Ginger had never seen his face so grim.

Helpless, they watched the machine take off. Then Biggles said: 'Let's go to the inquiry office and see what we can learn there.' He turned away abruptly, and in doing so collided with one of the several pa.s.sengers of the Berlin plane who were now leaving the Customs office.

'Sorry,' apologised Biggles. The word seemed to die on his lips as he found himself looking into the eyes of the last man he expected to see there. It was Erich von Stalhein.

For an instant, the expression on the German's face made it clear that his astonishment was as great as Biggles. But he had for long been trained in the hard school of experience, and he recovered his equanimity quickly. 'Good morning, Bigglesworth,' he said suavely. 'I hardly expected to see you here.'

Biggles smiled faintly. 'I certainly didn't expect to see you, either,'

he admitted.

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