Part 12 (1/2)

He had no other plan, for which reason he had told the guide not to wait more than an hour. He himself was prepared to stay there all night, and all the next day, if necessary.

It was obviously not much use standing outside, so he went in through big revolving doors to find himself in a reception hall of some size, furnished with the customary appointments. The office, with its counter and rack of keys, was at the far end near the foot of a broad flight of stairs. Near it was a cloakroom. On either side were doors, one leading into a lounge and the other to the dining-room. Near the door of the lounge, a lift was operated by a uniformed attendant. The usual chairs and settees, with occasional tables near them, were arranged round the walls to leave an open s.p.a.ce in the centre.

Sitting about were, perhaps, a dozen men, alone or in pairs, some talking, others reading newspapers. So much Biggles took in at a glance.

He walked over to a settee near the lift, intending to sit and watch it for a while. It was occupied by one man, who sat at one end half hidden by a newspaper in which he appeared to be engrossed. Tobacco smoke spiralled up from behind the printed pages.

Paying no attention to him, Biggles sat down in a position from which he could keep an eye on the stairs, the lift, the lounge and the dining-room.

He was feeling for his cigarette case when his companion on the settee lowered his newspaper. His attention being elsewhere, he did not notice this until a voice spoke. He paused imperceptibly in the act of taking a cigarette from his case. Then he turned his head, to meet the sardonic eyes of Erich von Stalhein.

'Good evening, Bigglesworth. I was hoping you'd look in.'

Biggles finished lighting his cigarette before he answered. He needed a moment to recover. 'It was nice of you to come along,' he replied. 'Dear me! How you do get about.'

'You're quite a traveller yourself, you know,' came back von Stalhein suavely. 'On this occasion, however, I fear you have given yourself a fruitless journey. You were, I presume, looking for a young man named Ross?'

'What gave you that idea?' questioned Biggles.

'Call it instinct,' answered von Stalhein, smiling. 'It pains me to disappoint you, but I'm afraid you won't find Ross here.'

'No?'

'No. He left here about an hour ago. By now he should be many miles from Berlin.'

Biggles' eyes searched the face of his old enemy, and he decided that he was telling the truth, for the simple reason that there was no need for him to lie. Had Ross still been in the hotel von Stalhein could have said so without risk of losing him.

'I'm sorry about that,' said Biggles evenly. 'Still, it was worth coming here if only to have a word with you. We so seldom have time to compare notes.'

'Surely that's your fault,' protested von Stalhein. 'I wonder you don't exhaust yourself rus.h.i.+ng about the world as you do.'

'I like rus.h.i.+ng about,' a.s.serted Biggles, who was thinking fast. 'It keeps me alive.'

'One day it will defeat that object,' said von Stalhein gravely. 'Indeed, it may have already done so. By the way, Bigglesworth, you have disappointed me.'

'I'm sorry about that. In what way?'

'I always understood that in your country it is considered bad form to wear a club or regimental tie to which one is not ent.i.tled.'

Biggles fingered his tie, laughing softly. 'Yours looked so attractive that I succ.u.mbed to temptation. I knew, I must admit, that it was rather a” er a” exclusive.' He became serious. 'Tell me, why did you decide to join a club, an organisation, which at one time I am sure you would have regarded with abhorrence?'

Von Stalhein sighed. 'We are not always masters of our destiny'

'That's where you're wrong,' argued Biggles. 'You could be yourself if you could get that grievance bug out of your brain. Do you think you are helping Germany by what you are doing?'

Von Stalhein stiffened. 'That's my business.'

'It seems a pity,' murmured Biggles. 'One day we must go into it, and I guarantee to convince you that tea tastes better on my side of the fence.

I can't stop now. Don't forget I have to find Ross.'

'You will have to go a long, long way.'

'That will be nothing new to me,' averred Biggles. Actually, he hardly knew what he was saying, for his brain was occupied with something very different. He had been playing for time, and so, for some reason not apparent, had von Stalhein.

Biggles had been watching the movements of the lift attendant who, from time to time, when his services were not required, did odd jobs, such as folding newspapers thrown down carelessly. He now began to empty the ashtrays on nearby tables into a bowl which he kept handy for the purpose. Biggles had not failed to notice, too, that von Stalhein's eyes went constantly to the main entrance, as if he was expecting someone.

When, through the revolving doors, marched a Russian patrol, he understood.

'Well, think over what I've said,' murmured Biggles, reaching casually for the newspaper that lay between them. 'I shall have to be going.

Here's your paper.' He flicked the journal into von Stalhein's face and in the same movement vaulted over the back of the settee. Two steps took him to the lift. He slammed the gate and pressed the first b.u.t.ton that his finger found. Von Stalhein had moved almost as quickly, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The lift shot upwards.

Biggles counted the floors as they flashed past. The lift stopped at the third. He stepped out. A long, carpeted corridor ran to left and right.

To the right, a man in a dressing-gown, towels over his arm, was crossing the pa.s.sage, apparently going to a bathroom. Biggles walked along, his eyes on the door of the vacated room. It stood ajar.

Just inside was a hat and coat stand. Several garments hung on it. They included a Russian officer's cap and greatcoat.

He lifted them off and strode on to the end of the corridor. Another pa.s.sage ran at right-angles. Half-way down it a red light glowed. Putting on the cap and coat as he walked he went on to it and found, as he expected, a door under the red light marked 'Fire Exit.'

Opening the door he saw a narrow stone stairway spiralling downwards. He went down.

The stairway, he knew, was bound to end at the ground floor. It did, in a stone pa.s.sage with doors on either side, from behind which came the rattle of crockery. A man, white clad, wearing a chef's tall hat, came out of one of the doors, singing to himself. He looked at Biggles curiously, but said nothing.

'I've lost my way,' said Biggles apologetically. 'Where is the nearest exit?'

The man pointed. 'It is the staff entrance,' he explained. Danke,'

thanked Biggles, and strolled on to the door.

It opened into a dingy little side street. As he stepped out he heard whistles blowing and orders being shouted. Two soldiers came running round the corner. Biggles, already walking towards them, continued to do so, not daring to turn. The men steadied their pace as they pa.s.sed him, saluting. Biggles returned their salute and went on without a backward glance.

Presently, to his chagrin, he found himself in the Zindenplatzer, with the main hotel entrance twenty yards to his right. Von Stalhein was standing on the steps, gesticulating as he spoke to several uniformed men. Biggles turned the other way. He would have done so in any case, as it was the direction of the corner where he had left his guide. He found the entrance to the bierhaus and, turning in, saw his man sitting alone at a small table with a gla.s.s of beer in front of him. There were several other men there, mostly soldiers, but their attention was on a girl at the end of the room, singing at a piano.

Biggles touched his guide on the arm. At first he was not recognised, and the man started guiltily. But when recognition came the man moved in such haste that he nearly knocked his beer over.

'Let's get along,' said Biggles quietly. 'I'm afraid I've started something at the hotel.'

The man needed no persuasion. It was clear that he did not want to be involved. Without a word he went out into the street and hurried along, with Biggles beside him, until they came to a less frequented street, into which they turned. Several cars, travelling at high speed, overtook them, but none stopped. Once they met a police patrol on foot. The leader saluted. Biggles acknowledged.

More narrow streets and the guide turned into an iron gate Biggles recognised it as the one by which they had entered the Soviet Zone. There were, he suspected, from the length of the halls, two houses, built back-to-back. Through them they reached the British Zone.

'Take off those clothes,' said the guide in an agitated voice. 'We may meet a British patrol. Without giving you a chance to prove who you are they may hurry you back into the Soviet Zone. Russians may be watching, too. We are still too close to be safe.'

Biggles lost no time in divesting himself of his borrowed uniform.