'I'm quite sure you didn't,' returned von Stalhein, with a sort of grim humour. His eyes were now looking past Biggles' shoulder.

Biggles knew why. 'If you're expecting friends, we won't detain you.'

'As a matter of fact, I am rather busy,' said von Stalhein. 'We shall meet again, no doubt.'

'I have quite a lot to do myself,' murmured Biggles.

'So I imagine,' came back von Stalhein dryly. And with that he walked on briskly.

Biggles made for the exit. 'Pity about that,' was all he said to Ginger.

Ginger was watching von Stalhein over his shoulder. 'He's gone to the Police Bureau.'

'Of course. We've got about fifteen seconds to get out of this.'

Outside the building Biggles looked up and down. Not a taxi was in sight, but a number of private cars were parked on the opposite side of the road, which, at this point, being a terminus, widened to a broad area.

Without speaking he walked over to them. The doors of the first one were locked. The same with the second. It was a case of third time lucky.

The door of the next car, a big saloon, swung open. 'In you get,' he told Ginger crisply.

Ginger, his eyes on the exit of the building opposite, scrambled in.

As Biggles dropped into his seat and slammed the door, von Stalhein, with three police officers, appeared in att.i.tudes of urgency. They looked up and down. By the time they had turned their attention to the cars Biggles had his engine running. This, inevitably, called attention to it. The police started forward, but the car was now moving. 'Hold your hat,'

warned Biggles, and the car shot forward.

Ginger saw a policeman dash back into the hall. He pa.s.sed the information.

'Gone to the phone,' guessed Biggles. 'I'm afraid we've started something.'

'We shan't get far in a stolen car,' declared Ginger.

'We shouldn't have got anywhere had we waited for a taxi,' Biggles told him. As the car raced on he continued whimsically: 'There's one comforting thought when one is engaged on a job of this sort. One can do anything without making matters worse. From the moment we got the wrong side of the Iron Curtain we were booked for a high jump if we were caught. So the worst that can happen to us now is no worse than it was an hour ago.'

'An hour ago we had a chance of getting home,' reminded Ginger cuttingly, as Biggles swerved to avoid a careless cyclist.

'We've still got a chance.'

'I wouldn't call it a bright one.'

'Maybe we can do something to brighten it,' said Biggles lightly. 'Think how dull life would be if everything was always bright.' 'What foul luck we had to b.u.mp into von Stalhein.'

'Just one of those things, laddie. You can't expect jam on your bread all the time.'

On the outskirts of the city a policeman appeared in the middle of the road, arm raised. He realised just in time that this will not stop a car if the driver does nothing about it. Wisely, he gave it right of way. A bullet from his pistol whanged against some metal part of the vehicle.

After that Biggles went only a short distance. 'I think that's far enough,' he observed, and running the car against the kerb in a busy street, got out. 'Cars wear number plates,' he remarked. 'Fortunately, pedestrians don't have to, so we shall be safer on our feet.'

Ginger, too, got out. 'Where are you going to make for?' he asked, as they turned their backs on the car.

'I was just wondering the same thing,' replied Biggles. 'I think for a start we'll go back to the hotel.'

Ginger pulled up dead. 'Are you out of your mind?' he cried. 'Probably,'

answered Biggles sadly.

CHAPTER VI.

Money Talks.

For a little while they walked on, threading their way along the busy pavements. At last Ginger's patience broke down.

'What's the idea of going back to the hotel?' he demanded. 'Inside an hour the police will have contacted every hotel in the city to find out where we stayed last night.'

'That's how I reckoned it,' agreed Biggles. 'It gives us an hour to do what I have in mind.'

'And what's that?'

'Have a chat with Stresser a" if he's still there.'

'Stresser! Why not give ourselves up at the police station and have done with it?'

'We may arrive there eventually.'

'But Stresser! That's asking for it.'

'Possibly, but not necessarily. The point is, Stresser is the only man we know who may know where Ross has gone. If we lose touch with Stresser we've lost the trail. In a word, he is now a vital connecting link a" the only one we have, in fact.'

Ginger became mildly sarcastic. 'What makes you think he'll tell you what he knows?'

Biggles smiled. 'A feeling in my bones. I have in my pocket an argument which seldom fails with his type.'

'A gun?'

'Nothing so crude. Something much more genteel and effective.' 'What, then?'

'Money. If, as they say, money talks, a big wad can fairly scream.'

'But the man's a Communist!'

'So what? I have yet to meet a Communist who wasn't interested in money.

It's not having any that makes him a Communist. He wants some, and the only way he can think of to get it is, as he hopes, by getting his hands into the pockets of those who have.'

'Communists hate capitalists.'

'Of course. But they'd all be capitalists if they knew how. I know one.

Apart from being a bit cracked, he's not a bad sort. How does he spend his time? I'll tell you. Filling in football coupons. For fun? Not on your life. He's hoping to get a lot of money quickly without working for it. The day he wins a big prize, if he ever does, he'll stop being a Communist. He'll be all against the Reds for fear they take his money off him. I'll wager Stresser became a Communist because he thought there was easy money in it. Now he finds there isn't. He as good as told me that he's fed up with the game because he isn't paid enough. That means he'll switch to anyone who offers him more. You watch it.

Anyhow, it's worth a chance.'

'It's taking a pretty big chance.'

'If you don't take chances, you don't take anything.' Biggles raised a finger to a cruising taxi and named the hotel as his destination.

'What comes after the hotel?' inquired Ginger, as the taxi threaded its way through the traffic.

'We'll lie low while we think things over. A little foresight has provided us with a hide-out for use in just such a situation as this.'

A couple of minutes later the cab dropped them at the hotel. The proprietor was still tidying the vestibule. Biggles asked him if Herr Stresser had left. The man said no. He thought he was still in his room.

Biggles went on up the stairs. A tap on the door of number twenty-one caused it to be opened by the man they were looking for. 'Oh, it's you,'

he said, rather uncomfortably.

'Were you expecting someone else?' asked Biggles.

'You never know who's going to call on you in this business,' grumbled the man.

'How right you are,' murmured Biggles. 'May we come in?' 'What do you want?'

'Before I answer that question we'd better have the door shut,' said Biggles quietly.

Followed by Ginger, he went in and closed the door behind them. 'Now,' he went on, facing Stresser, who was by this time looking somewhat alarmed, 'could you use some money?'

Stresser stared. 'M-money?' he stammered. 'How much money?' 'Say, a thousand West Marks.'

The German's jaw fell. 'What for?' he blurted. Then suspicion leapt into his eyes. 'Who are you?' he asked nervously, flicking his tongue over his lips. He dropped into a chair.

'We're British Intelligence agents,' Biggles told him bluntly. 'All right a" sit still. We're not going to hurt you. You complained to me that you weren't paid enough for what you were doing. I can put that right.'

Biggles showed his wad.

Expressions of fear, doubt and avarice, chased each other across the German's face. At the finish fear dominated the rest, and Ginger knew why. Stresser was afraid that the offer was a trap set by his own employers.

'Well, what about it?' asked Biggles impatiently. 'I've no time to waste.' He toyed with the roll of notes suggestively.

Stresser's eyes glistened. The notes seemed to fascinate him. 'How do I know you're what you say you are?'

'You'll have to take that on trust,' Biggles told him. 'You wouldn't expect me, being what I am, to walk about this city with proofs of ident.i.ty in my pocket?'

'No,' conceded Stresser.

'Then make up your mind. If you feel inclined to talk you can pull out, with the money in your pocket, and be in Western Germany in an hour or two. You'd be safe there.'

Stresser drew a deep breath. 'What do you want to know?' 'Where have they taken your new recruit, Ross?'

'So you were following us?'

'Of course. But you're wasting time. Where is Ross?'

Stresser cleared his throat. 'He's on his way to Korea.' It was Biggles'

turn to stare.

Suspicion clouded his eyes. 'Korea? What are you trying to give me?'

'Well, not exactly Korea. Actually, its Manchuria. But it's to do with the Korean war.'

'What's the name of the place?'

aratsen.'

'Did you tell Ross he was going to Kratsen?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'He kept asking where he was going, so I told him to keep him quiet. It was too late for him to back out, so it didn't matter.'

'Did you tell him where Kratsen was?'

'I told him it was in Poland.'

'Why lie about it?'

Stresser shrugged. 'One has to lie in this dirty game a" you know that.'

'Is Ross on his way to Kratsen now?'

'Well, not exactly.'

'What do you mean by that? Don't talk in riddles.'

'Well, he should have gone direct to Kratsen, but he was a bit difficult, so he's been allowed to make a call first.'

'What was he difficult about?'

'He wanted to see a friend of his.'