'What was his name?'

'Macdonald. I brought him out some time ago.'

'I gather he isn't at Kratsen?'

'Not yet.'

'Where is he?'

'In the Soviet Zone of Berlin.'

'Doing what?'

'Broadcasting.'

'Propaganda?'

'Of course.'

Biggles' face remained expressionless. 'So at this moment Ross is on his way to Berlin to see Macdonald?'

'Yes.'

'How long will he stay there?'

'I don't know. One day perhaps. Perhaps a week. It depends. But afterwards he'll go on to Kratsen. I expect Macdonald will go with him.

He must be about finished in Berlin.'

'What's going on at Kratsen?'

'Broadcasting. There's a new radio station there. Men are made to broadcast to the United Nations Forces in Korea, saying what a good time they're having.'

Ginger could now see daylight. He felt sure that Stresser was telling the truth. He had heard of such broadcasts.

Biggles' eyes were still on Stresser. 'Suppose Ross refuses to broadcast?'

Stresser shrugged.

'One last question,' said Biggles curtly. 'Where will Ross stay in Berlin? It will be in the Soviet Zone, of course?'

'Yes. The Hotel Prinz Karl, in the Zindenplatzer. I've stayed there myself sometimes. It's one of the regular places, like this.'

Ginger was looking at Biggles. His face, now set in hard lines, seemed to have aged suddenly. That the information Stresser had given him had shocked him severely was plain.

'Did you tell Ross what was in store for him?' Biggles asked Stresser.

'No. I thought it might depress him.'

'That was considerate of you,' sneered Biggles. He tossed the roll of notes on the table. '

All right, that's all,' he said. 'My advice to you is get out of this country, and keep out.

Try to double-cross me and I'll remember it if we ever meet again.' With that he turned on his heel and left the room.

Outside, in the corridor, he turned for a moment to face Ginger.

'Manchuria, of all places, ' he breathed. 'I wasn't thinking of anything outside Europe. Poor Ross.

He'll think we've forsaken him.'

'But we haven't,' protested Ginger.

'Not on your life,' grated Biggles.

'Stresser was telling the truth?'

'I'm pretty sure of it, otherwise he needn't have mentioned Macdonald.

But come on, let'

s get out of this place for a start.'

They went on down the stairs and into the street. The proprietor did not speak to them, and they did not speak to him. But five minutes later, from the end of the road, when Ginger looked back, he saw a car pull up outside the hotel. Some policemen alighted busily and went in. 'We cut it fine. I've an idea Stresser has left it a bit late,' he told Biggles. 'If the police find that money on him, he's had it.'

'I shan't lose any sleep on that account,' rejoined Biggles caustically, and strode on.

'You know where you're going, I hope?' queried Ginger.

'I made a point of studying a map of the city before we left home,'

answered Biggles. '

You'd better not walk with me. The police will be looking for two men.

Drop behind a bit.' He walked on, keeping to the main streets, where traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian, was most congested.

Twenty minutes later, after crossing a bridge over what Ginger took to be the River Moldau, they were in what was clearly the old quarter of the city. A fine drizzle of rain was now falling again. It did nothing to brighten the aspect of rows of houses that were obviously of great age.

There were some small shops. Some of the goods offered in them looked as ancient as the houses. Ginger had no idea of where they were, but Biggles seemed to know, although more than once he looked up at street names on corner houses.

There was very little traffic now, and what few people were about hurried along under dripping umbrellas.

At last Biggles waited for Ginger to join him. 'This is the street,' he said and, going on a short distance, turned into a drab little shop which carried over the door a board with the name Johann Smasrik, in faded paint. The establishment appeared, from the things in the dingy window, to be something between a jobbing tailor's and a second-hand clothes store. A bell clanged as he opened the door, to be greeted by the warm, sickly smell of ironing.

Ginger closed the door behind them and turned to find that they were being regarded by a mild-looking little man of late middle age, who peered at them over an old pair of steel-rimmed gla.s.ses balanced on the end of his nose. There seemed to be something wrong with his figure, and as he put down the hot iron with which he had been working, and turned towards them, it could be seen that he was deformed, one shoulder being higher than the other.

Everything about him, his threadbare clothes and his surroundings, spoke of extreme poverty and a dreary existence. Wherefore Ginger's first emotion was one of pity.

The man was still looking at his visitors questioningly. 'Do you speak German?' asked Biggles in that language, his left hand holding his lapel.

Va, mein Herr.'

Biggles went on. 'The weather is very unsettled.'

The man agreed. 'It is always raining.' He sighed.

'I have lost a b.u.t.ton from my coat,' said Biggles.

'I wondered if you could match it for me?'

The little shopkeeper's manner seemed to change. 'English?' he asked softly.

'Yes.'

'Trouble?'

'Yes.'

'Were you followed?'

'No.'

'Come inside while I make sure.' The man spoke English in a cultured voice without a trace of accent. He opened a door at the back of the shop.

Biggles and Ginger went through and found themselves in a little living-room that was in keeping with the shop.

'Wait,' said their host, and returned to the shop.

He was back in two or three minutes. 'I think it's all right,' he said in a soft voice that in some curious way conveyed confidence. Then he smiled. 'Of course, one can never be sure. Tell me quickly, what has happened?'

Biggles answered. 'A special mission brought us to Prague. We did our work, but at the airport we were recognised by an enemy agent whom we thought was in London. He fetched the police. Not seeing a taxi, we took a car from the parking-place, abandoned it in the city, and then made our way here.'

'Which means that you are on the run with the security police looking for you?'

'Exactly.'

'What can I do for you?'

'We're looking for somewhere to lie low until we can make arrangements to get out of the country. Can you fix us up?'

'Who gave you this address?'

'Number seven.'

'I see. Then you'd better stay here,' said the man thoughtfully.

'Naturally, I don't like people using this house, but in this case I see no alternative. The address would only have been given to you in a matter of the gravest importance.'

Biggles looked at the man curiously. 'You speak English very well.'

'Naturally, since I am British,' was the reply. 'My name is easily remembered. It is Smith a" yes, even when I am in England. Come this way. I cannot leave the shop for very long in case a customer comes in, but we will talk later.'

The agent led them up three flights of rickety wooden stairs to an attic which was nearly full of lumber a" useless stuff most of it appeared to be. There was an old table, some broken chairs, with numerous cases and boxes half-buried under old clothes, curtains, pieces of carpet, and the like. The only light filtered through a grimy skylight in the sloping roof.

'Now listen carefully,' said Smith. 'You will stay in this room and not leave it on any account without my permission. Make yourselves as comfortable as the place permits, but disturb nothing; and leave nothing about, not a crumb, or a speck of cigarette ash, or anything that might suggest that the room has been occupied. You will realise that an establishment of this sort is subject at any moment, day or night, to a police raid, and a thorough search. One thing, however small; not in keeping with the rest, could produce unfortunate consequences.'

Biggles nodded. 'I understand. Have you any reason to suppose that you are suspect?'

'No. But it is unlikely that I would know if I was. One never knows in our business. But I shall know now, definitely, within a few hours.'

'What do you mean by that?'

'I mean this. If the secret police had any reason to suspect this house they would not show their hand at once. The only bird they would catch, perhaps, would be me. They would wait for such a moment as this. When, in an hour or two, you are not found, it will be known that you have gone into hiding. Then the police will strike at every establishment to which the slightest suspicion is attached. Such raids usually occur after dark, when a cordon can be drawn round the suspected house without alarming the occu-pants. In daylight such an operation could hardly be carried out un.o.bserved.' Smith smiled. 'So you should be safe for an hour or two, anyway.'

'I follow,' murmured Biggles.

'But if there should be a raid you still have one way of escape,'

continued Smith. 'All the clutter you see here appears to have been thrown in haphazard. At least, that was the intention. But far from that being the case it has been carefully arranged to provide me with an emergency exit. In the event of trouble, I want you to use this way out, because were you found here it would be the end of me as well as you.'

Smith pointed to the skylight. 'That is the way you could go. Downstairs, under my counter, there is a b.u.t.ton on the floor. When I press my foot on it, it operates a buzzer concealed in one of these boxes. Should you hear the buzzer, therefore, you will know that the security police are below. That will be your signal for a swift, but silent, departure. The table, as you see, is under the skylight. By putting this box on it the skylight can be reached. Having gone through a"

closing the skylight behind you of course a" you will find yourself on a sloping roof. Turn to the right. It is ten yards to the end of the gable.

There you will find a chimney stack. Hidden in the nearest chimney-pot there is a rope. This will enable you to descend the twenty feet to a flat roof below. Take the rope with you, for you will need it again.

Apart from that, it would not do to leave it hanging there, as it might be seen from the street. Carry on along the flat roof to the end of the block. Below, there is the yard of a sc.r.a.p metal merchant. A door in the wooden fence on your right opens into the street. After that you would have to take your luck.'

'And what would you be doing all this time?' inquired Biggles.

Smith shrugged his hunched shoulder. 'I should stay behind and bluff the thing out. That would give you time to get away. But don't worry about me. That's as much as I have time to say now. I shan't operate the alarm signal unless things look serious. If it should happen, what are you going to do with those?' He pointed to the two handbags. 'Should you have to leave by the roof you would find them in the way; yet should the place be searched it wouldn't do for them to be found here.'

Biggles agreed. 'What do you suggest we do with them?'

'I think you had better let me have them until the danger period is over,' said Smith. 'I have a place, where I keep some of my own things, where they would be safe. You can have them any time you want them.' He picked up the bags. 'I'll bring you some food in the lunch hour. We'll talk again then.'

'Thank you,' acknowledged Biggles.

Smith smiled again. 'No need to thank me. I'm here to do a job and I try to make the best of it. See you later.' He went out.

'Stout fellow, that,' said Biggles, finding a seat on a box.

CHAPTER VII.