He became aware, as if by telepathy, of the passionate interest which the crowd was taking in his proceedings, for he pushed the bundles back into the case, turned upon his audience, and asked them quite politely to go away. One cheerful old woman said she was in no hurry, if any of that stuff was being given away she'd wait all night; the sergeant grinned at her, the police van drove up with a flourish, and the crowd scattered. Spelmann looked about him for the two German youths but they had disappeared.

  They were walking rapidly away, talking in low tones only when there was no one within earshot.

  "Who was that? Bart Lachmann?"

  "Don't know. Don't know him. But, what I've heard, he'd never let himself be took up like that."

  "All that money!"—in a kind of wail—"Them police to 'ave it!"

  The other groaned. "Best go and tell Gruiter——"

  "Don't know where he lives."

  "Best go and tell Ackie, then. Might be somethink in it for us."

  They hurried through the streets to the semi-basement room where Ackermann lived. It was not far away; the same room in which Gruiter, Ackermann, Claussen, and Edberg had discussed with Lachmann his journey into Russia with Renzow's aeroplane designs. Ackermann himself opened the door; his wife, who was juggling with three saucepans on a small oilstove in the corner, looked over her shoulder at the visitors and the corners of her mouth went down when she saw who they were.

  "Ernst and Heinz! Come in and welcome!"

  They sidled in with muttered greetings to which Frau Ackermann did not reply; she bent over her stove and rattled potlids. There was a moment's awkward silence.

  "We've seen something," said Ernst at last, "as we thought you ought to know about." His eyes slid round towards the woman in the corner.

  "Klara!" said Ackermann.

  "Yes, Hans."

  "Go out for a walk."

  "What, now, when I'm just in the middle of——"

  "Get out!"

  She began to obey in a frightened hurry, struggling unaided into a coat which she snatched off a nail, and pinning on askew a shapeless hat while Ackermann watched her with an air of sardonic amusement. At the last moment she remembered the cooking, stooped to turn the lamp out, and suddenly rebelled.

  "It's too bad! Why can't you go out? Just when for once I've got a nice bit o' meat it's a pleasure to cook, and I've got to be turned out of my own kitchen for them two blackguards I wouldn't have had inside the house in the old days when——"

  Ackermann pulled her towards him with one hand and struck her across the face with the other. She staggered back and upset the pots, their contents spreading and mingling on the floor.

  "And don't cry. I don't like it. You know what 'appens when you do what I don't like, don't you? Get out!"

  She clutched her coat about her, dodged round the table, and rushed out of the room.

  "Pity about the supper," said Heinz hungrily.

  "She can do it up again when she comes back. Never let up with women, that's the secret. Never let up. Now then, what's your news?"

  They told him what they had seen, and he listened in silence, his thick lower lip protruding and one fist softly thumping the table.

  "And you don't know if it was Lachmann or not?" he said when they had finished.

  "We don't know Lachmann, Ackie."

  "Oh, don't you. What was he like, this man?"

  But a description which conveyed a picture was quite beyond their powers. The man wasn't fat, he was what you'd call thin. He wasn't short either. A bit on the tall side as you might say. No, they didn't know the colour of his hair; he had a hat on, and they hadn't seen his face, not really. Actually, they hadn't taken that much notice till they saw all that money and then it was too late. He was nicely dressed and spoke haughty, like a toff.

  "Bart putting on an act," nodded Ackermann. "That's him all right. Letting 'imself get roped in with all that money! We've got to do something, quick. Let me think——"

  "Where's Gruiter?" asked Ernst.

  "Be in any minute," said Ackermann. "We've got to do something tonight while Bart's still at that police station. Once they move 'im into a real jug, we're sunk. Shut up and let me think."

  At about this time Spelmann was being whirled to the door of Hambledon's hotel in a taxi and was lucky enough to catch him standing upon the doorstep.

  "Come with me," gasped Spelmann, seizing him by the arm and pushing him into the taxi. "Your rabbits are loose. Back to where we came from," he added to the driver as the door slammed. "Five rabbits, all running about! Well, not all. The police have caught one and enhutched him."

  "Let us abandon metaphor," said Tommy mildly.

  "Very well." Spelmann described what he had seen. "I missed the two men I was following in the crowd; when the van moved off they were not there, so I waited about hoping to see the two Russians. I did not know they were Russians then, of course, not till I heard them talking. I do really think," said Spelmann anxiously, "that what they were talking was Russian, not Polish. Does the Herr understand Polish?"

  "I get the general gist of what is said. Where are they now?"

  "They are in a café, it is crowded so they must wait to be served. Just round the next corner. Driver! Stop here, please."

  "Spelmann," said Hambledon, getting out of the taxi after his energetic friend, "you say you were not very near the man who was arrested and never saw his face. Are you quite sure that he was not Gruiter?"

  "Quite sure. Nothing like him. Different height, different shape. There they are, at that table at the back near the pillar."

  Hambledon looked at them carefully to make sure that he had never met them before and then led the way into the café. A waiter indicated a vacant table near the radio which was energetically transmitting dance music, but Tommy shook his head and said he would prefer a quieter corner. Some people at a table next to the Russians' were preparing to go; he and Spelmann waited nearby until the places were vacant and then slid into them before anyone else could take them.

  "It is good to sit down," said Hambledon, hoping that the Russians behind him could understand German. "I find your city tiring. I prefer my own Cologne, although I must admit I have done very well here."

  "But you said, did you not, that you had finished your business here?" said Spelmann, playing up admirably. "Tomorrow you go home, do you not?"

  "That is right. I have one more builder to see in the morning and then I have a seat booked on the 'plane. Next month I hope to be sent to Paris."

  "Paris," said Spelmann enviously. "I would like to go there. I have never been. Have you?"

  "Once, before the war. They tell me that the prices of everything there now are simply frightful. Where's the waiter? What will you have? Beer?"

  "Beer, please. Can you speak French?"

  "Oh yes," said Hambledon proudly, "quite well. It is a great advantage to have even one foreign language; I only wish I had more."

  "There you are," said one of the Russians behind them in his own language. "You will not have understood that, but I did. They have just admitted that they are not sufficiently educated to understand us. We can speak freely."

  "I mistrusted the people who sat at that table before," said the other. "When you mentioned 'a large sum of money' they looked round."

  "That is why I mentioned it," said the first complacently. "To discover whether they understood Russian."

  "You were always quick-witted, Andrei Ivanovich."

  "I shall need to be," said Ivanovich gloomily, "to get Zolbin out of this mess."

  "We ought to have contacted him before he left the Russian zone and stayed with him to protect him."

  "But we were only told to shadow him and see where he went. Even now," said Ivanovich with a bitter laugh, "we have not lost him. We know where he is."

  "In the police station, together with the money. What can we do about that, two men alone?"

  There was a miserable silence which Hambledon and Spelmann filled by squabbling amiably about who was going to pay for the beer.

  "There is only one thing to do," said Ivanovich with despairing determination. "Break into the police station, rescue Zolbin, and seize the money."

  "But we shall immediately be killed!"

  "Let me ask you, Vassily, what you suppose will happen to us if we go home without all that money and leaving him behind? Do you expect to be given the Order of Lenin, a certificate for first-class rations, and a three-roomed flat? It's no use moaning like a sick cow, Vassily Andreyevich, we must face facts. They may be unpleasant, but they are not yet a post in an execution shed. Here, we have a chance."

  "But—to attack a police station!"

  "Listen, Vassily, and pull yourself together. Have you ever considered that, of all the buildings in a city, the only one of which the front door is never locked is a police station? Well, it's true. There, you're feeling better already, aren't you? We wait until about two o'clock and they are all asleep or drowsy and then we walk in. There will be a man at the desk, him we will shoot at once. Then, while you stand in the passage and shoot down anyone who comes out of any of the rooms, I take the keys, unlock the cell doors till I find Zolbin, and let him out. Then we take the money and go out with him."

  "How many police will there be in the station?"

  "The man at the desk. One sergeant and two—possibly three but probably only two—constables. If you are ready to put a bullet into anyone who shows his nose round a doorpost, Vassily, the thing is as good as done."

  "And where will the money be?"

  "If I know anything, it will be in the desk for tonight, probably still in his brief case. Just a simple wooden desk such as we had at school, Vassily, with a simple lock on it. You kick it and the thing falls to pieces. On my word, Vassily Andreyevich, I'm quite looking forward to this. I'm going to enjoy it, and think of the reward we shall get when we go back!"

  Vassily shifted uncomfortably. "I do not altogether like this plan, Comrade. It leaves too much to chance."

  "Then suggest a better!"

  "There is a great deal of money there. Would it not be possible to reason with the station sergeant and offer him the money in exchange for the person of Vadim Zolbin? If the police records were expunged, there would be no trace of his arrest."

  "And what do you suppose the station sergeant will be doing while you unfold your pretty scheme? Sucking his thumb like a baby? Besides, to whom does the money belong which you are proposing to give away in handfuls? It is the property of the Soviet, and you are suggesting we should use it to save ourselves a little trouble. Let me suggest to you, Comrade Vassily Andreyevich, that such talk isn't at all healthy for you."

  "For heaven's sake, Andrei Ivanovich! I thought you were a friend to whom I could speak frankly what was in my mind."

  "Of course I am your friend, too good a friend to allow you to go on harbouring the sort of poisonous nonsense you have just uttered. Pull yourself together—as I had to tell you only just now, did I not?—and stop making this ridiculous fuss about a simple operation. Relax, Vassily Andreyevich, relax. Have another drink, such as it is. Steinhager, they call it. Oh for a glass of our good native vodka! I know what's the matter with you, you're missing your vodka and I don't wonder at it; I do, too. Here, waiter! Two Steinhagers, and be quick about it, please. It is now one o'clock, we will have our little drink and then stroll quietly off to survey the scene of our imminent victory. Cheer up! In two hours' time it will be all over and we can go home again, happy in the knowledge that we have done our duty. Here's your drink, down with it! Your health and long life to you, Vassily, my old friend."

  They emptied their glasses and swaggered out; the moment they were gone Hambledon and Spelmann rose up to follow them through the dark streets.

  9. TEMPERANCE ADVOCATE

  "What were they saying?" asked Spelmann.

  Hambledon told him. "You know this is really beginning to be quite interesting," he added. "Here is a Russian named Vadim Zolbin who is carrying Renzow's personal papers. He is being helpfully pursued by those two ornaments of hell ahead of us because, apparently, he is also carrying a large sum of money. What's the money for, Spelmann?"

  "To buy the Renzow aircraft designs, of course."

  "I think so, too. So the designs are somewhere in Berlin. This fellow Zolbin was going to meet somebody, no doubt. What a pity the police arrested him; if you'd been able to follow him home, we might have had the designs in our hands by now. It's rather odd, don't you think, that he was carrying Renzow's papers? How is Renzow?"

  "Still unconscious, I heard today. But, since Zolbin thought himself safe in using Renzow's papers, the question I ask myself is: Where does he think Renzow is? I answer myself: Somewhere where he cannot protest. We can take it that he knows who Renzow is. Look out, they are looking back."

  "Turn left," said Hambledon. "We can rejoin this road further on. Oh yes, Renzow is a famous man and you can bet the Russians know all about him, especially anyone with any connection with aircraft."

  "But they can't know he's in hospital as a result of a murderous assault, or this man would not have attempted to impersonate him."

  "No," said Hambledon slowly. "You are quite right there, Spelmann. It looks very much as though they thought he was dead."

  "What—in hospital?"

  "No, no. Listen. Renzow's personal papers have been in Russian territory. Who took them there?"

  "One of Gruiter's gang," said Spelmann. "Or, more likely, whoever it was who employed them to steal the designs."

  "I am not sure that anyone did. I think they went to Königswinter after the jewels and just took the designs as well on the chance they might be valuable. No, I don't mean what individual was it who went across the border with the designs and papers. I mean, what did he call himself?"

  "Gustav Renzow, of course—of course! The papers would take him into the Russian zone all right. It was when this man Zolbin tried to use them in the British sector that he ran into trouble."

  "Yes. I think the substitute Renzow who went over to the Russians must be dead. Or in a Russian jail, which is much the same thing."

  "I think so, too. And all that money—" said Spelmann.

  "There they are again," interrupted Hambledon. "Don't let them see us. They're stopping; take cover!"

  Before them stretched a wide and empty road, on the right it was flat and open where ruined buildings had been cleared away and sites for new buildings laid out. In one place a start had been made, for hoardings surrounded a skeleton of steel framing. Across the road there was a row of houses in reasonably good condition; one of them was a police station with the door, as Ivanovich had prophesied, standing open. The Russians were inconspicuous against a corner of the hoarding; it was not possible unobserved to get near enough to hear what they were saying, but they were talking earnestly together.

  "Comrade Andrei Ivanovich delivering another of his pep talks," said Hambledon.

  "And Comrade Vassily Andreyevich still doesn't like the look of things."

  "'But screw your courage to the sticking place...' They're off! No, they're not; they've changed their minds. Why?"

  "There's someone coming up the other way," said Spelmann, who from his place could see a little further past the hoarding than Hambledon could. "Three men. Two policemen and a prisoner between them. And a fourth man behind, not in uniform."

  "These reinforcements will postpone the Russian onslaught, surely. Besides, they'll wake the police out of their midnight drowse, no longer to be caught nap—— I say, what a funny prisoner! He's so eager to get jugged that he's ahead of his captors."

  "The police are a little queer, too. The one this side. I know we can't be too fussy about recruits these days, but he's unusually short. In the Bonn police, we——"

  "And his trousers don't fit him," said Hambledon. "Either they're too long, or they're coming down. Look, he's hitching them up with his spare hand. You can't hitch up trousers with only one hand; someone ought to tell him."

  "They've gone in, anyway. And the plain-clothes man, too. Now what happens?"

  Nothing at all happened for what seemed a long time, but was possibly five minutes. The two Russians stayed where they were and so did Hambledon and Spelmann. The streets were empty at that hour, and the traffic of Berlin had ceased for the night. From one of the houses across the road there came the sound of a child crying loudly and the cry rose to the scream of nightmare. At once a light sprang up in a window, the cries died down and ceased and a silent peace drifted down like snow over that area of Berlin.

  It was abruptly shattered by a voice shouting inside the police station; the voice stopped abruptly when a shot was fired. Immediately more shouting broke out and more shooting followed——

  The two alleged constables were Ackermann's hoodlum friends, Ernst and Heinz, who had seen Zolbin arrested, and their alleged prisoner was Bruno Gruiter. The civilian walking behind the three was Ackermann himself. They entered the police station to find themselves in a wide passage with two closed doors on the right and the desk sergeant's throne on the left. At the far end, the passage turned to the right; round this corner were the four cells.

  The desk sergeant looked up when the company of four entered. He did not know the constables personally, but that did not surprise him; he could not know the whole of the Berlin police force, and if two of them had run down a wanted man outside their own area they would naturally bring him in to whatever police station happened to be nearest. He stifled a yawn and stretched out his arm for his record book, thinking only that this was the fourth prisoner brought in that night; if any more came in they must go two in a cell. He picked up his pen as the party reached his desk and looked up to see a large revolver in the hands of the alleged prisoner, and it was pointed straight at his chest.

  "Quiet, no noise," said the prisoner softly. "The cell keys, quick."

  "Gruiter!" gasped the sergeant. "I haven't got them." He also spoke in a low tone. How right was Damon Runyon to call a gun "the old persuader."

  "Oh yes, you 'ave. I knows the drill, you've put me away often enough." Gruiter spoke boldly enough, but actually the instant recognition had shaken him badly; his face was white and glistening and his hands trembled. It was a piece of unexpected bad luck to encounter a policeman who could recognize him on sight. Ackermann saw his uneasiness and took charge.

 

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