“Ja,
Herr Fenton. I have
spoken with Herr Gratz.
Er
kommt schnell.
And he
says you are to be allowed com
plete freedom of action.”
“Very good. When he arrives, tell him I
and my friend
will be at Dr
.
Mueller’s laboratory. He knows where
that is.”
“Mueller.
Jawohl”
Simon became aware that his arm was in the
beefy
grip of William Fenton, and that he was being towed
through
the door toward the street.
“I have a plane to catch,” he
protested.
“You
did,”
Fenton said.
2
The laboratory of Dr. Friedrich Mueller was
on
Wittelsbacherstrasse. It had every appearance of an
exceptionally clean
radio repair shop. Neatly disem
boweled, pocket-sized cases of various
shapes and colors
spilled their glassy and silvery innards on the counter
tops.
Manuals the size of telephone directories lay open
to esoteric diagrams,
and the walls were lined with tools
and coils of wire.
But Dr. Mueller, for all the atmosphere of his
labora
tory, was
considerably more enthusiastic about his work
than
most repairmen of any species. A tall man with keen blue eyes and closely
cropped brown hair, he
greeted Fenton
with a brisk handshake.
“Dr. Mueller,” Fenton said,
“this is Simon Templar.”
The scientist’s eyes enlarged with
recognition as he
extended his hand.
“Ach,
the famous Saint. I am
honored.”
“Dr. Mueller works primarily with the West Berlin po
lice,” Fenton explained, “but in
special cases he co-oper
ates with us
undercover people. And this is a special
case.”
Mueller turned serious and nodded.
“So,” he said in careful, barely
accented English, “you
actually have seen one explode?
Wunderbar.
Our theo
ries facts are becoming. And was it as we thought?”
“Exactly,” said Fenton, “but
more powerful.”
“Yes. As it must be. We have ourselves
not been idle.
Except for the fact that we do not have the explosive, we
have the
reconstruction of the used-in-the-other-killings-
devices managed.”
“Show us, please,” Fenton said.
Mueller picked up a small cigarette lighter
from one
of the tables.
“This. A little miracle. It will light
cigarettes
…”
He demonstrated the flame.
“Also will it pictures make. Nine of
them. But on the
tenth one, the last picture … boom! And the man who
uses it is
blown to pieces.”
Simon took the small metal case and turned it
in his
fingers as Mueller pointed out the details of its operation.
“The ideal gift for touring friends who
like to show
their snapshots,” Simon said. “Amazingly little
thing
to do much damage.”
“But it does do much damage. The secret
is a micro-
explosive. Very small amount. Very powerful. We can
only approximate it.”
“Which explains our vital interest in
the whole thing,”
Fenton said. “Aside from the politics, I
mean.”
“Have you seen one of these?”
Mueller asked, picking up a briefcase.
“I assume it does something more interesting than contain
papers,” Simon said.
“Naturally,” Mueller assured him
with a broad smile. “And this. A signet ring.”
He offered it to Simon, who politely declined.
“I’ll leave such things to
experts.”
“Very sensible,” said Mueller. He slipped the ring onto
one of his fingers. “Wearing this, I may the
briefcase
quite freely handle. The
ring neutralizes the proximity
fuse in the lock. But not wearing it, the
heat of my hand
would activate the fuse, and
up would go the whole
thing, taking
me with it.”
“But with all apologies,” the Saint
put in, “isn’t that
approximately as new in espionage tactics as
the old
knife in the back?”
“Ah,” said Mueller agreeably,
“our friends, the un
known assassins, have a modification
introduced. I will
demonstrate. Gerda, please.”
Gerda, the Saint decided on seeing her profuse
bulk
lumber into the room, was not the modification intro
duced,
unless the opposition had descended to the use
of lady wrestlers.
But while she would have offered no
serious competition to a Mata Hari, she was quite useful,
apparently, as a pack mule, and probably impervious to
explosions.
On Dr. Mueller’s instructions, she donned the
signet
ring and carried the lethal briefcase into an adjoining
room which
was separated from the main laboratory by a steel door. Through a small, very
thick viewing window,
the three men watched Gerda place the
briefcase on a
table in the center of the bare-walled concrete chamber.
She put the signet ring on top of the lock and left it there
as she
returned to Mueller’s side, closing the heavy
door behind her.
“So,” the scientist said, “ordinarily the closeness
of the ring to the fuse prevents any possible explosion. The un
suspecting spy goes happily along, little
suspecting that
anything can happen.
Then, somewhere not far away,
somebody
one of these has.”
He waved what appeared to be a small
transistor radio.
“A transmitter with a range of a few
hundred yards.
It will the neutralizing effect of the ring neutralize.
Can
cel it.
Kaput.
You understand?”
“Jawohl, Herr Doktor,”
Simon said.
Mueller switched on the transmitter, which
began
to emit an almost inaudible low pitched whine gradually ascending in
pitch and volume, uncomfortably reminis
cent of the sound
effects immediately preceding Herr
Hahn’s messy demise.
There was, of course, an explosion, a good
deal less
powerful and more smoky than the one at the Bunny
Club, but quite satisfactory.
It left the table a heap of
kindling.
The men withdrew from the window as Gerda
went
through the steel door to clear away the debris.
“Counterespionage
par
excellence,”
the Saint said
thoughtfully. “But if I
understand, Russian secret agents are being killed by their own gadgets—and not
through
any efforts of your people?”
“Right,” Fenton answered.
“But they claim that we’re
responsible, of course.”
“The next logical question is,”
Simon continued, “why
aren’t
you responsible? I
should think you’d be delighted
to get rid of a few.”
Fenton looked mildly shocked.
“My dear fellow, if we kill their
agents, they kill ours. It just isn’t done. Except in the most extreme circum
stances.”
“I see. And you’re afraid that these
unexplained explo
sions are going to lead to a wholesale vendetta.”
“Precisely. We know that Moscow is
planning a revenge
operation right now. One of the very very high-ups in
their
secret police is on his way to Berlin this minute.”
“Not the mysterious Colonel Smolenko?”
Fenton looked at the Saint in surprise.
“How could you know?”
“Smolenko seems to reserve himself for
pulling the
cord after somebody else has cranked up the guillotine.
I’ve followed the MGB system a bit—enough to know
who’d be most likely
to be handling what. Smolenko’s
one of those second-generation Commies with a
genius
for
survival no matter how often the leadership gets shuf
fled. Must be a pretty effective fellow.”
Fenton nodded glumly.
“And the more effective he is, the worse for our chaps.”
“Obviously,” Simon said to Mueller,
“it’s very impor
tant to know who makes the originals of these
devices.
They come from Russia?”
“Nein.
They do not. On the
outside, they could come
from anywhere. On the inside—the miniaturization
is too fine to be Russian. We believe Russian manufacture is
absolutely
out of the question.”
“We must find out where it’s from, if not Russia,” Fen
ton put in, “and I don’t mean next week.
Smolenko passes
through here in half
an hour on the train to Paris.”
“Know what I smell?” asked Simon
thoughtfully. “Chop
suey.”
Mueller looked baffled.
“Please?”
Simon pulled up the corners of his eyes,
oriental style.
“The original inventors of gunpowder. I
think they
must be tossing a few exploding fortune cookies in your
midst.
What could suit them better than to have your
men and the Russians
at one another’s throats?”
“You make sense, my friend,” Mueller said.
A telephone rang, and the scientist answered
it.
“Ja. Moment, bitte.
Herr
Fenton—Herr Gratz is
calling.”
“Fenton here. Oh
…
I see.
Well, keep at it, anyway.
He has to be involved somehow.”
“Klaus got away?” asked the Saint.
“Yes,” Fenton said, putting down the
phone. “They
traced him from the club to the railway station and then
lost
him.”
“Smolenko,” the Saint said matter-of-factly.
Fenton’s eyes flashed.
“My God, yes. And if Klaus is a trained
killer—if he
gets Smolenko … we’re in for it!”
Simon nodded toward the phone.
“Better put this in the hands of the
regular authorities, don’t you think?”
“The police? But nobody knows Smolenko.
He’ll be
travelling under another name, probably with an escort of
red herrings. We’ve got only twenty minutes. Could
the police spot Klaus
just from your description?”
Simon started to speak, then didn’t. He could
picture
his hopes of non-involvement lifting even now from the
earth of
Free Berlin and winging their way west into the
night with that plane
he’d never catch.
“You’re the only one of us who’s had a
good look at
Klaus,”
Fenton continued. “There’ll likely be two dozen
blond men on that train somewhere near his age.”
“Now, Bill …”
“Simon,” the intelligence officer
said crisply, “you’ve
fifteen minutes to catch the Berlin-Paris Express. I’ll stay
behind here covering other eventualities.”
“Like the champagne at the Bunny
Club.”
Fenton grinned.
“There are some things there that could
stand closer
scrutiny.”
“While I’m getting scrutinized by
Rasputin’s suc
cessor.”
“Come outside.”
Somehow or other Fenton already had a cab
waiting
at the door with its flag down, and he smiled at Simon’s
reaction
to his confident efficiency.
“I felt sure you’d choose the proper
course,” Fenton said.
The dash for the
Hauptbahnhof
was
efficient too. In
spite of screeching turns and roaring spurts down the
straightaways,
no one was killed, and they arrived at
the station just on
time. Simon sprinted across the load
ing area and jumped aboard the
Paris-bound express just as it started to creak from its concrete slip.
But by that time any lingering nostalgia he
might have
felt for his earlier plans had been suppressed by the
excitement
that had begun to course through his blood. At the Bunny Club he’d been like an
idling machine,
cooling down between one strenuous trial and the next,
but ready to move when the
signal came. Now the signal
had come,
unexpectedly but unmistakably, and he was
instantaneously co-ordinated,
his senses keen, his nerves calm but alert, his whole body a magnificently
operating
unit.