Leslie Charteris - The Saint Returns

“By radio? Sort of a variation on the singing commercial?”

Fenton’s sense of humor was perhaps more limited than the Saint’s.

“Not only radios,” he went on. “Explosive gadgets in general. All Russian espionage equipment.”

“But you said thirteen Russian agents had died. They knocking off their own men?”

“If I knew who was behind it, this might not have happened tonight.”

Fenton stooped and picked up the remnants of the radio, a tangled lump of metal.

“This isn’t a timed device. It had to be triggered. An impulse beamed from outside, probably from very short range.”

“In this case from the bar, I’m sure. Shall we see if our friend left any traces there?”

Predictably, he had not.

“The bar man,” Simon said to the cigarette bunny. “Where is he?”

“He left.”

“What is his name?”

“Klaus. Hans Klaus.”

“I would suggest that you put out a call for him,” Fenton said to the nearest policeman. “All stations. The club will have his address. He certainly knows something about this.”

“Ja, Herr Fenton. I have spoken with Herr Gratz. Er kommt schnell. And he says you are to be allowed complete 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.

The laboratory of Dr. Friedrich Mueller was on Wittelsbacherstrasse. It had every appearance of an exceptionally clean radio repair shop. Neatly disemboweled, 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 laboratory, 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 police,” Fenton explained, “but in special cases he co-operates 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 theories 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 unknown 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 introduced, 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 unsuspecting 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. Cancel 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 reminiscent 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 circumstances.”

“I see. And you’re afraid that these unexplained explosions 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?”