"I'm afraid you are, Dawson," the senior officer agreed with a heavy sigh. "He'll do just that, unquestionably. Now, if only we had captured him with this little book, then—But we can't expect everything to go in our favor. But let me continue with what is perhaps the most important item in this little black book. This will interest you particularly, Major. There are several references to Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse!"
Major Crandall sat up straight, as though he had been shot.
"No?" he gasped. "You mean—?"
"Exactly, Major," Colonel Fraser interrupted. "Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse in the city of Duisburg, Germany. He has listed here certain dates when his agents are to report to Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse. And the last date, which he has underscored several times, is the twenty-fourth of this month!"
"So the rats are all going back to the same hole!" Major Crandall said softly, as though he couldn't believe his own words. "But—but to tell the truth I've been doing a little thinking about Sixteen Kholerstrasse lately. Four of the mystery factories are located in the Duisburg area. The nerve of those rats! Using the very nest we thought we'd smoked out for keeps. Right now I don't know whether that's being clever, or being damn fools, to tell you the truth."
"It was being blasted clever, until Dawson got hold of this!" Colonel Fraser said, and held up the little black book. "Frankly, I'd never have suspected that they would use the same place again. But that's the Hun for you. They are very likely to do the totally unexpected, ingrained as they are with routine. But they're a queer race, anyway."
"And one the world could well do without!" Dawson said grimly. "But is it permitted to ask questions at this point, sir?"
"Quite," the colonel smiled. "But don't bother, because I'll explain. All this certainly must sound like so much gibberish to you two. Well, Number Sixteen Kholerstrasse, in Duisburg, Germany, was for a long time the Western Germany Headquarters of Himmler's Gestapo, and the German Intelligence, and secret police. The clearing house, you might say, for all of the occupied countries, as well as the British Isles. Well, a few months ago we got wind of its existence. Also word that Himmler himself, and several of his important key men, were going to meet at Number Sixteen—for a little discussion of policy, no doubt. Anyway, it gave us a very bright idea, though the idea failed to turn out one tenth as bright as we had hoped. To make a long story short, we formed a sort of Commando squad of British, American, and Russian agents operating in Germany, plus a few members of the French Underground. The idea was, of course, to storm the place and wipe out Herr Himmler, and several others, and perhaps capture valuable papers and such."
The colonel paused for a moment, and a look of bitterness and sadness came into his eyes.
"The raid was made, but luck was not with us," he presently continued in a low voice. "Something went wrong. Nobody seemed to know just what, or why. But it appeared that the Huns had been tipped off. Neither Himmler nor his key men were there at the time of the raid. Our men killed a few of the lesser lights that were present. But five of our men died, and not one slip of paper of any value was obtained. Hand grenades and rifle fire made a mess of the place, so the report stated. But that's about all the raiding party accomplished. It was just another one of those rotten bits of luck that couldn't be helped. Like the time the Commandos raided Marshall Rommel's Headquarters in Libya, only to find that the Desert Fox had flown to Germany the day before for a meeting with Hitler. No, we are not very proud of the Sixteen Kholerstrasse affair. The Hun beat us at every turn that time. And now the beggars are obviously using it again. That is indeed interesting."