Biggles - Secret Agent

by W E Johns

  ‘What?’

  ‘The girl next door saw us come in.’

  ‘The dickens! How do you know? There was no light in her room.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I saw the curtain move.’

  Biggles shook his head as he pulled in the rope and closed the window. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said, turning back into the room. ‘I can’t get that girl placed at all. It seems as if she is watching us, but, somehow, I don’t see how she can be — or rather, why she should be. Her arrival at the Jew’s house must have been purely coincidental with ours, for until that moment she could not have been aware of our existence, any more than we were aware of the Jew’s existence.’

  ‘She might have been watching the house, and saw us go in,’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘That’s true,’ admitted Biggles. ‘If that assumption is correct, it leads to the question, on whose behalf was she watching the house? She doesn’t look the sort of person who would be engaged by those concerned with the Professor’s disappearance, or the storm-troopers whom we know are at the castle. It seems equally unlikely that she can be working on her own account; yet it must be one or the other — unless, of course, our caution has made us take an exaggerated view of her actions, and she is only an ordinary tourist, after all.’

  ‘She doesn’t strike me that way,’ said Ginger slowly, shaking his head.

  ‘Nor me, I must admit. It will be interesting to see how she reacts when she suspects that we are watching her.’

  ‘Are you going to watch her?’

  ‘Possibly, if it doesn’t retard our own plans. If she is watching us we shall certainly have to keep an eye on her, for she becomes a danger. At the rate things are going we shall probably pick up a clue presently, that will put us on the right track. But actually, I am more concerned about that spook than I am about the girl. I can’t make head or tail of that affair. What the deuce was the person playing at? Why play the spook? Only a lunatic does that sort of thing without a good reason. Had there been a storm-trooper on guard I could have understood it — but a spook, no. The people concerned with the Beklinder affair would surely not play fool tricks like that. Can you imagine von Stalhein countenancing such childish methods? Because I can’t. But there, we might sit here all night asking ourselves questions without being any the wiser.’

  ‘Questions — such as?’

  ‘Did the spook know we were in the vault?’

  ‘It certainly saw us come out.’

  ‘Yes, and from the way it gave tongue it was as startled as we were. Well, maybe things will work themselves out in due course; we shall see. We ought to see about getting some sleep. We’ve had a long day, and there is no doubt that things have gone exceptionally well for us. I hope they’ll go as well tomorrow.’

  ‘What’s the next move?’

  ‘We’ll get the pigeon away first thing in the morning. But now I come to think of it there is just one more little job that we ought to do tonight. We shall probably have to do it sometime and the present moment seems as good as any. There’s nothing like following up your luck when it is going well.’

  ‘What are you contemplating?’

  ‘I’d like to have a look in the room next door — number seventeen, the room the Jew told us Beklinder was put in. There might be something to learn there, and it would be dangerous to try to get in in the daytime. The key is on the rack downstairs, and so far as I can see there is nothing to prevent us from using it.’

  ‘Shall I go down and get it?’ suggested Ginger, watching Biggles coil the rope and hide it under the mattress of his bed.

  ‘Yes. Take the torch — and watch your step. Don’t for the love of Mike knock anything over.’

  ‘Leave it to me,’ murmured Ginger, picking up the torch and crossing over to the door.

  Taking the greatest possible care to ensure silence, he unlocked it and went out into the corridor. All was silent, so after a moment’s hesitation he began to make his way towards the head of the stairs.

  There was nothing particularly difficult about his task, although the profound silence, and the heavy, old-fashioned panelling and furniture, created an air of brooding mystery that caused his nerves to tingle. However, he reached the hall without anything happening and turned the beam of the torch on the rack. As the hotel was practically empty all the keys were in place — except three; their own, number fifteen, which he realized must be the number of the girl’s room, and number seventeen. The key he had come to fetch was not there. For a moment he stared at the vacant hook, taken aback by this unexpected turn of events and what it portended. Then, realizing the full significance of his discovery, he hurried back to where Biggles was waiting for him. ‘The key’s gone,’ he breathed.

  Biggles’s response to this information was a ‘tch’ of surprise.

  ‘It looks as if the proprietor takes it with him when he goes to bed,’ murmured Ginger.

  ‘Or is somebody using the room, after all?’ suggested Biggles. ‘I think we must look into this. Were any other keys missing?’

  ‘Only number fifteen, which I imagine is the girl’s room.’

  ‘Ah! I wonder if she’s in her room?’

  ‘You can’t very well find out.’

  ‘Can’t I, though?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By trying her door.’

  ‘By gosh! You’ve got a nerve.’

  ‘If she’s inside it will be locked for a certainty.’

  ‘And if it is not locked?’

  ‘If that is the case I should say she is not in her room.’

  ‘But suppose she does happen to be in her room, with the door unlocked?’

  ‘In that case, when she sees the door opening, or hears it opening, she will probably make a sound of some sort. Then, all we have to do is to return here with all speed, and no one will know who tried her door.’

  ‘What’s the idea of this?’

  ‘If my guess is right, I think I know who has borrowed the key of number seventeen. Stay where you are, there’s no need for us both to go,’ went on Biggles quickly. He crossed over to the door, opened it quietly, and peeped out into the corridor. With cat-like tread he went on to the door of number fifteen. His hands settled lightly on the brass knob and turned it. Only when it had turned as far as it would go did he put a gentle weight against the door. It opened easily. He peeped inside. A candle was burning near the head of a bed which had not been slept in. Moving quickly but quietly he closed the door and returned to Ginger. ‘It is as I thought,’ he said. ‘She isn’t there. It is a hundred to one that the girl is in number seventeen. I’m just going to make sure.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By trying the door.’

  ‘You’re taking some chances.’

  ‘I expected to when I came here.’

  Again Biggles opened the door and crept out into the corridor. With his pulses racing, Ginger watched him from the threshold of their room. There was just enough moonlight from a window at the end of the corridor for him to see Biggles’s form creeping towards his objective. It was only a matter of four or five steps.

  Reaching the door of number seventeen, again Biggles’s hands closed lightly over the knob. Slowly he turned it, and pressed gently. But this time he was not so fortunate. The door squeaked. It was only a slight sound, but in the dead silence it was enough to make Ginger catch his breath. The sound was followed instantly by a faint cry of alarm from inside the room. Quite calmly Biggles closed the door again and came back swiftly down the corridor. Ginger stepped back. Biggles came into the room, but he did not quite close the door; he left it open perhaps half an inch. Motionless he stood with an eye to the crack. The silence was such that the ticking of the clock in the entrance hall could be heard distinctly. Then, along the corridor came a sound so faint that a mouse might have made it. Biggles, seeing nothing pass, opened the door a few inches wider and looked out. He was just in time to see a shadowy figure disappear down the stairs that led to the hall. ‘She’s gone to put the key
back,’ he whispered, for Ginger’s benefit.

  Still watching, a moment later the figure reappeared. With no more noise than a shadow it glided down the corridor towards him. He held the door closed while it passed and then looked out again. It was too dark for him to see anything clearly, but the quiet opening and closing of a door, and the sudden ray of yellow candlelight, told him all he wanted to know. He turned to Ginger. ‘It was the girl,’ he said. ‘She’s gone back to her room. We have learnt this, anyway; she knows about Beklinder; that can be the only reason for her interest in room number seventeen.’

  ‘She may have overheard the Jew telling us.’

  ‘That is more than likely.’

  ‘Shall I go and get the key of number seventeen?’

  ‘Not now. I think it’s dangerous. She may be watching us, and there is no knowing what she might not do. I think I have a better plan.’ Biggles went over to the wall that separated them from the room next door — number seventeen. It was half timbered, but as is usual with such construction the spaces between the beams had been filled with plaster. Satisfied with his inspection he fetched the screwdriver, and after carefully arranging a towel on the floor to catch any loose pieces of plaster that might fall, he began boring a small hole through the wall. Soft as the plaster was it took him some time to complete the task. The screwdriver told him when he was through. He applied his eye to the hole, but, as he expected, the room on the far side was in darkness and he could see nothing, so after plugging the hole with a tiny wad of paper he returned the tool to his rucksack and began to undress. ‘That will have to do for today,’ he said. ‘We shall have to turn in. It’s no use overdoing it.’

  Ginger yawned. ‘I’ve had about enough for one stretch,’ he admitted.

  CHAPTER VII

  Strange Birds in the Forest

  It seemed to Ginger that he had no sooner closed his eyes than he was wide awake again, every nerve alert, listening for a repetition of the sound which had awakened him. It is not easy to locate a sound when it is heard during sleep, but he retained in his mind a sort of echo of a gentle tap-tap, as if someone had knocked lightly on the door. Indeed, as he raised himself on his elbow and stared into the darkness in the direction of the door, he became so convinced that this was the case that he almost called ‘Come in’. But a swift movement from the other bed told him that Biggles was awake, and had evidently heard what he had heard; so he did nothing. Another instant and Biggles was bending over him. ‘Keep quiet,’ he breathed.

  ‘What is it?’ whispered Ginger.

  ‘I think it is somebody in the next room.’

  Again came the soft tap — tap; it seemed to come from the wall in which Biggles had bored the hole, and in which direction Biggles now crept.

  As Ginger swung his legs out of bed the darkness was pierced by a minute ray of light which started about half-way up the wall which divided their room from number seventeen and lost itself in a vague halo on the far side. It was immediately blotted out, but Ginger realized that Biggles had uncovered the hole he had made and was now peeping through it into the next room. As only one person could use the spy-hole at a time he continued sitting on the edge of his bed, waiting with lively expectation for the report which he knew Biggles would presently bring him. Several minutes passed, during which absolute silence reigned, before Biggles crept back again ‘Take a look,’ he breathed.

  Ginger made his way silently to the tiny source of the light and applied his eye to the hole. The room into which he found himself looking was not illuminated as brightly as he expected it would be, for which reason it took him some seconds to comprehend fully what was going on. The first thing he made out was the light itself, a small electric lamp which stood on a bedside table and cast its glow over a section of the room which included part of a sheet-covered bed and a light-coloured object on the floor — something that moved slowly. Concentrating his attention on this, he soon perceived that it was a human form in night attire; or, to be precise, in a nightdress. At this moment the face looked up, almost as if the owner of it was suspicious of the wall; then it turned down again as the figure continued to pursue what seemed to be a close scrutiny of the polished floor boards. But the brief glimpse of the face had been sufficient for Ginger to recognize the girl whose mysterious movements had already aroused their curiosity.

  Wonderingly he watched the girl crawl slowly over the floor, examining it inch by inch and occasionally sounding it with her knuckles, making the gentle tapping sound which had awakened him. And while he was still watching he saw the conclusion of this extraordinary performance. The soft tap — tap had suddenly changed its note.

  Simultaneously the girl’s movements became more rapid. With something bright which she held in her hand she appeared to be working on one of the boards; then, surprisingly, a section of the floorboards moved slowly upwards, disclosing a black hole some two and a half feet square. The girl’s gasp of triumph came distinctly to Ginger as he stepped back and groped for Biggles, whom he knew was standing at his elbow. ‘Look!’ he breathed, and stood aside to allow Biggles to take his place.

  There was another interval of silence. Then Biggles retired to where Ginger was again sitting on the edge of his bed. The ray of light no longer gleamed through the hole. ‘She’s gone,’ he said quietly. ‘Having found what she was looking for, she’s gone back to her room.’

  ‘You saw the trap-door?’ queried Ginger.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She must have known it was there.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘She seems to know a lot more about this place than we do.’

  ‘I had already suspected that.’

  ‘There must be a subterranean passage under the hotel. Where does it lead to, that’s the question.’

  ‘It can hardly be a subterranean passage because it’s on the first floor,’ murmured Biggles. ‘But we shall know more about it when we’ve explored it. This girl is certainly making things complicated, but I am beginning to feel that she is working on parallel lines to ourselves; if she is we might both do better to compare notes, but I must confess that I jib at the idea of approaching her direct. She is suspicious of us as it is. Well, I’m afraid we can’t do any more about it at the moment. What’s the time?’ Biggles reached for his watch. ‘Quarter to six,’ he continued. ‘We haven’t had much sleep, but a little is better than nothing; I don’t think it’s worthwhile going back to bed; it’s just beginning to get light. I’m anxious to turn that pigeon loose. I shall breathe more freely when that’s done.’

  ‘Is there any reason why we shouldn’t go along right away?’

  ‘It’s early to be about — a bit too early for normal tourists.’

  ‘What about getting out of the window?’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘We mustn’t do too much of that,’ he argued. ‘It would be better if we used the door, except in cases of emergency. Let’s lie down for a bit; I’ll have a cigarette and think things over. Then we’ll take our time getting dressed and so arrive downstairs at a reasonable time. There will be nothing suspicious about it then if we go for a hike.’

  ‘Good enough, chief.’ Ginger threw himself back on his bed, and with his hands under his head stared unseeingly at the spiral of Biggles’s cigarette smoke as he turned over in his mind the events that had occurred since their arrival in Unterhamstadt. Not the least remarkable thing about the girl was her vague resemblance to somebody whom he knew, he pondered. That this was not merely imagination was borne out by the fact that Biggles had thought the same thing. Which meant that it was somebody known to both of them. Yet who could it be? They knew very few women. Was it a film star whose face had become familiar by constant publication in newspapers and magazines? No, he decided. Yet just behind his consciousness was the link which he felt was there but could not grasp. Then, quite suddenly, it came to him. He knew. He did not know how he knew — but he knew. And the knowledge sent him bolt upright on the bed. ‘Jumping rattlesnakes!’ he gasp
ed aloud. ‘I think I’ve got it!’

  Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘Got what?’

  ‘That girl.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I know who she’s like — or am I crazy?’

  ‘Tell me, and I’ll give you my opinion.’

  ‘Beklinder!’

  Biggles stiffened. His eyes opened wide and an extraordinary expression swept over his face. Then, with a single movement, he was on his feet. ‘You’re right,’ he snapped. ‘That’s it. Beklinder. That’s the likeness. It’s more a similarity of expression, though, than a likeness of the features.’ Biggles paced up and down the room in his agitation. ‘Can it be coincidence? Is it possible?’

  ‘It might be,’ murmured Ginger dubiously.

  ‘Surely not. Hang it all, there must be a limit even to coincidence,’ muttered Biggles impatiently.

  ‘Did the people at home say anything about Beklinder having a daughter?’

  ‘No — nor any other relation except his wife.’

  ‘It couldn’t be his wife, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course not. This girl can’t be a day more than twenty. No, if Beklinder had a daughter then he was unaware of it, of that I’m certain.’

  ‘Why should he tell anybody — even if he knew?’

  ‘On the other hand, why not? What need was there for secrecy? He told the Foreign Office everything about himself. Why conceal the fact that he had a daughter — if he had one? Unless — unless — yes, that may be the answer. It might have been a trap to get him here. Ginger, I feel that we’re on the scent of something, and we’re getting warm. There is only one thing to do; I’m going to find a way of getting into conversation with that girl. It’s a risk, but it’s worth taking. She knows something that might be invaluable to us, and I’m going to find out what it is. How goes the time? Nearly half-past six. Let’s get dressed; it will be after seven by the time we get down. We’ll free the pigeon and then try to make contact with the girl. That’s our plan for the moment.’