by W E Johns
“I can’t believe it was because he didn’t want me with him. He knew it would be a risky business so he decided to tackle it on his own.”
“You mean, to keep you out of trouble?”
“That’s how I see it. He must have thought that if he did nothing about Marie, I would.”
“And what are you going to do about it?”
“For the time being, nothing. I might do more harm than good by barging in. Besides, it way not be necessary for me to do anything. Erich may find Marie and bring her here. Don’t ask me how. The thing bristles with difficulties — money, papers... but as an experienced espionage agent he’d take all that into account. There is this about it: he won’t stay abroad longer than is absolutely necessary. He must have been gone a week already. If he isn’t back in a fortnight I shall begin to wonder if he’s coming back at all.”
“If he’s spotted they’ll see he doesn’t come back, you can bet your life on that,” declared Ginger. “It won’t be Sakhalin this time. It’ll be a firing squad.”
“And that will be the end of poor old Erich,” put in Bertie. “Well, at least we know how things stand, and that should clear the air a bit — if you see what I mean.”
“Just a minute,” objected Algy, looking at Biggles suspiciously. “Let’s get this tidied up while we’re at it, before we talk of knowing how things stand. From what I can see of it, assuming Von Stalhein has gone to Czechoslovakia, one of two things will happen. Either he will not come back at all or he will return bringing the lady with him. If he doesn’t come back — well, that’s his funeral. If he gets home bringing Marie Janis with him what are you going to do about it?”
Biggles frowned. “Why should I do anything about it?”
“That’s what I’m wondering.”
“Suppose we leave that till it happens.”
“You’re not by any chance thinking of carrying on from where you left off in France? We have a right to know.”
“At my age? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“All right. Now the alternative. What are you going to do if Von Stalhein doesn’t come back?”
“He’s an experienced secret agent. He’ll get back if it’s humanly possible.”
“You needn’t tell me that. Don’t boggle the question. Are you contemplating going to Czechoslovakia to look for him?”
“No.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
“It’s possible I might try to do what he failed to do.”
“Does that mean you’d try to find Miss Janis?’’
“Of course.”
Algy groaned, throwing up his hands in a gesture of despair. “That’s what I was afraid of. Now I know you’re round the bend.”
“There’s no need for you to get steamed up about it,” retorted Biggles coldly. “I haven’t invited you to come with me.”
“How in the name of lunacy do you reckon to get into Czechoslovakia — and out again? Is that what you’ve brooding over for the past fortnight?”
“I have considered the possibilities,” admitted Biggles.
“The Air Commodore will refuse to let you go.”
“I shan’t ask his permission. I could apply for leave of absence. On leave I’m free to do what I like.”
“If you’re contemplating using government aircraft for a private venture—”
“I’m not quite as daft as that. If I wanted an aircraft for any purpose there’s no reason why I shouldn’t buy one.”
“And end up in the queue for national assistance.”
“I shan’t come begging to you.”
Bertie cut in. “Here, I say, chaps, easy on the oars. There’s no need to get a rush of blood to the brain over something that may never happen.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to make Algy understand,” protested Biggles.
“Fair enough. Just as a matter of interest let’s have a look at the atlas and get an idea of where Erich has gone to put his neck in a noose.”
“By now he should be somewhere in Bohemia.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s a province of Czechoslovakia.”
“Jolly good, I’ve heard of people in this country leading a Bohemian life. I gather they wear dirty shirts, grow beards and sit around in wine shops singing and playing things called zithers.”
“I doubt if Von Stalhein is taking an active part in any such frolics at the moment,” returned Biggles lugubriously.
“I suppose you’ve already swotted up all the gen on the country,” suggested Algy.
“I have — just in case.”
“What sort of country is it?”
“Mostly mountains with valleys between. It’s surrounded by mountains.”
“Sounds a charming place to land an aircraft outside an airport after dark.”
“About a third of the country is covered with forest.”
“Ha! Better still.” Algy was frankly sarcastic.
“I haven’t said anything about landing a plane after dark.”
“How else would you jump the frontier? The Iron Curtain may be getting a bit rusty but it’s still there.”
“Rather than do any jumping I might decide to put on my best suit, buy myself a nice railway ticket and travel like the traditional English tourist. Possibly a commercial traveller.”
“Selling what?”
“Not selling. Buying. It’s time you knew buyers are always more welcome than sellers.”
“All right. Buying what?”
“Samples of glass might do, if I could wangle an import licence. Bohemia has been manufacturing quality glass-ware, coloured ornaments and such like for 700 years. I have made it my business to ascertain there’s a factory at Rodnitz, the town near which the Janis family have resided — according to Von Stalhein — for centuries. This is the place. Take a look and get your bearings.” Biggles opened the atlas.
CHAPTER III
THE CLUE
Days passed. A week. Ten days. Biggles sorted the mail impatiently but no word had come from Von Stalhein. He made frequent visits to his flat only to learn from the caretaker that he had not returned. However, now that the subject had become one for open conversation, with the air cleared Biggles was more his usual self.
“If Erich was coming back he’d be home by now; or, anyway you’d have heard from him,” remarked Ginger one morning. This was as they were sitting down to breakfast. As usual the talk had turned to Von Stalhein’s prolonged absence.
“And if he, German born, a trained agent, able to speak half a dozen languages fluently, couldn’t get away with it, what a hope any of us here would have,” put in Algy. He went on. “I’ll tell you something else. He has another advantage. Having lived on the other side of the barbed wire for so long he must know quite a few people there. Surely he could rely on one of them to help him, lend him money if he ran short or even provide him with a hide-out if he got into trouble. We don’t know a soul.”
Ginger resumed. “For all we know he may have relations. Maybe he has no intention of coming back to England.”
“In that case there was no reason why he should slink off without telling me he was going,” answered Biggles, shortly.
“He may have changed his mind since he got there. He may have found Marie, married her and settled down for good.”
“In which case, if I know the man, he would have found means of letting me know,” retorted Biggles. “How you do carry on. Are you trying to put me off going to look for Marie by arguing that if he couldn’t find her I wouldn’t have a chance?”
Algy replied. “Frankly, yes. After all, a man with a name like Von Stalhein on his passport should have no difficulty in moving about in Eastern Europe; whereas any official would look twice at a name like Bigglesworth.”
“I’m not so sure that you’re right there.”
“How do you work that out? How much do you know about Czechoslovakia?”
“Very little,” confessed Biggles. “When I had dinner with Eri
ch I knew practically nothing. As a matter of fact he didn’t say much about the country. There may have been a reason for that. Since then I’ve been making a few inquiries.”
“And what did you learn?”
“It seems that Czechoslovakia, now officially a republic, is one of those artificial states created by politicians after a war — with the best intentions, of course, but more often than not with unfortunate results. The country, formerly part of Austria-Hungary, now takes in Bohemia, Moravia, part of Silesia and Slovakia.”
“Bohemia,” put in Ginger. “I’ve just remembered something. Isn’t that where Good King Wenceslaus looked out, on the feast of Stephen, when the snow lay round about?”
“Correct.”
“Sounds as if it might be a cold country in winter.”
“Probably is.”
“Then if you’re going you’d better get cracking before it starts to snow. It’s September now.”
“All in good time.” Biggles went on. “Naturally, this tie-up of countries produced a mixture of people with different languages, although they now have a common one. I don’t know for sure but I imagine most of them can speak some German, anyway in Bohemia, which before the war was chiefly occupied by Germans and now has a German frontier. The point I’m trying to make is, Germans can hardly be popular after the frightful things the Nazis did to the country in Hitler’s war. Von Stalhein must be aware of it, and that may be why he kept off the subject. If I’m right, being a German won’t make things any easier for him unless there are still some Germans living there.”
“Isn’t Marie a German?” asked Algy.
“Yes. That’s what Erich couldn’t understand. He could only conclude that she’d gone back there because her family had lived in Bohemia for centuries. It was probably on account of the Nazi atrocities that the Czechs, when it came to the showdown, voted to row in with the Russians, who are still in control. I imagine the biggest risk Von Stalhein has to face is being recognized by a Soviet secret agent, he having worked for Russia himself. Well, there it is.”
“What do the Czechs use for money?” asked Bertie. “Have you found that out?”
“Of course. The basic unit is the koruna, or as we call it, the crown. About two hundred go to our pound. It’s divided into taler, a hundred to the crown. To get hold of some Czech money here may be a problem; but it shouldn’t be too difficult in Switzerland or Austria. Incidentally, Czechoslovakia now has frontiers with Germany, Austria, Poland, Hungary and Rumania. But I’m in no great hurry to go there. I’ll give Erich a few more days.”
“And then, if he doesn’t come back, or you hear nothing of him?”
“I shall start thinking seriously about looking for Marie.”
“Okay. Have it your way,” sighed Algy.
“I’ve got an idea,” announced Bertie, brightly.
“Let’s have it,” requested Biggles.
“If anyone’s going to have a stab at Rodnitz it should be me.”
“Why you? Marie means nothing to you. You don’t even know her.”
“Neither will you, old boy, after all these years, if know anything. Too many people know you by sight. They’re not so familiar with my mug. As Algy says, the name Bigglesworth might ring a bell. Mine wouldn’t.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Well, without flattering myself, my civilian passport should command a little respectful attention. I mean, my title’s on it. Had to be. The Lord Lissie, Chedcombe Manor. Occupation, gentleman — and all that rot, if you see what I mean.”
Ginger grinned. “I think he’s got something there.”
“What would you do?” Biggles asked Bertie.
“Take my car over and do a spot of touring in Bohemia.”
“Looking for Marie?”
“First of all a nice big field near Rodnitz, if there is one, where a plane could be put on the carpet.”
“Whose plane?”
“Yours, of course.”
“Why a plane, necessarily?”
“I’m thinking there would probably be snags in trying to get Marie out of the country by ordinary surface transport. She may not have a passport; or if she has, it may have expired. Had her papers been in order, if she’s so anxious to come here she might have got here without any help from us. Having found a field I then locate Marie, tell her where the field is and make a date for her to meet you there. I then come home and pinpoint the field on your map. Then all you have to is slip over and fly her out. How’s that?”
“Very ingenious and, as you put it, nice and simple. It might work. But why should you stick your neck out doing something that is really no concern of yours?”
“Nothing to it, old boy. We can’t have you fretting Marie for the rest of your life. You’ll be going into decline or something. The sooner we get her here the better for everyone. That’s what I say. Am I right, chaps?” Bertie looked at the others for confirmation.
They nodded assent, but without enthusiasm.
“I wish you’d get it out of your heads that I’m fretting,” said Biggles, critically. “All that ended long ago.”
“Then what’s the fuss about?” inquired Algy.
“It’s simply that I’m not happy while I have reason to think a friend may be sick, dying perhaps, alone, in miserable circumstances.”
“You call Marie Janis a friend?”
“Put it like this. Over the years I’ve met a great many people. The majority have meant nothing to me. Others have played a vital part in my life. Marie was one. Von Stalhein is another. I may be flattering myself but I like to think they have some regard for me. In this cock-eyed world such people should stand by each other when life looks grim. Kindly remember there was a time when Marie, enemy though she was, risked her life to save mine, both by entering a zone due to be bombed flat, and afterwards in front of a firing squad. If you can’t understand how I feel about that — well, never mind. That’s all I have to say about it, except that I don’t expect any of you to participate in what is a purely personal affair of mine.”
“I can’t remember Von Stalhein ever saving your life,” argued Algy.
“There were occasions when he could have killed me. There were occasions when I could have killed him. Neither of us pulled the trigger. Don’t ask me why. I’m not a psychologist.”
Bertie came back. “But look here, old boy, your personal affairs are our affairs, as you know jolly well. I’m all for taking a close look at Bohemia.”
“You may, but you’re not going alone,” stated Biggles firmly. “We’ll talk about it later. We’d better be getting to the office. Ginger, you might slip down and see if the post has been.”
Ginger went out and returned holding two or three letters. “Nothing of interest,” he said casually. “Postcard for Algy.” He handed it over. Algy glanced at it. Then he looked hard. He turned it over. “Just a minute,” he said to Biggles, who was putting on his hat. “You’d better have a look at this.”
Biggles came back, holding out a hand for the card. “Who’s it from?”
“Unless it’s the top coincidence of all time it’s from Von Stalhein.”
Biggles’s expression changed. “Addressed to you!”
Algy smiled. “‘A. Lacey Esq.’ Never mind that. Look at the picture on the front.”
Biggles took one quick look at it. He threw his hat aside and returning to the table laid the postcard on it. “Rodnitz,” he breathed. He turned the card over. “The wine here is excellent,” he read, slowly. “What the devil does that mean? There’s no address.”
“It wasn’t necessary to put one,” Algy said. “I fancy it’s in the picture.”
Again Biggles turned the card while the others came up to look over his shoulder.
It was an ordinary cheap picture postcard, such as is made in quantities for tourists. The picture was of a typical Central European street. The title, in small letters, simply read: Ludwigstrasse, Rodnitz. Conspicuous in the foreground, on a corner, was a large black a
nd white building. apparently old, carrying across the front in large. letters the sign: CAFE WAGNER. No mark had been made by the sender. Nor was there an indication of anything in particular to invite attention.
“It must be from Von Stalhein,” breathed Biggles.
“It couldn’t be from anyone else. That would be too fantastic.”
“Why couldn’t he have been a little more explicit,” complained Ginger. “The wine here is excellent! What are we to take that to mean?”
“Obviously he daren’t risk saying more. But hold your horses. This calls for serious thought. He says the wine is excellent. That could mean several things. First of all the card tells us he is, or has been, in Rodnitz. He is, or was, alive and well, or he couldn’t have written this. Also I am at, or sometimes go to, the Cafe Wagner.”
“Why send the card to me?” queried Algy.
“To avoid using my name which, as Bertie has already pointed out, might be known to someone seeing the card. You would be certain to show the card to me. Remember, this comes from a Communist-controlled country. The mail may be censored. Probably is. It may have been for that reason the card was not posted in Rodnitz; nor, for that matter, Czechoslovakia. The stamp is Swiss. The card, as we see from the postmark, was posted in Geneva.”
“Could he have posted it from there himself?”
“I don’t think so. Had he written from Switzerland he could have sent a letter and said anything he wanted to us know, instead of leaving us to guess. No. When he wrote this card he was in Rodnitz. I’d say he got someone leaving the country to post it. Possibly a tourist — a Swiss returning home. It’s likely that the Cafe Wagner is used by tourists. I’m assuming the object of this particular card was to call attention to the cafe. This business about the wine is non-committal, but it suggests the place is worth a visit.”
“Why did he write at all?” asked Ginger. “After pushing off without telling you he was going...”
“He knew I’d guess where he’d gone,” broke in Biggles. “He also knew that after the lapse of time I’d be getting worried about him. This may simply have been his way of putting my mind at rest, telling me he got to Rodnitz and all was well.”
