by W E Johns
“So far so good,” said Biggles quietly. “I can’t believe guards would patrol such a slope as this. If they did we could hardly fail to hear them.”
“We’d better not crow too soon,” returned Bertie. “We may find them waiting at the top.”
“I think that’s more than likely,” agreed Biggles. “We shall see.”
Dusk now had filled the valley. Through a leafy screen it was just possible to see the pale outline of the road. Nothing moved on it.
The forest was now a gloomy labyrinth. In the absence of colour it had lost its elfin atmosphere as a home for gnomes and goblins. Movement was by feel rather than by sight. To climb meant a scramble from tree to tree sliding on loose leaf mould, clutching at protruding roots or a low-hanging branch. As Bertie remarked sadly, they were no longer in fairyland.
They had not gone far when Biggles stopped and half turned to look below when to their ears came the sound of a car travelling at high speed.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” said Bertie casually.
“He’ll be in the river if he tries to take the bend at that rate,” predicted Biggles.
“He’s coming this way from Rodnitz.”
“Sounds to me like two cars having a race.”
They stood still to watch, as far as this was possible.
The light of distant headlights flickered on the road, on the wall and the trees overhanging from the forest. Then, as the cars raced nearer, the watchers were startled by the sound of a shot, another and another.
“What the devil’s going on?” muttered Biggles. He did not sound in the least alarmed.
“It can’t be anything to do with us,” asserted Bertie.
“I don’t see how it could be. They’re not shooting at us, anyway,” answered Biggles. “I hope you’re right,” he went on grimly, as a sub-machine gun started ping out bullets in short bursts.
This was followed by a screech of brakes and a vicious skid that ended with a crash as if a car had struck the wall, or grazed it and overturned. Then came another squeal of brakes and skidding tyres. There were no more engine noises making it evident that both cars had stopped. Men shouted. Lights appeared on the road with the sound of running footsteps; but apart from the moving lights nothing could be seen. This continued for some time, as if several men were searching for something.
“What do you make of it?” queried Bertie, a tinge of anxiety creeping into his voice.
“I haven’t a clue. Your guess is as good as mine. It’s no ordinary accident. The leading car must have been shot at by the one following it. That stopped it. I can’t imagine how it could be anything to do with us. Only the two cars on the road were involved.”
“I can hear people crashing about as if they were in the forest.”
“They must be looking for something — or somebody. We’d better not move till it’s all over.”
“They sat down again, staring in the direction of the road, listening for a sound that might provide a clue as to what was happening. There was a good deal of talking, and calling, but as the actual words could not be heard it conveyed nothing.
“If they’re looking for somebody in the forest they haven’t much hope of finding him,”
“This hold-up is a nuisance,” answered Biggles. “It’s putting us behind schedule.”
It was half an hour before a car was started and the sound of it had receded in the direction of Rodnitz.
“They’ve gone,” said Bertie, thankfully.
“Not all of them perhaps. They may have left someone to watch. We’d better keep still for a little while. We can’t move in this murk without making a certain amount of noise. A branch snapping or a rock rolling down the hill could bring someone up here. We’re not in such a desperate hurry that it’s worth taking a chance.”
They sat still. Time passed. Half an hour, possibly more. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Lightning flickered over the mountains.
“That storm’s coming—” began Bertie, but broke off when Biggles laid a hand on his arm.
“Listen,” breathed Biggles. ‘I can hear someone moving... below us... coming up the hill.”
A twig cracked.
“Don’t move,” whispered Biggles.
“Let’s go.”
“No. Keep still.”
Sounds drew nearer; slipping feet; breaking twigs; and then the heavy breathing of a man on the point of exhaustion.
Biggles and Bertie stood like statues on a pedestal.
Came a low whistle.
They did not answer it.
More panting. Then a voice said, in a husky whisper but quite distinctly: “Bigglesworth. Are you there?”
“My God!” gasped Biggles. “It’s Erich.” He whistled softly.
Blundering footsteps approached. “Where are you?” asked Von Stalhein.
“Here. Up a bit and a little to your right.”
A final effort and Von Stalhein sank down beside them.
“What the devil’s going on?” demanded Biggles, in anything but a friendly tone.
“Give me a minute to get my breath and I’ll tell you. Do you happen to have a spare handkerchief?”
Biggles produced his own. “Are you hurt?”
“Not badly. You must have heard me crash. A bit shaken. A few cuts and bruises. Nothing serious.”
“Take your time. Was that shooting at you?”
“It was.”
“Then as soon as you can you’d better tell us all about it, because this looks like knocking our scheme on the head.”
“I’m afraid it’s all over as far as I’m concerned,” confessed Von Stalhein bitterly. “What has happened won’t take long to explain. When you’ve heard it I don’t think you’ll blame me. It was one of those things.”
“Tell us,” requested Biggles. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“Right enough to talk. I wouldn’t have gone out today but I had to, to get something to eat. I waited until it was nearly dark. When I returned I took the precaution of looking down the street before going on to my lodging. It was a good thing I did. A number of men were standing outside the gasthaus. Reinhardt, who must have gone in to see if I was there, came out, and at once started posting men in positions to intercept anyone going in. Obviously the trap was being set for me. It could be for no one else. It was clear that as far as I was concerned the game was up. I can only suppose that Reinhardt had got the information for which he had been waiting, and with it orders to pick me up. As I backed away my first thought was of you.”
“Why me?”
“Should I be arrested you would never know what had become of me, and in trying to find out, you, too, might well have been trapped.”
Biggles nodded. “Yes, that could have happened. Carry on.”
“There was a car parked against the curb in the next street; just an ordinary small car. I didn’t wait to ask who it belonged to. For me it was now a matter of life or death. Finding the doors unlocked I took it and headed for the river. I hoped to catch you before you started to climb to the castle, to let you know what had happened, and then make a dash for the frontier — or get within walking distance of it. I reckoned on getting a good start, but they were soon after me. How that happened I don’t know—”
“The owner of the car missed it and rang the police.”
“Probably. Anyhow, by the time I was on the river road I realized they were after me. They hooted at me to stop but I took no notice. I wouldn’t have stopped, certainly not here, but having a faster car they overtook me. Seeing I had no intention of stopping, as soon as they were in range they opened fire on me. A bullet burst a rear tyre and my car became uncontrollable. I struck the parapet, spun across the road, and hitting a tree on the edge of the forest, overturned. By sheer good luck I wasn’t badly hurt. I managed to get out and did the only thing I could do. I dived into the forest. I thought that would give me a respite, for it seemed unlikely they’d be able to find me in the dark. It wouldn’t be easy in dayligh
t. Knowing you couldn’t be far away I still hoped to make contact with you.”
“We heard the fuss on the road and waited for it to end before we moved on,” said Biggles.
“Well, that’s all,” concluded Von Stalhein. “I’m finished. I can’t go back to Rodnitz. I can only say sorry I brought trouble this way; but I had to act fast and there was little time for thought. You carry on. Forget about me. I’ll try to reach the frontier on foot.”
“If they know you’re the man who escaped from Sakhalin I wouldn’t give much for your chances,” replied Biggles frankly. “As soon as it’s daylight, if not before, they’ll comb the district for you, perhaps with dogs.”
“The alternative is to give myself up. Perhaps I’d better do that.”
“Why?”
“It would put an end to the hue and cry and so leave you free to manoeuvre.”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” said Biggles bluntly, “We don’t abandon our friends when they’re on a spot, as you should have noticed by now.”
“You say I shall never make the frontier. What else can I do?”
“Stay with us. Obviously it would be suicide for you to go back to the road at this moment. You’re safe for the time being, at any rate.”
“By staying with you I could ruin your chances of getting in touch with Marie, wherever she may be.”
“I’ll not pretend you’re likely to make the job any easier; but let’s not look at it like that. In my opinion the nearer you are to the castle the safer you’ll be. Look at it this way. It will be assumed you’ll make for the frontier. Reinhardt, or whoever is after you, can’t possibly know that your purpose in coming to Rodnitz was to find Marie. I can’t see any possible reason why they should connect your crash on the road with her, or, if it comes to that, the castle. For the fact that the chase ended at the bend they were responsible, not you. I’d wager they thought you were making for the frontier, which is what any refugee would do, and what, given time, you would have done. The last place they’ll look for you is near the castle. It’s hardly the place for a man on the run. Wherefore I suggest you come on up the hill with us — that is, if you feel like it. We’ll see how that works out. If it fails we’ll try something else. How about it?”
“Physically I’m all right. A few sore spots, that’s all.”
“Good. Then that’s settled. Let’s see what conditions are like at the top.”
“Oh confound it; here comes the rain,” growled Bertie, as a few big drops pattered down.
“Don’t complain at that,” remonstrated Biggles. “It suits me fine.”
“How do you make that out?”
“I’m thinking of dogs. We’ve seen one of them. Dogs work by nose, not sight. They could get Erich’s scent from the seat of the car he pinched. A heavy shower should wash it out. Let’s get on with the job.”
The climb, now a three man operation, was resumed. To describe it in detail would be needless repetition. Underfoot a tangle of roots alternated with rocky outcrops. Falls and slides, none serious, were common. As the ascent became steadily steeper rests became more frequent. Biggles got his wish about the rain. It continued and became torrential as the storm broke with thunder and lightning. This did nothing to make progress easier. The ground became more slippery and handholds treacherous; but the noise they made, and this at times was considerable as a branch broke or a loose rock went adrift, was drowned. However, they stuck to their task, and finally, after being baulked for a while by a low cliff, they reached level ground which they took to be — correctly as it turned out — the top of the bluff on which the castle had been built.
They could not see it. In pitch darkness they could not see anything; but they could feel they were in waist high grass or weeds. In this they sank down, panting, to recover from their exertions. The rain was still heavy and gave no sign of ending. They had no idea of how far they were from the walls of the castle. They looked in vain for a lighted window to give them their position, although as Biggles remarked, it would have to be a bright one to show through the rain. They were of course saturated, but fortunately it was not cold.
“We’ll stay here for a bit to give the rain a chance to stop,” decided Biggles.
Bertie wiped mud and water from his hands and face with a rain-soaked rag handkerchief. “I call this a disgusting business,” he complained.
Von Stalhein, in answer to a question from Biggles, said he felt no after effects of his crash.
After a little while the rain settled down to the drizzle that so often follows the trail of a thunderstorm; but it was still too dark to see anything clearly.
“We shall have to make the best we can of it,” declared Biggles eventually. “We can’t sit here till daylight.” He got up. “Take time from me and don’t lose touch.”
“Mind how you go,” pleaded Bertie. “Don’t forget some castles have moats and things.”
“I’ll watch it,” promised Biggles. “I’m not so much afraid of a moat as trip-wires setting off an alarm.”
Taking a step at a time he forced a passage through the soaking wet herbage.
CHAPTER IX
THE SECRET OF THE CASTLE
BIGGLES had taken only a few paces, feeling his way carefully for wire, when a flicker of sheet lightning low over the horizon provided a momentary illumination of the scene. It lasted less than a second, but that was sufficient time to reveal the great mass of the castle rising like a cliff within a dozen yards of them. It had looked huge from below, but now, at close range, it loomed a colossal silhouette, formidable and almost frightening.
Brief as the picture had been one feature remained photographed on Biggles’s brain. It was a curious black stain that started at ground level and ended in a ragged line at what appeared to be a wall with a castellated top. He saw no windows, no door.
Again feeling his way forward the stain was explained when his hands encountered cold wet leaves. The stain was ivy, or some similar growth, thick and unrestrained. He groped about in it, bringing a deluge of water on his head, until his fingers dosed on a rough stem, as thick as a man’s arm. He turned to the others.
“It’s ivy,” he whispered. “I think I could climb up it if there was something to reach. It doesn’t go right to the top. I couldn’t see a window. It looks like a blank wall. I didn’t expect to find a door on this side but I thought there would be windows.”
“Wait for another flash of lightning,” suggested Von Stalhein.
“While we’re fiddling about a guard may come along,” protested Bertie. “Let’s get on with it.”
Biggles resumed. “If I know anything about guards they’ll stay under cover while the rain persists.”
“I may be wrong, but I got the impression this was an outside wall in front of us, not the actual castle,” volunteered Von Stalhein.
“I thought the same thing,” answered Biggles. “Of course, if it is only a wall surrounding this part of the castle it would prevent us from seeing what’s on the other side of it. To settle the argument I’ll climb up and have a look. It shouldn’t be too difficult. There’s no need for us all to go. You two stay here till I come down or make a signal. Keep under cover in case any one should come along. We may get a blink of moonlight presently. Don’t go far away.”
With that, having found a strong stem well rooted in the stone wall Biggles began to climb.
It turned out to be easier than he expected. That is not to say it was comfortable. Water poured over him from the disturbed leaves, but as he was already wet to the skin it didn’t matter. After pulling himself up for what he judged to be about thirty feet he found himself clutching the parapet of a crenellated wall. He dragged himself on to it. At the same time a thin patch of cloud allowed enough starlight through for him to get an idea of his immediate surroundings.
He saw he had arrived on a stone-flagged balcony, or terrace, some five to six yards wide, which may have been part of the castle’s defences; possibly a patrol point for a sentry,
a look-out, since it must have commanded a view of the valley below. He could not see the extremities of the balcony. They merged into the gloom; but it was at least thirty yards long. It was backed by the massive bulk of the castle itself, broken at intervals by recessed slits of windows.
What caught his eye instantly was a misty slant of light that fell across the balcony not far from where he crouched. It was the only light he could see and obviously marked the position of a window. He could have asked for nothing more. It promised a glimpse of the inside of the castle, provided there was no curtain. From his position there was of course no indication of what was behind the window, but he assumed it would be a room of some sort. To confirm it promised to be a simple operation; and in fact it was.
Keeping close against the inner wall — that is, the castle itself — he made his way along, presently to perceive that the light came through a window which, reaching to foot level, was also a door, sometimes called a French window. Taking care not to expose himself in the light he moved an eye forward until he could see round the outer stone frame.
What he actually saw through the glass window was, as he had anticipated, the interior of a room, a large room with a high vaulted ceiling. It was well furnished with chairs, a couch, a writing desk, carpets and rugs. Trophies of the chase decorated the walls. There was even a grand piano. All this Biggles took in at a glance before his gaze settled on the one occupant of the room, to him the only object of importance.
It was a woman. She sat, relaxed, on a couch, one knee drawn up, an arm resting on a cushion, reading by the light of a standard lamp.
He looked at her. Stared would perhaps be the right word. Could this be Marie Janis? Could he detect a slight resemblance to the girl he had once known or was imagination misleading him? When for a short while their paths had crossed in the turmoil of war she had been young, attractive and vivacious. Here was a slightly built woman getting on in years. She looked frail. She wore glasses, although this may have been only for reading. Her hair was streaked with grey. A sad thoughtful expression, was that of someone who has known trouble.
