by W E Johns
“Let’s make a provisional arrangement for ten o’clock tomorrow night. By that time I hope to have made final arrangements with Bertie and he’ll be on his way home. I’ll tell you what has been arranged. That’s as far as we can go for the moment. The path should make it easy for me to keep in touch with you without using the road. I shall have to stay on at the hotel or they’ll wonder what I’m doing.”
“I understand,” said Von Stalhein.
“Good. Let’s go. You wait here, Erich. Give us ten minutes.”
The plan worked without a moment’s anxiety. Half an hour later, under a high, forest-covered bank, Biggles and Bertie were joined by Von Stalhein who, after a short but stiff climb, introduced them to the forester, Max. To their surprise he turned out to be none other than the bow-legged guard who had ordered them out of the forest on the occasion of their first attempt to reach the castle. Recognition was mutual and acknowledged with smiles.
Von Stalhein pointed out a narrow track, faintly visible, made by generations of animals moving from one of the forest to another. “It runs well back behind the hill some distance from the road,” he said. “It doesn’t go straight, so from here to the ruins of the old lodge must be about five miles. Don’t forget, always go left where the track forks.”
“I get it,” returned Biggles. “I shall aim to be at the ruins tomorrow night at ten o’clock. Now we’ll leave you to it.”
That was all. They parted there and then, Biggles and Bertie arriving back at the hotel rather late for the evening meal.
They received a jolt when they walked in. Standing by the reception desk, apparently waiting, were the two men who had interrogated them earlier in their bedroom. Reinhardt carried a portfolio.
“Ah, there you are,” he said in a friendly voice. “I was beginning to think you must have gone off on one of your long walks.”
“Not tonight. Just a stroll as far as the bridge and back,” replied Biggles smoothly.
“You remember you spoke to me about a camera.”
“That’s right,” agreed Biggles, wondering what was coming next.
“It won’t be necessary for you to go to that expense,” was the surprising rejoinder. “I have managed to get together a nice collection of pictures of the views you wanted, taken by a professional. Here they are, with our compliments.” He handed over a large envelope.
“I must say that’s uncommonly kind of you,” acknowledged Biggles, with the gratitude for which the occasion called. “That will save us a lot of trouble.”
“We always try to be of service to foreign visitors. Have you decided yet when you will be leaving us?”
“Not exactly. I shall be here for a few more days but my friend leaves for England tomorrow.”
“Indeed? Why the hurry?”
“No hurry, but I have reached the limit of my currency permit to buy specimens of your beautiful glass. There are still some pieces I would like so my friend is dashing home to apply for an increased allowance. A personal application is more likely to be successful than a written one.”
“Excellent. I wish you luck. Well, I won’t detain you. Guten Abend, mein herren.”
“Guten Abend. Danke.”
As Biggles and Bertie walked up the stairs to their room to wash before going into the dining-room Bertie understand them being puzzled. After all, why on earth asked softly: “What’s the idea of that? They seem to be getting pally all of a sudden.”
“Don’t you believe it,” answered Biggles cynically. “The purpose of those photos sticks out like a sore finger. We no longer have an excuse for using the river road.”
“The artful blighters.”
“Two can play at that game. They can now call at the glass factory — as I have no doubt they will — to check that we really have bought some more stuff, subject to official approval. They’re puzzled. They still don’t know quite what to make of us. They’ll watch tomorrow to see if you depart. When you do, that should get them guessing even harder.”
On the landing Biggles paused. He looked up and down the corridor. “Mind you,” he went on. “I can imagine there would be a few squalls should they think we could have any possible interest in an ex-German female spy who lives in the castle? Of course,” he added with a shrug, “if they should learn, as they might, that we were in the party that rescued a political prisoner named Von Stalhein from Sakhalin, there won’t be just squalls; it’ll be a hurricane.”
“How right you are, old boy, how right you are,” murmured Bertie.
As they walked on Biggles continued: “What Erich has told us puts a new complexion on the whole business. We’ve been acting as if time was of no importance. Now we’ve got to work fast. At least, you have, for the next few days. As soon as we’ve had something to eat we’ll waffle into the Cafe Wagner and put the final touches to the big operation. With all the clatter there it should be safe enough to talk. First, though, I want to have another look at the map.”
As soon as they were in the bedroom he took out the photographs that had so surprisingly been presented to them and threw the envelope on the bed. He was flipping through them casually, without any real interest, when he stopped at one and chuckled.
“What’s the joke?” whispered Bertie.
“Take a look at this,” breathed Biggles, offering the photograph. “I’ve been wondering how we could work in another survey of the possible landing grounds, either that long sand-bank island or one of the fields under cultivation in the valley, having in mind particularly the one where they were loading sugar-beet. They may not have finished it, in which case it would be no use. Believe it or not, our friends have been obliging enough to present us with the very information we needed. This photo shows the crop has been cleared. Some of the other pictures are interesting, too. You can take them with you when you go and study the skylines in your own time. But we’ll talk more about this later. Let’s get a move on. We’ve no time to waste.”
An hour later, having had a quick meal, they were in the cafe, in the quietest corner they could find — for there was the usual busy buzz of conversation — working out the details of the air operation.
Neither of them had remarked on it but they must both have been aware that it was as tricky an undertaking as they had ever seriously contemplated. Luck, as well as the most skilful air pilotage, would be essential to success. Biggles in particular had an exceptional war-time experience in what are called “special missions”; but in peace-time the calculated risks, considered in cold blood, had a more sinister appearance. In war there is always a headquarters to back up a dangerous operation; to share the blame in the event of failure, if not the actual risks. Here, acting entirely on their own account, they could expect no consolation from friends, and no mercy from foe, should things go wrong. To narrate the discussion, the many pros and cons, in detail, would become tedious. A final plan emerged. It would depend more than anything on perfect timing; but that that would apply, whatever they did, was obvious from the outset. Luck would play its part in factors over which they had no control, such as, for instance, the weather, or anything that might happen at the castle from the hour of Bertie’s departure for England and the night of his return. Nothing could be changed. There could be no more contact between Bertie and those waiting for the aircraft. In a word, one change in the existing conditions would throw the entire plan out of gear, with results that could only be fatal to the enterprise. No alternative scheme could be devised to cover last moment hazards of which they could have no knowledge.
The final plan, in the simplest terms, was this. And in fact the operation had been kept as simple as possible, Biggles knowing only too well that the more complicated a plan the more likelihood was there of something going amiss.
Bertie would start for England the following morning, leaving Rodnitz by train or by motor coach according to the most suitable time-table. This would have to be ascertained. Once across the frontier he would proceed by the first regular air service available. On a
rrival, having informed Ginger and Algy of the situation, he would look for an aircraft most suitable for the job. There had been much discussion about this. They had decided on a Dove, if one could be found. Biggles knew one had recently been offered for sale by an air charter company that had gone into liquidation.
Bertie would return with Ginger acting as second pilot. The machine would glide across the frontier at maximum altitude in the hope of avoiding observation.
Five days had been allowed for all this. That would leave a margin of two days before the expiration of the ultimatum imposed on Marie. Bertie would return on the fifth night, touching down at midnight when the moon would be well up. Biggles and the others would be waiting. When they heard the plane a light would be shown at each end of the runway. If for any reason the plane did not arrive the same programme would be repeated the next night, same place same time.
In the matter of the actual days, Bertie would leave Rodnitz on Tuesday (one day of the ultimatum having already expired) and return on Saturday; failing that, on Sunday. The officials would return on the Monday for Marie’s decision. If all went well she would not be at the castle to give it.
“I hate these rush jobs,” said Biggles at the finish. “It’s so easy to overlook something. However, let’s leave it at that. There’s nothing more we can do.”
CHAPTER XII
A SHOCK AND A JOURNEY
THE next morning saw Bertie on his way to England. He went by coach. Particulars of the service had been obtained from the hotel reception desk and the clerk had booked the seat. The coach service had been decided upon not only because it was the most convenient way of getting to Austria from where they were, but it had the added advantage of following the river, thus enabling Bertie to have a last look at the terrain over which he would fly on his return. The river, reflecting the moonlight provided the weather was fair, would he an unmistakable landmark to bring him to the rendezvous.
Biggles saw him off. He was slightly amused to see Reinhardt standing by the door of a car, at a distance, watching. This did not worry him. Bertie was really going, as he had said, and there was nothing illegal about it. He could only suppose that Reinhardt’s suspicions were founded on the fact that the car would take the river road. The police car followed the coach when it moved off, presumably to make sure that Bertie did not leave it on the way to the frontier.
Biggles now found himself in the unusual position of having nothing to do for the rest of the day, wherefore he decided to behave in a manner consistent with his announced purpose of awaiting official approval to make payment for his last purchases at the glass factory. He did not go near the river, but wandered about looking at the shops in the Ludwigstrasse. As the weather threatened rain, with drizzle from time to time, he bought himself a mackintosh. He also took the opportunity of buying three small electric torches to mark the best landing run for the plane. He chose three different patterns so that should he be searched he could account for them by saying they were samples. He had lunch at the Cafe Wagner.
He spent the afternoon in much the same way, but after a cup of tea at the cafe he returned to his hotel room to rest in preparation for his long walk to the castle, as arranged, to explain the escape plan. After that he would have nothing to do but wait for the night of Bertie’s return. Or so he thought, moodily, for after one day of inaction he already found time hanging heavily. He had no reason to suspect that events were soon to relieve any question of boredom.
These started as dusk was closing in and the lights were coming on in the street below. He had gone to the window to see what the weather was like and observed with disgust that the rain appeared to have settled in, not heavily, but steadily, sufficient to make his proposed long walk an uncomfortable one. His intention was to have his evening meal in the dining room of the hotel and then go on to the castle by the deer track. He threw his mackintosh over his arm, put the three torches in one of the pockets thinking he might as well take them along right away, and picked up his hat. Having checked that he had with him everything he was likely to want he was having a last look round to make sure he had not overlooked anything when a sharp squeal of brakes in the street below took him back to the window.
This was instinctive. Or perhaps it was force of habit. He did not expect to see anything that might concern him, but he was always alert for trouble.
Looking down into the street he saw three men getting out of a small black van that had pulled up at the hotel entrance. It was the way they did this that made him stare. There was an urgency of purpose about it. Without hesitation they entered the hotel.
Biggles frowned. Was one of them Reinhardt? Looking down from above it had not been possible to see faces, but one figure had been very much like his. The black van had an official look about it. A police van? Living dangerously can beget a sensitive intuition, and it may have been this as much as anything that took Biggles to his door in three quick strides. He opened it. He could see nobody. All he could hear was muffled voices, coming, he thought, from the reception desk. A few swift steps took him to the top of the main staircase. He heard his name mentioned. The voice that spoke it was Reinhardt’s. He heard the reception clerk say he was in. Purposeful footsteps approached the bottom of the stairs.
Biggles waited no longer. He could not imagine what had happened but it was evident from the way Reinhardt moved and spoke that something had. The suave official had become what he was. A secret police agent. Biggles decided not to wait to hear what he had to say.
He did not return to his room. There was no time for that. Instead, he walked smartly straight along the corridor to where, opposite a bathroom, he had noted an emergency fire exit. Over the door the notice appeared in illuminated red letters.
Where the exit emerged he did not know, but it was reasonable to suppose it would be in the open air outside the hotel. Anyway, there was no question of using the main stairs. There might be others, a staff staircase, but he had never seen it and dare not lose time looking for it.
He opened the fire exit doors. Iron steps spiralled down. He followed them to the bottom. Another door. It was bolted on the inside, as is usual, to prevent outsiders from getting in. He drew the bolt, opened the door, and after a quick peep went out to find himself in what obviously was the hotel car park. A car was just leaving. He followed it out into the street, the Ludwigstrasse, and with the black van in mind, which probably had a driver in the front seat, taking care not to appear to hurry he turned away from it and strolled along the pavement mingling with other pedestrians.
The rain still fell in a quiet drizzle.
The castle was now his objective. He knew of nowhere else to go. He had to get to the castle anyhow, and if he did not get to the bridge before the hue and cry for him started, as he was now sure it would, he might never reach the forest. Once clear of the hotel he put his best foot forward; but he knew better than to run.
The Ludwigstrasse is a long street, and to Biggles it seemed to have added a mile to its length before he came in sight of the bridge. Thinking fast as he walked he decided there were two things he needed to make him independent of the town, to which, he realized, he could never return. Wherefore he took a chance and stopped twice. The first time was at a tobacconist, where he bought as many packets of cigarettes as he could conveniently carry. The second was a delikatessen, where he purchased two bread rolls and a large German sausage - these really for emergency in case he should fail to reach his objective that night. He was by no means sure from where his next meal might come.
There was a fair amount of traffic using the bridge at that hour, which was to his advantage in that nobody was likely to pay any attention to him, and it was with heartfelt relief that he crossed it, for this, he surmised, would be the first place where Reinhardt would station guards. He walked on until he was below the deer track, and then, under the pretence of lighting a cigarette, he edged back under the trees. A quick glance up and down and he was in the forest, just as the black van came ov
er the bridge, and turning left raced on down the river road.
Satisfied that he was for the moment safe he scrambled up to the deer track and there sat on a fallen tree to consider the situation. It had changed so suddenly and so swiftly that there had been little time for reflection. What had happened? Why had the police come for him? That they had he was sure. Had he blundered somewhere, somehow? He didn’t think so.
After giving the matter a lot of thought he could arrive at only one conclusion, and he was fairly confident it was the right one. Reinhardt had at last received a report from his headquarters, wherever that might be, associating him with Von Stalhein. That would be all he needed to know. It would explain what must have been a mystery: why they were in Rodnitz at the same time. It seemed probable that Reinhardt had received orders to arrest him. There was sufficient reason. The affair of Von Stalhein’s escape from Sakhalin.
All Biggles could hope for now was that neither he nor Von Stalhein had been linked with what was going on in the castle. If inquiries had got as far as that the immediate future would look black indeed. He was surprised that Reinhardt was so soon on his track. The police agent had gone to his room at the hotel expecting to find him there. The fact that he was not in did not necessarily mean that he was not coming back. Why hadn’t they waited for him? Perhaps the van driver had seen him leave the hotel car park. Investigation would reveal that the door at the bottom of the fire escape was open. It could not be bolted from the outside. No matter how they knew he had gone, he pondered. They knew, and now he, like Von Stalhein, was on the run.
Getting up he started his long walk to the castle — or, rather, first to the ruined hunting lodge — groping his way through the dripping trees. One of his torches would have made progress a lot easier, but he daren’t risk using a light. The rain had made the muddy track greasy and as it wandered about, up and down, he often slipped. He had to be careful, too, not to miss the forks; to overlook one and take the wrong track would almost certainly find him lost in the great forest.
