Biggles Flies East

by W E Johns

  ‘What did he say to that?’

  ‘He didn’t say anything; he just went all to pieces. Now he’s trying to pretend that he didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘In the Kantara prison camp, in solitary confinement,’ put in the Major.

  ‘What are you going to do with him, sir?’

  ‘He’ll be tried by General Court Martial, of course. But what about this fellow von Stalhein? That’s far more important.’

  ‘I was coming to that,’ answered Biggles slowly. ‘I think we can lay him by the heels, but I shall want some help.’

  ‘What sort of help?’

  ‘Personal assistance from somebody who knows the country well—and the Arabs; Major Sterne for instance.’

  Major Raymond looked serious. ‘He’s a difficult fellow to get hold of,’ he said. ‘He’s all over the place, and we seldom know just where he is. Won’t any one else do?’

  ‘I’d prefer Sterne. It’s only right that as he caught El Shereef, he should have a hand in the affair. Surely if you sent out an SOS amongst the Arabs it would reach his ears and he’d come in.’

  ‘He might. He doesn’t like being interfered with when he’s on a job, but if the matter was exceptionally serious he might take it the right way. Just what do you suggest?’

  ‘I suggest that a message be sent out that his presence is urgently required at General Headquarters in connexion with plans for the British advance, so will he please report as quickly as possible. That should bring him in.’

  ‘But good gracious, man, the General would never consent to that.’

  ‘Why not? He more than any one else should be glad to lay a dangerous fellow like von Stalhein by the heels.’

  ‘And suppose I can arrange it: where would you like to see Sterne?’

  ‘At General Headquarters, if possible; it would save him coming here. If you’ll get the message out I’ll go to headquarters with Lacey and wait until he comes. Perhaps you’d like to come along too?’

  ‘The General isn’t going to be pleased if you waste his time.’

  ‘I shan’t be pleased if I waste my own, if it comes to that,’ observed Biggles coolly. ‘I’ve been risking my neck, so he can hardly object to giving up a few minutes of his time. All right, sir, let’s start moving.’

  Chapter 21

  Sterne Takes a Hand

  The pearly glow of a new day spread slowly over the eastern sky; it threw a cold grey light over the inhospitable wilderness, and intensified the whiteness of a house that stood on the outskirts of the village of Jebel Zaloud, a house that once had been the residence of the merchant Ali Ben Sadoum, but was now the air Headquarters of the British Expeditionary Force in Palestine.

  A wan beam crept through the unglazed window of a room on the ground floor, and awoke two officers who were sleeping uncomfortably in deck chairs. Biggles started, blinked, and then sprang to his feet as he observed the daylight. ‘Looks as if he isn’t coming, Algy,’ he said crisply. ‘It’s getting light.’

  Algy rubbed his eyes, yawned, and stood up, stretching. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘In which case we shall have to try to find the wily Erich ourselves, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes; it’s a pity though,’ muttered Biggles thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. ‘I hoped we should save ourselves a lot of trouble.’ He yawned. ‘We must have dropped off to sleep soon after midnight. Well, well, it can’t be helped, but I expect the General will be peeved if he’s been waiting about all night.’

  ‘He wasn’t going to bed anyway,’ Algy told him. ‘I heard the Brigade-Major say that the General would be up most of the night working on important dispatches. Where is Raymond do you suppose?’

  ‘Up in the General’s room, I imagine—he was last night.’

  ‘Gosh! he’ll be sick if we let the General down.’

  ‘I expect he will; as I said before, it’s a pity, but it can’t be helped. I’ve acted as I thought best.’

  There was a tap on the door and an orderly appeared. ‘The General wishes to see you in his room immediately,’ he said.

  Biggles grimaced. ‘This is where we get our ears twisted,’ he muttered ruefully, as he followed the orderly to a large apartment on the first floor.

  The General looked up wearily from his desk as they entered. Several Staff officers and Major Raymond were there, and they regarded the two airmen with disapproval plainly written on their faces.

  ‘Which of you is Bigglesworth?’ began the General.

  Biggles stepped forward. ‘I am, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Will you have the goodness to explain what all this means? Major Raymond has told me of the excellent work you have done since you have been in Palestine, and in view of that I am prepared to take a broad view, but I am very tired, and this business all seems very pointless.’

  Biggles looked uncomfortable. ‘I agree, sir, it does,’ he admitted; ‘but I had hoped to prove that my unusual request was justified.’

  ‘I believe it was on your intervention that stay of execution was granted in the death sentence promulgated in connexion with Sheikh Haroun Ibn Said, otherwise the spy, El Shereef. Frankly, Bigglesworth, we are prepared to give officers sent out here on special detached duty from the Air Board a lot of rope, but there is a limit as to how far we can allow them to interfere with ordinary service routine.’

  ‘Quite, sir. I hope to repay you for your consideration.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By saving you from the mental discomfort you would surely have suffered when you discovered that you had shot an innocent man, sir.’

  ‘Innocent man! What are you talking about?’

  ‘The Sheikh Haroun Ibn Said is not El Shereef, sir.’

  Biggles spoke quietly but firmly.

  ‘Good heavens, man, what do you mean?’

  ‘What I say, sir. The whole thing was a frame-up—if I may use an American expression. Sheikh Haroun is what he has always claimed to be—a good friend of the British. By causing him to be arrested and—as they hoped—shot as a spy, the German agent who handled the job hoped to achieve two ends. To remove a powerful Sheikh who was sincerely loyal to British arms, and at the same time lull you into a sense of false security by leading you to believe that you had at last put an end to the notorious activities of the spy, El Shereef. Sheikh Haroun Ibn Said, in his ignorance of western matters, was easily induced to wear a German Secret Service ring, and carry on his person incriminating documents without having the slightest idea of what they meant. In short, he was induced to adopt the personality of El Shereef.’

  The General’s face was grim. ‘By whom?’ he snapped.

  ‘By El Shereef, sir,’ said Biggles simply.

  The General started and a look of understanding dawned in his eyes. Silence fell on the room. What Biggles had just told him might not have occurred to him, but its dreadful possibilities were now only too apparent. ‘Good God!’ he breathed. ‘Are you sure of this?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘So El Shereef is still at large.’

  ‘He is, sir.’

  ‘Who is the man whom you flew into the British lines last night—Major Raymond has told me about it—this Hauptmann Erich von Stalhein. Has he any connexion with El Shereef?’

  ‘He has, sir.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He’s the same man, sir—El Shereef.’

  Another silence fell. The General sat staring like a man hypnotized, and so did his staff for that matter, although one or two of them looked incredulous.

  ‘Why did you not tell me this before?’ asked the General harshly. There was reproach and anger in his voice.

  ‘Because there was a thing that I valued above all others at stake, sir,’ replied Biggles firmly. ‘For that reason I told nobody what I had discovered.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘My life, sir. I do not mean to be disrespectful, but German agents have ears in the very highest places—even in your headquarters, sir.�
��

  The General frowned. ‘I find it hard to believe that,’ he said. ‘Still, this story of yours puts a very different complexion on things. Von Stalhein, alias El Shereef, is still at large, and you want Sterne to help you run him to earth—is that it?’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’

  ‘I see. I sent out a general call for him last night, but it begins to look as if he isn’t coming. If he does come, I’ll let you know.’

  There was a sharp rap on the door, and the duty Staff sergeant entered. ‘Major Sterne is here, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Ask him to come up here at once,’ ordered the General. ‘I’ll speak to him first and tell him what is proposed,’ he added quickly, turning to Biggles.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Biggles, after a nod to Algy, stepped back against the far wall.

  The next moment he was watching with a kind of fascinated interest a man who had swept into the room, for he knew he was looking at one of the most talked-of men in the Middle East, a man whose knowledge of native law was proverbial and who could disguise himself to deceive even the Arabs themselves. Even now he was dressed in flowing Arab robes, but he clicked his heels and raised his hand in the military salute.

  ‘Hello, Sterne, here you are then,’ began the General, as he reached over his desk and shook hands. ‘You got my message?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the other briskly. ‘I was anxious to know what it was about.’

  ‘It’s about this confounded fellow, El Shereef,’ continued the General. ‘It seems that there has been some mistake; the fellow you brought in was not El Shereef at all.’

  Biggles stepped forward quietly.

  ‘Not El Shereef!’ cried Sterne. ‘What nonsense! If he isn’t El Shereef, then who is?’

  ‘You are, I think,’ said Biggles quietly. ‘Don’t move—von Stalhein.’

  The man who had been known as Major Sterne spun round on his heel and looked into the muzzle of Biggles’ revolver. He lifted eyes that were glittering with hate to Biggles’ face. ‘Ah,’ he said softly, and then again, ‘Ah. So I was right.’

  ‘You were,’ said Biggles shortly, ‘and so was I.’

  Von Stalhein slowly raised his hands. As they drew level with the top of his burnous, he tore the garment off with a swift movement and hurled it straight into Biggles’ face. At the same time he leapt for the door. Algy barred his way, but he turned like a hare and sprang at the window with Algy at his heels. For a second pandemonium reigned.

  Biggles dared not risk shooting for fear of hitting Algy or the Staff officers who tried to intercept the German; but they were too late. Biggles saw a flash of white as von Stalhein went through the window like a bird. He did not attempt to follow, but dashed through the door, shouting for the headquarter’s guard. ‘Outside, outside,’ he shouted furiously, as they came running up the stairs. He dashed past them, raced to the door, and looked out. An Arab, bent double over a magnificent horse, was streaking through the village street. Before Biggles could raise his weapon horse and rider had disappeared round the corner of the road that led to Kantara.

  ‘Get my car, get my car,’ roared the General. ‘Baines! Baines! Where the devil are you? Confound the man, he’s never here when he’s wanted.’

  ‘Here, sir.’ The chauffeur, very red about the ears, for he had been snatching a surreptitious cup of tea with the cook, started the big Crossley tourer and took his place at the wheel.

  The General jumped in beside him, and the others squeezed into the back seats. There was not room for Algy, but determined not to be left behind, he flung himself on the running board.

  ‘Faster, man, faster,’ cried the General, as they tore through the village with Arabs, mangy dogs, scraggy fowls, and stray donkeys missing death by inches. The car, swaying under its heavy load, dry-skidded round the corner where von Stalhein had last been seen, and the open road lay before them.

  A mile away the tents of Kantara gleamed pink and gold in the rays of the rising sun; two hundred yards this side of them von Stalhein was flogging his horse unmercifully, as, crouching low in the saddle, he sped like an arrow towards the hangars.

  ‘He’ll beat us,’ fumed the General. ‘He’ll take one of those machines just starting up.’

  It was apparent that such was von Stalhein’s intention. Several machines of different types were standing on the tarmac; the propeller of one of them, a Bristol Fighter, was flashing in the sunlight, warming up the engine while its pilot and observer finished their cigarettes outside the Mess some thirty or forty yards away.

  Von Stalhein swerved like a greyhound towards the machine. The pilot and observer watched his unusual actions in astonishment; they made no attempt to stop him.

  At a distance of ten yards von Stalhein pulled up with a jerk that threw the horse on to its haunches; in a twinkling of an eye he had pulled away the chocks from under the wheels and had taken a flying leap into the cockpit. The engine roared and the Bristol began to move over the ground.

  ‘We’ve lost him,’ cried the General. Then, as an afterthought, he added, ‘Stop at the archie battery, Baines.’

  The usual protective anti-aircraft battery was only a hundred yards down the road, the muzzles of its four guns pointing into the air like chimneys set awry as the crews sleepily sipped their early morning tea. But the arrival of the General’s car brought them to their feet with a rush. A startled subaltern ran forward and saluted.

  ‘Get that machine,’ snapped the General, pointing at the Bristol that was now a thousand feet in the air and climbing swiftly towards the German lines. ‘Get it and I’ll promote you to Captain in to-night’s orders.’

  The lieutenant asked no questions; he shouted an order and dashed to the range-finder. Mess tins were flung aside as the gunners leapt to their stations, and ‘within five seconds the first gun had roared its brass-coated shell at the British machine. It went wide. The officer corrected the aim, and a second shot was nearer. Another correction, and a shell burst fifty yards in front of the two-seater. Another word of command, and the four guns began firing salvoes as fast as the gunners could feed them.

  Tiny sparks of yellow flame, followed by mushrooming clouds of white smoke, appeared round the Bristol, the pilot of which began to swerve from side to side as he realized his danger.

  Biggles was torn between desire to watch the frantic but methodical activity of the gunners—for he had seldom stood at the starting end of archie—and the machine, but he could not tear his eyes away from the swerving two-seater; knowing from bitter experience just what von Stalhein was going through, he felt almost sorry for him. A shell burst almost under the fuselage and the machine rocked.

  ‘He’s hit,’ cried the General excitedly.

  ‘No, sir, it was only the bump of the explosion, I think,’ declared Biggles.

  Another shell burst almost between the wings of the Bristol, and its nose jerked up spasmodically.

  ‘He’s hit now, sir,’ yelled Biggles, clutching Algy’s arm.

  A silence fell on the little group of watchers; the roar of the guns and the distant sullen whoof—whoof—whoof of the bursting shells died away as the Bristol lurched, recovered, lurched again, and then fell off on its wing into a dizzy earthward plunge. Twice it tried to come out, as if the pilot was still alive and making desperate efforts to right his machine; then it disappeared behind a distant hill.

  A hush of tense expectancy fell as every man held his breath and strained his ears for the sound that he knew would come.

  It came. Clear-cut through the still morning air, far away over the German side of the lines, came the sound as if some one had jumped on a flimsy wooden box, crushing it flat: the sinister but unmistakable sound of an aeroplane hitting the ground.

  Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘that’s that.’

  Chapter 22

  Biggles Explains

  That evening a little party dined quietly in the Headquarters Mess; it consisted of the General, his Aide-de-Camp, M
ajor Raymond, Algy, and Biggles, who, over coffee, at the General’s request, ran over the whole story.

  ‘And so you see, sir,’ he concluded, ‘the unravelling of the skein was not so difficult as one might imagine.’

  ‘But when did you first suspect that von Stalhein and El Shereef were one and the same?’ asked the General.

  ‘It’s rather hard to say, sir,’ replied Biggles slowly. ‘I fancy the idea was at the back of my mind before I was really aware of it—if I can put it that way,’ he continued. ‘I felt from the very beginning that von Stalhein was more than he appeared to be on the surface.’

  ‘Why did you think that?’

  ‘Because he was so obviously suspicious—not only where I was concerned but with any stranger that came to the camp. “Why should he be?” I asked myself, and the only answer I could find was, because he had more to lose than any one else on the station. After all, a man is only suspicious when he has something to be suspicious about. Something was going on behind the scenes. What was it? When I saw him dressed as an Arab—well, that seemed to be the answer to the question.

  ‘He never appeared in that garb in daylight, and I am convinced that only a few people at Zabala knew what he was doing; he didn’t want them to know; that’s why he used to send the aeroplane to the far side of the aerodrome and slip out after dark when no one was about. The Count knew all about it, of course; he had to, and if you ask my opinion I should say that he wasn’t too pleased about it—hence his attitude towards me.’

  ‘But why should he feel like that?’

  ‘Because he was secretly jealous of von Stalhein. He wanted all the kudos. Von Faubourg was vain and inefficient and it annoyed him to know that a subordinate had ten times the amount of brain that he had; he had sense enough to recognize that, you may be sure. And von Stalhein knew it too. He knew that nothing would please the Count more than to see him take down a peg. I will go as far as to say that I believe the Count was actually pleased when von Stalhein’s plans went wrong. Take the business of the Australian troops, for example. Von Stalhein put that over to try to trap me; he merely wanted to see what I would do in such a case. When I got back and reported that the Australians were at Sidi Arish the Count was tickled to death because von Stalhein’s scheme had failed; I could tell it by his manner. He was so pleased that he came round to my room to congratulate me. That showed me how things were between them, and I knew that I had a friend in the Count as long as I didn’t tread on his toes; the more I upset von Stalhein—to a point—the better he was pleased.