by W E Johns
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I: GINGER BRINGS NEWS
CHAPTER II: GUARDSMAN ROSS
CHAPTER III: BIGGLES MAKES HIS PLANS
CHAPTER IV: BY AIR — TO WHERE?
CHAPTER V: BEHIND THE CURTAIN
CHAPTER VI: MONEY TALKS
CHAPTER VII: OVER THE ROOF
CHAPTER VIII: A RIDE IN THE COUNTRY
CHAPTER IX: BIGGLES TAKES A CHANCE
CHAPTER X: THE AIR COMMODORE IS WORRIED
CHAPTER XI: WUNG LING RECONNOITRES
CHAPTER XII: WUNG REPORTS
CHAPTER XIII: THE RAID
CHAPTER XIV: VON STALHEIN IS ANNOYED
CHAPTER I
Ginger Brings News
Air Constable ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite burst into Air Police Headquarters at Scotland Yard with an urgency that suggested he had important news to impart. ‘Hold on to your seats,’ he said tersely. ‘You’re going to take a bump.’
Biggles — and Algy and Bertie, who were with him — looked up from their several tasks. ‘We’re all set,’ announced Biggles. ‘Let it go.’
‘Who do you think I’ve just seen?’ demanded Ginger, looking from one to the other.
‘You’re wasting time,’ Biggles told him. ‘This isn’t a quiz contest.’
‘Erich von Stalhein.’
Lines of surprise creased Biggles’ forehead. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain.’
‘Where did this happen?’
‘Outside Victoria Station. I was coming away from Airways House and saw him turn into the Grosvenor Hotel. I went after him and was just in time to see him step into the lift. After that I couldn’t follow without him seeing me — not that there would have been much point in it, anyway. He must be staying at the hotel.’
Biggles still looked dubious. ‘You’re positive of this?’
‘Absolutely. He was complete with eyeglass and that long cigarette-holder he always uses.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About twenty minutes ago — say, just after six o’clock.’
‘How was he looking? I mean, as regards appearance? Did he look prosperous or otherwise?’
‘I imagine he’d have to be fairly prosperous to stay at the Grosvenor. But somehow he looked older, a bit careworn, as if he’d been under the weather.’
‘He’d probably think the same of me if he saw me,’ observed Biggles, reaching for a cigarette. ‘I wonder what he’s doing in London. Only business of some sort could have brought him. He must be pretty hard pushed for money, or he wouldn’t have come to a country which we know he detests, particularly as there was always a chance of his bumping into us. He’s never got over the fact that through us Germany lost the first war.’
‘If he’s here on business, you can bet it’s something shady,’ put in Algy.
‘There are people who would apply that word to some of the jobs we’ve had to do,’ reminded Biggles.
‘How about spying? Wouldn’t you call that shady?’
Biggles blew a smoke ring. ‘If it is, our own careers wouldn’t stand close investigation. I would only call the business shady when it’s applied to a man working against his own country. Let’s be fair about that. There was a time when a spy was regarded as something lower than a rat, even by the military brass-hats who profited by the information the spies brought in. But not now. Today, espionage is a recognised profession, and a dangerous one at that. Spies are a military necessity. Every country employs hundreds, most of them hopelessly underpaid for the risks they take and the results they achieve. Napoleon reckoned that one spy in the right place was worth twenty thousand men in the field – and he wasn’t far wrong. The truth is, an effective spy is hated simply because he is feared. But why this talk of spies anyhow?’
‘Association of ideas, old boy,’ murmured Bertie. ‘Spying and von Stalhein are one and the same thing.’
Biggles frowned. ‘All right. So what? Don’t forget that when I first collided with von Stalhein I was a spy in his country, although that was not from choice. I acted under orders. But I was still a spy, although I would have called myself a soldier. So was von Stalhein a soldier in the first place. Because he was efficient, he was seconded to the Wilhelmstrasse for top counter-espionage work. He suspected me from the start. Had he been given a free hand I wouldn’t be here now. As I said a moment ago, what has happened to him since was largely the result of Germany losing the war. The shock of that knocked him off the rails, and he’s never got on them again. He’s been fighting a sort of one-man war against this country ever since.’
‘For heaven’s sake!’ cried Algy indignantly. ‘Are you making excuses for him?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘Up to a point. Who can say what we would have become had we lost the war?’
‘We wouldn’t have done some of the things von Stalhein has done,’ declared Ginger emphatically. ‘He hates the sight of you, and you know it.’
‘He has no reason to regard me with affection.’
‘He’d bump you off tomorrow if he had the chance.’
Biggles smiled faintly. ‘Okay – okay! The bumping off may come yet. I’m not really making excuses for the man, but one must be fair. Von Stalhein came from an old Prussian military family. When Germany lost the war, he lost everything – home, estate, career—’
‘And his self-respect,’ interposed Algy.
‘What was he to do? Can you see a man with his background taking a job in an office?’
‘Some people have had to do that, old boy,’ put in Bertie.
Biggles stubbed his cigarette. ‘Have it your own way. The real tragedy for von Stalhein was, he survived the war.’
‘He must have regretted a thousand times that he didn’t stand you up in front of a firing-party when he had the chance,’ said Ginger.
‘It’s time you knew that regret doesn’t get you anywhere,’ returned Biggles. ‘Neither does this sort of argument. Let’s stick to the present. Von Stalhein is in England. Knowing who and what he is, we are bound to regard him with suspicion. He ought to be watched. Strictly speaking, that isn’t our affair. It’s a job for the counter-espionage people at M.I.5.’
‘Why not arrest him before he can get into mischief?’ suggested Algy.
‘On what charge?’
‘He’s been breaking the law for years, and we know it.’
‘Yes, we know it. But how are we going to prove it? What are we going to use for evidence? In this country judges are not interested in what people think.’
There was a silence that lasted for several seconds.
‘No, it isn’t as simple as that,’ went on Biggles. ‘Von Stalhein is no fool. He’s played in some queer games, with some queer people, as we know only too well; but we should have a job to pin any specific crime on him.’
‘What are you going to do about him, then?’ inquired Ginger. ‘Hand him over to M.I.5?’
‘Our proper course would be to tip them off that he’s here,’ answered Biggles. ‘But I must confess to some curiosity about the man. For instance, I’d like to see his passport, to find out how he got into the country.’ Biggles tapped another cigarette thoughtfully. ‘At this juncture I feel inclined to compromise. I mean, I’ll try to get a line on what he’s doing before I put the matter on official record.’
‘Even before you tell the Air Commodore?’ queried Algy.
‘Yes. Once the Air Commodore knows about this he could act only through official channels, and that would cramp our actions.’
‘Why not let one of us go down and keep an eye on him?’ suggested Ginger.
Biggles shook his head. ‘No use. He knows us all by sight. One glimpse of us and he’d be gone. Besides, that sort of job isn’t really up our street. I’ll have a w
ord with Inspector Gaskin, of C Department. He has fellows who are experts at shadowing. Being unknown to von Stalhein it wouldn’t matter if he saw them.’
Biggles reached for the intercom telephone and called the department to which he had referred. Presently he was speaking to the head of it. ‘Can you spare me five minutes?’ he inquired. ‘Thanks, Inspector.’ He replaced the receiver. ‘He’s coming up,’ he told the others.
Presently the powerfully-built detective came in. ‘What’s worrying you?’ he asked Biggles, as he took a seat and began filling his pipe.
Biggles explained the position. He described von Stalhein and ran briefly over his record.
‘What do you want me to do?’ asked the inspector, thumbing the tobacco into his pipe.
‘I want to find out what von Stalhein is doing in England,’ answered Biggles. ‘He knows us all by sight, so we daren’t go near him. For a start, I’d like to know how long he’s been here, and how long he intends to stay. It would also be interesting to know how he got into the country — whether he flew in or came in by surface transport. He may not be using his own name. The reception people at the hotel must have seen his passport. We might wonder how he managed to get one, and from what country. You might find out where he’s spending his time, if he’s alone or with friends — and all that sort of thing. In short, any information about him would be useful. I’ve helped you once or twice. This is where you can return the compliment.’
‘Shouldn’t be any difficulty about that,’ stated the inspector. ‘Give me twenty-four hours. That should be long enough. I’ll come round about this time tomorrow and tell you what I know.’
‘Thanks a lot, Inspector,’ replied Biggles. ‘We’ll be here.’
The detective got up. ‘If that’s all, I’ll get back. I’ve plenty on my plate to keep me busy. Be seeing you.’ He went out.
‘That’s capital,’ asserted Biggles. ‘All we have to do is sit back and wait for tomorrow.’
The inspector was as good as his word. Shortly after six o’clock when he walked into the Air Police office, notebook in hand, everyone was waiting, curious to hear the news.
‘I’ve had a look at your man,’ announced the inspector casually, turning over some pages of his notebook and putting it on the table where he could refer to it easily. ‘Did you say he’s a German?’
Biggles answered: ‘He was.’
‘Well, he isn’t now.’
‘I can’t say that surprises me.’
‘No, but I’ll bet you’ll be surprised when I tell you what he is.’
‘A Pole?’
‘No.’
‘Austrian?’
‘No.’
‘Russian?’
‘No.’
‘Give it up.’
‘He’s either an American citizen, born in New York, or a Czech, born in Prague.’
Biggles’ eyes opened wide. ‘There’s a lot of difference. How did you work it out?’
‘He’s got two passports, so that he can be an American or a Czech, as it suits him. At the moment he’s an American.’
‘What name is he using?’
‘Stalek, in each case. Jan Stalek. In America he would, no doubt, say he was of Dutch descent.’
‘From what you tell me, I assume you’ve been in his room.’
‘I had a look round.’
‘How long has he been here?’
‘Four months.’
‘Four months!’ Biggles looked amazed. ‘By thunder! I wouldn’t have guessed that, either. Has he been in London all the time?’
‘No. He made a trip to Paris. He first came to London from New York, via Southampton. A month ago he went to Paris by boat and train. He came back the same way after three days.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘According to his papers he’s a salesman for an American firm of general merchants.’
‘If he’s been here for four months he must have some money.’
‘He came armed with plenty of dollars. Useful things nowadays — dollars. They’ll take you almost anywhere.’
‘What on earth could he have been doing for four months?’
‘I can’t tell you that; but I can tell you what he did yesterday.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘He had breakfast in his room at nine o’clock. That’s usual, I understand. He has a suite, by the way, on the third floor — rooms number twenty-five to twenty-seven. He then sent for the morning papers and read until eleven o’clock. Then he went down to the station and caught a train to Caterham, where he went to a café named the “Stand Easy”, and had an early lunch of bacon and eggs. My man followed him in, of course. From the easy way he spoke to the proprietor, he’s been there before. He also nodded to some troops who came in, as if he knew them.’
‘Troops from the Guards’ Depot, I suppose?’
‘Quite right. After a bit one of them went to his table and the two of them talked for about twenty minutes, Stalek buying the soldier a cup of coffee.’
‘Did you find out the name of this soldier?’ inquired Biggles.
‘Of course. Ross. Guardsman Ian Ross. He’s a London-born Scot. Age eighteen. Four months military service. Afterwards Stalek went for a walk, spoke to no one, returned to the same café for tea, chatted for a while with the proprietor, and then went back to the Grosvenor. He didn’t go out again. Had his dinner in the hotel restaurant, then back to his room.’ The inspector closed his notebook. ‘That’s the lot, so far. Do you want me to carry on?’
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘Yes, if you will,’ he decided. ‘That needn’t prevent me from making a few inquiries on my own account, now that I have something to work on.’
‘Okay,’ agreed the inspector, getting up. ‘I’ll pass on anything that comes in.’
‘Thanks very much, Gaskin.’
After the detective had closed the door behind him, Biggles turned wondering eyes on the others.
‘I guessed it,’ said Algy in a hard voice. ‘He’s still playing spy.’
‘He wouldn’t learn much from a lad with four months service.’
‘Every guardsman at the depot would hear the barrack-room gossip,’ said Ginger.
‘True enough,’ admitted Biggles. ‘This, obviously, is where we make a few inquiries about Ross.’
‘How are you going to do that, old boy?’ inquired Bertie.
‘By going the quickest and easiest way about it,’ answered Biggles.
‘You mean, you’ll have a word with Ross?’
‘Not on your life. At least, not at this stage. He’d only have to say one word in the café about inquiries being made and von Stalhein would vanish. Erich is an old hand at the game. No. I’ll go down to Caterham in the morning and have a word in confidence with the adjutant. If he turns out to be a co-operative type, I shall at least be able to get a slant on this lad Ross without alarming anybody.’
‘Have you any ideas?’ questioned Ginger.
‘None,’ answered Biggles. ‘One thing that sticks out from Gaskin’s report is this. Von Stalhein has some powerful friends. Presumably he’s working for them. How else could he get passports from countries other than his own; and, moreover, under an assumed name?’
‘They’re fakes.’
‘Of course they are. I mean, the people who issued those passports must have known the real identity of the man who wanted them.’
‘I smell dirty work at the cross-roads,’ murmured Bertie. ‘Naturally, if von Stalhein is in the picture,’ declared Algy cynically.
‘Why not collect von Stalhein before he can do any further mischief?’ recommended Ginger. ‘You were talking just now about a charge. Well, you’ve got one — entering the country with false papers. We could soon prove that.’
Biggles looked pained. ‘I shall never make a good security policeman of you,’ he said sadly. ‘In modern practice, having located your spy, you leave him alone until you have checked up on what he is doing and how he is doing it. Sooner or later,
thinking he is safe, he may betray other spies, and reveal his line of communication with his headquarters. To arrest Von Stalhein now would do more harm than good, because as soon as the people for whom he is working heard about it they would put somebody else on the job; a man unknown to us. We should then be much worse off than we are now. We do at least know our man; and, that being so, it shouldn’t take us long to find out to what particular work he has been assigned.’
‘But would the people he is working for know that he had been arrested?’ Ginger asked the question.
‘Of course. The very fact that von Stalhein ceased to communicate with them would tell them that something had gone wrong.’
‘Are you going to ring up the adjutant at Caterham and make an appointment?’ asked Algy.
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because the Orderly Room telephone will go through a switchboard, and where there is a switchboard the operator can hear. One word about someone coming down from Scotland Yard, and it would be all over the camp in five minutes. If that were to happen, I might as well stay at home. I’ll take a chance on catching the adjutant at his desk in the morning. Let’s go and get something to eat.’
CHAPTER II
Guardsman Ross
The following morning, at half-past ten, Biggles was escorted by a reluctant but efficient orderly-room sergeant into the presence of Captain Kingham, acting adjutant at the Guards’ Depot.
The officer was busy at his desk. ‘I understand you want to speak to me?’ he said briskly. ‘Please be brief. I have a lot to do this morning.’
‘I wanted to speak to you — alone,’ said Biggles quietly.
‘You can speak freely in front of my staff.’
‘I don’t doubt it, but I’d rather not. What I have to say involves a question of State security,’ returned Biggles evenly.
The officer looked hard at Biggles’ face and hesitated. Then, turning to the N.C.O., he inclined his head towards the door. ‘I hope you’re not wasting my time,’ he remarked curtly as the door closed behind the sergeant.
‘I hope I’m not wasting my own,’ replied Biggles, putting his credentials on the desk.
