Biggles Follows On

by W E Johns

  ‘Of course. We’ve got about fifteen seconds to get out of this.’

  Outside the building Biggles looked up and down. Not a taxi was in sight, but a number of private cars were parked on the opposite side of the road, which, at this point, being a terminus, widened to a broad area.

  Without speaking he walked over to them. The doors of the first one were locked. The same with the second. It was a case of third time lucky.

  The door of the next car, a big saloon, swung open. ‘In you get,’ he told Ginger crisply.

  Ginger, his eyes on the exit of the building opposite, scrambled in.

  As Biggles dropped into his seat and slammed the door, von Stalhein, with three police officers, appeared in attitudes of urgency. They looked up and down. By the time they had turned their attention to the cars Biggles had his engine running. This, inevitably, called attention to it. The police started forward, but the car was now moving. ‘Hold your hat,’ warned Biggles, and the car shot forward.

  Ginger saw a policeman dash back into the hall. He passed the information.

  ‘Gone to the phone,’ guessed Biggles. ‘I’m afraid we’ve started something.’

  ‘We shan’t get far in a stolen car,’ declared Ginger.

  ‘We shouldn’t have got anywhere had we waited for a taxi,’ Biggles told him. As the car raced on he continued whimsically: ‘There’s one comforting thought when one is engaged on a job of this sort. One can do anything without making matters worse. From the moment we got the wrong side of the Iron Curtain we were booked for a high jump if we were caught. So the worst that can happen to us now is no worse than it was an hour ago.’

  ‘An hour ago we had a chance of getting home,’ reminded Ginger cuttingly, as Biggles swerved to avoid a careless cyclist.

  ‘We’ve still got a chance.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it a bright one.’

  ‘Maybe we can do something to brighten it,’ said Biggles lightly. ‘Think how dull life would be if everything was always bright.’

  ‘What foul luck we had to bump into von Stalhein.’

  ‘Just one of those things, laddie. You can’t expect jam on your bread all the time.’

  On the outskirts of the city a policeman appeared in the middle of the road, arm raised. He realised just in time that this will not stop a car if the driver does nothing about it. Wisely, he gave it right of way. A bullet from his pistol whanged against some metal part of the vehicle.

  After that Biggles went only a short distance. ‘I think that’s far enough,’ he observed, and running the car against the kerb in a busy street, got out. ‘Cars wear number plates,’ he remarked. ‘Fortunately, pedestrians don’t have to, so we shall be safer on our feet.’

  Ginger, too, got out. ‘Where are you going to make for?’ he asked, as they turned their backs on the car.

  ‘I was just wondering the same thing,’ replied Biggles. ‘I think for a start we’ll go back to the hotel.’

  Ginger pulled up dead. ‘Are you out of your mind?’ he cried.

  ‘Probably,’ answered Biggles sadly.

  CHAPTER VI

  Money Talks

  For a little while they walked on, threading their way along the busy pavements. At last Ginger’s patience broke down.

  ‘What’s the idea of going back to the hotel?’ he demanded. ‘Inside an hour the police will have contacted every hotel in the city to find out where we stayed last night.’

  ‘That’s how I reckoned it,’ agreed Biggles. ‘It gives us an hour to do what I have in mind.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Have a chat with Stresser — if he’s still there.’

  ‘Stresser! Why not give ourselves up at the police station and have done with it?’

  ‘We may arrive there eventually.’

  ‘But Stresser! That’s asking for it.’

  ‘Possibly, but not necessarily. The point is, Stresser is the only man we know who may know where Ross has gone. If we lose touch with Stresser we’ve lost the trail. In a word, he is now a vital connecting link — the only one we have, in fact.’

  Ginger became mildly sarcastic. ‘What makes you think he’ll tell you what he knows?’

  Biggles smiled. ‘A feeling in my bones. I have in my pocket an argument which seldom fails with his type.’

  ‘A gun?’

  ‘Nothing so crude. Something much more genteel and effective.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘Money. If, as they say, money talks, a big wad can fairly scream.’

  ‘But the man’s a Communist!’

  ‘So what? I have yet to meet a Communist who wasn’t interested in money. It’s not having any that makes him a Communist. He wants some, and the only way he can think of to get it is, as he hopes, by getting his hands into the pockets of those who have.’

  ‘Communists hate capitalists.’

  ‘Of course. But they’d all be capitalists if they knew how. I know one. Apart from being a bit cracked, he’s not a bad sort. How does he spend his time? I’ll tell you. Filling in football coupons. For fun? Not on your life. He’s hoping to get a lot of money quickly without working for it. The day he wins a big prize, if he ever does, he’ll stop being a Communist. He’ll be all against the Reds for fear they take his money off him. I’ll wager Stresser became a Communist because he thought there was easy money in it. Now he finds there isn’t. He as good as told me that he’s fed up with the game because he isn’t paid enough. That means he’ll switch to anyone who offers him more. You watch it. Anyhow, it’s worth a chance.’

  ‘It’s taking a pretty big chance.’

  ‘If you don’t take chances, you don’t take anything.’ Biggles raised a finger to a cruising taxi and named the hotel as his destination.

  ‘What comes after the hotel?’ inquired Ginger, as the taxi threaded its way through the traffic.

  ‘We’ll lie low while we think things over. A little foresight has provided us with a hide-out for use in just such a situation as this.’

  A couple of minutes later the cab dropped them at the hotel. The proprietor was still tidying the vestibule. Biggles asked him if Herr Stresser had left. The man said no. He thought he was still in his room.

  Biggles went on up the stairs. A tap on the door of number twenty-one caused it to be opened by the man they were looking for. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ he said, rather uncomfortably.

  ‘Were you expecting someone else?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘You never know who’s going to call on you in this business,’ grumbled the man.

  ‘How right you are,’ murmured Biggles. ‘May we come in?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Before I answer that question we’d better have the door shut,’ said Biggles quietly.

  Followed by Ginger, he went in and closed the door behind them. ‘Now,’ he went on, facing Stresser, who was by this time looking somewhat alarmed, ‘could you use some money?’

  Stresser stared. ‘M-money?’ he stammered. ‘How much money?’

  ‘Say, a thousand West Marks.’

  The German’s jaw fell. ‘What for?’ he blurted. Then suspicion leapt into his eyes. ‘Who are you?’ he asked nervously, flicking his tongue over his lips. He dropped into a chair.

  ‘We’re British Intelligence agents,’ Biggles told him bluntly. ‘All right — sit still. We’re not going to hurt you. You complained to me that you weren’t paid enough for what you were doing. I can put that right.’

  Biggles showed his wad.

  Expressions of fear, doubt and avarice, chased each other across the German’s face. At the finish fear dominated the rest, and Ginger knew why. Stresser was afraid that the offer was a trap set by his own employers.

  ‘Well, what about it?’ asked Biggles impatiently. ‘I’ve no time to waste.’ He toyed with the roll of notes suggestively.

  Stresser’s eyes glistened. The notes seemed to fascinate him. ‘How do I know you’re what you say you are?’

  ‘You�
�ll have to take that on trust,’ Biggles told him. ‘You wouldn’t expect me, being what I am, to walk about this city with proofs of identity in my pocket?’

  ‘No,’ conceded Stresser.

  ‘Then make up your mind. If you feel inclined to talk you can pull out, with the money in your pocket, and be in Western Germany in an hour or two. You’d be safe there.’

  Stresser drew a deep breath. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Where have they taken your new recruit, Ross?’

  ‘So you were following us?’

  ‘Of course. But you’re wasting time. Where is Ross?’

  Stresser cleared his throat. ‘He’s on his way to Korea.’ It was Biggles’ turn to stare.

  Suspicion clouded his eyes. ‘Korea? What are you trying to give me?’

  ‘Well, not exactly Korea. Actually, it’s Manchuria. But it’s to do with the Korean war.’

  ‘What’s the name of the place?’

  ‘Kratsen.’

  ‘Did you tell Ross he was going to Kratsen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He kept asking where he was going, so I told him to keep him quiet. It was too late for him to back out, so it didn’t matter.’

  ‘Did you tell him where Kratsen was?’

  ‘I told him it was in Poland.’

  ‘Why lie about it?’

  Stresser shrugged. ‘One has to lie in this dirty game — you know that.’

  ‘Is Ross on his way to Kratsen now?’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’

  ‘What do you mean by that? Don’t talk in riddles.’

  ‘Well, he should have gone direct to Kratsen, but he was a bit difficult, so he’s been allowed to make a call first.’

  ‘What was he difficult about?’

  ‘He wanted to see a friend of his.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Macdonald. I brought him out some time ago.’

  ‘I gather he isn’t at Kratsen?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In the Soviet Zone of Berlin.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Broadcasting.’

  ‘Propaganda?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Biggles’ face remained expressionless. ‘So at this moment Ross is on his way to Berlin to see Macdonald?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How long will he stay there?’

  ‘I don’t know. One day perhaps. Perhaps a week. It depends. But afterwards he’ll go on to Kratsen. I expect Macdonald will go with him. He must be about finished in Berlin.’

  ‘What’s going on at Kratsen?’

  ‘Broadcasting. There’s a new radio station there. Men are made to broadcast to the United Nations Forces in Korea, saying what a good time they’re having.’

  Ginger could now see daylight. He felt sure that Stresser was telling the truth. He had heard of such broadcasts.

  Biggles’ eyes were still on Stresser. ‘Suppose Ross refuses to broadcast?’

  Stresser shrugged.

  ‘One last question,’ said Biggles curtly. ‘Where will Ross stay in Berlin? It will be in the Soviet Zone, of course?’

  ‘Yes. The Hotel Prinz Karl, in the Zindenplatzer. I’ve stayed there myself sometimes. It’s one of the regular places, like this.’

  Ginger was looking at Biggles. His face, now set in hard lines, seemed to have aged suddenly. That the information Stresser had given him had shocked him severely was plain.

  ‘Did you tell Ross what was in store for him?’ Biggles asked Stresser.

  ‘No. I thought it might depress him.’

  ‘That was considerate of you,’ sneered Biggles. He tossed the roll of notes on the table. ‘All right, that’s all,’ he said. ‘My advice to you is get out of this country, and keep out. Try to double-cross me and I’ll remember it if we ever meet again.’ With that he turned on his heel and left the room.

  Outside, in the corridor, he turned for a moment to face Ginger. ‘Manchuria, of all places,’ he breathed. ‘I wasn’t thinking of anything outside Europe. Poor Ross. He’ll think we’ve forsaken him.’

  ‘But we haven’t,’ protested Ginger.

  ‘Not on your life,’ grated Biggles.

  ‘Stresser was telling the truth?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure of it, otherwise he needn’t have mentioned Macdonald. But come on, let’s get out of this place for a start.’

  They went on down the stairs and into the street. The proprietor did not speak to them, and they did not speak to him. But five minutes later, from the end of the road, when Ginger looked back, he saw a car pull up outside the hotel. Some policemen alighted busily and went in. ‘We cut it fine. I’ve an idea Stresser has left it a bit late,’ he told Biggles. ‘If the police find that money on him, he’s had it.’

  ‘I shan’t lose any sleep on that account,’ rejoined Biggles caustically, and strode on.

  ‘You know where you’re going, I hope?’ queried Ginger.

  ‘I made a point of studying a map of the city before we left home,’ answered Biggles. ‘You’d better not walk with me. The police will be looking for two men. Drop behind a bit.’ He walked on, keeping to the main streets, where traffic, both vehicular and pedestrian, was most congested.

  Twenty minutes later, after crossing a bridge over what Ginger took to be the River Moldau, they were in what was clearly the old quarter of the city. A fine drizzle of rain was now falling again. It did nothing to brighten the aspect of rows of houses that were obviously of great age.

  There were some small shops. Some of the goods offered in them looked as ancient as the houses. Ginger had no idea of where they were, but Biggles seemed to know, although more than once he looked up at street names on corner houses. There was very little traffic now, and what few people were about hurried along under dripping umbrellas.

  At last Biggles waited for Ginger to join him. ‘This is the street,’ he said and, going on a short distance, turned into a drab little shop which carried over the door a board with the name Johann Smasrik, in faded paint. The establishment appeared, from the things in the dingy window, to be something between a jobbing tailor’s and a second-hand clothes store. A bell clanged as he opened the door, to be greeted by the warm, sickly smell of ironing.

  Ginger closed the door behind them and turned to find that they were being regarded by a mild-looking little man of late middle age, who peered at them over an old pair of steel-rimmed glasses balanced on the end of his nose. There seemed to be something wrong with his figure, and as he put down the hot iron with which he had been working, and turned towards them, it could be seen that he was deformed, one shoulder being higher than the other.

  Everything about him, his threadbare clothes and his surroundings, spoke of extreme poverty and a dreary existence. Wherefore Ginger’s first emotion was one of pity.

  The man was still looking at his visitors questioningly. ‘Do you speak German?’ asked Biggles in that language, his left hand holding his lapel.

  ‘Ja, mein Herr.’

  Biggles went on. ‘The weather is very unsettled.’

  The man agreed. ‘It is always raining.’ He sighed.

  ‘I have lost a button from my coat,’ said Biggles. ‘I wondered if you could match it for me?’

  The little shopkeeper’s manner seemed to change. ‘English?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you followed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come inside while I make sure.’ The man spoke English in a cultured voice without a trace of accent. He opened a door at the back of the shop.

  Biggles and Ginger went through and found themselves in a little living-room that was in keeping with the shop.

  ‘Wait,’ said their host, and returned to the shop.

  He was back in two or three minutes. ‘I think it’s all right,’ he said in a soft voice that in some curious way con
veyed confidence. Then he smiled. ‘Of course, one can never be sure. Tell me quickly, what has happened?’

  Biggles answered. ‘A special mission brought us to Prague. We did our work, but at the airport we were recognised by an enemy agent whom we thought was in London. He fetched the police. Not seeing a taxi, we took a car from the parking-place, abandoned it in the city, and then made our way here.’

  ‘Which means that you are on the run with the security police looking for you?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘We’re looking for somewhere to lie low until we can make arrangements to get out of the country. Can you fix us up?’

  ‘Who gave you this address?’

  ‘Number seven.’

  ‘I see. Then you’d better stay here,’ said the man thoughtfully. ‘Naturally, I don’t like people using this house, but in this case I see no alternative. The address would only have been given to you in a matter of the gravest importance.’

  Biggles looked at the man curiously. ‘You speak English very well.’

  ‘Naturally, since I am British,’ was the reply. ‘My name is easily remembered. It is Smith — yes, even when I am in England. Come this way. I cannot leave the shop for very long in case a customer comes in, but we will talk later.’

  The agent led them up three flights of rickety wooden stairs to an attic which was nearly full of lumber — useless stuff most of it appeared to be. There was an old table, some broken chairs, with numerous cases and boxes half-buried under old clothes, curtains, pieces of carpet, and the like. The only light filtered through a grimy skylight in the sloping roof.

  ‘Now listen carefully,’ said Smith. ‘You will stay in this room and not leave it on any account without my permission. Make yourselves as comfortable as the place permits, but disturb nothing; and leave nothing about, not a crumb, or a speck of cigarette ash, or anything that might suggest that the room has been occupied. You will realise that an establishment of this sort is subject at any moment, day or night, to a police raid, and a thorough search. One thing, however small, not in keeping with the rest, could produce unfortunate consequences.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I understand. Have you any reason to suppose that you are suspect?’