Biggles Follows On

by W E Johns

  For a few seconds Algy held the machine low, for speed, banking with one wing-tip nearly touching the ground. Then the Proctor zoomed like a rocket, and the field, with its dangers, faded astern.

  ‘Which way do you want to go?’ called Algy.

  ‘Grab some altitude while I think about it,’ replied Biggles. The Proctor continued to climb steeply.

  After a minute Biggles went on. ‘Make for the nearest German frontier. A course slightly south of east should take us to the American Zone. That’ll suit me — for a start, anyway. The thing is to get outside the Curtain.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ promised Algy.

  ‘Do you expect any difficulty?’

  ‘We were challenged on the way out.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘Flak, when I refused to go down. Radar must have picked us up as we crossed the frontier. I saw a Russian Yak, but I dropped into a cloud and lost it.’

  ‘Did you come across the Russian Zone?’

  ‘Naturally, I came the shortest way.’

  ‘That explains why they were trapping the known landing-grounds on your line of flight. No matter. Carry on. You’ve less than a hundred miles to go.’

  Bertie chipped in. ‘By the way, where’s our soldier chappie, Ross?’

  ‘On his way to China, via Berlin. They’re using these fellows in the Korean war.’

  ‘Here, I say! That’s a bit tough!’ muttered Bertie. ‘Looks as if he’s had it. How far is China from here? Never was any bally good at geography, and all that sort of thing.’

  ‘For a rough guess,’ answered Biggles grimly, ‘China is about five thousand miles farther east than we could get in this kite, even with full tanks. That’s why I’m going the other way.’

  ‘But, look here, old boy, you’re not going to leave Ross there, are you?’

  ‘I am not,’ Biggles told him shortly. ‘But I’m not such a fool as to try to fly right across Russia. We’ll get something bigger than this and tackle the job from the back door of Asia. But it may not come to that. At the moment Ross is in the Soviet Zone of Berlin.’

  ‘Are you thinking of trying to collect him there?’ asked Algy.

  ‘It’d save us a much longer journey if we could. It would also save a lot of time. I wouldn’t like Ross to think we’d let him down. Get across the frontier, and we’ll talk about it.’

  The Proctor droned on.

  Algy’s fears of interception did not materialise, due perhaps to a new front of cloud that was coming up from the west, in which he took cover.

  Signals ordering the machine down were received on the radio, but these were of course ignored. There was a flurry of flak as the aircraft approached the frontier, but it never threatened serious danger.

  An hour later the Proctor landed, and, after explanations, parked for the night at Frankfurt, in the American Zone of Occupied Germany.

  Much later in the day, just as the twilight was becoming dim, it touched its wheels on the great international airport at Berlin.

  CHAPTER IX

  Biggles Takes a Chance

  The weather seemed determined to remain unsettled, and it was raining quietly but steadily when Biggles stepped out of a taxi in a certain street in the British Zone of Berlin. After paying his driver, he crossed the shining pavement and entered an open door over which hung a limp Union Jack.

  A sergeant in British battle-dress intercepted him. ‘Yes, sir?’ he challenged.

  ‘I want to speak to Major Boyd,’ Biggles told him.

  ‘Got an appointment, sir?’

  ‘No, but if you take in my name I think he’ll see me. Just say it’s Inspector Bigglesworth.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Please wait. here.’ The N.C.O. strode down a corridor and knocked on a door at the far end. He went in, but reappeared at once with a finger raised. ‘This way, sir.’

  Biggles walked forward and entered the room. The N.C.O. retired and closed the door behind him.

  An elderly man in civilian clothes, who had been seated at a desk, rose to meet Biggles. ‘Come in,’ he invited. ‘Take a seat. What can I do for you?’

  ‘You were expecting me, I think?’

  ‘Yes. I had a signal from London.’

  ‘That would be the result of a phone call I put through to my chief this afternoon. He told me to come to you.’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘It isn’t exactly trouble. One of our operatives is a prisoner in the Soviet Zone. I’m anxious to get him out, or at any rate make contact with him.’

  ‘Can’t he get out on his own?’

  ‘He may not try. He’s an amateur, a volunteer, in a rather curious business. He doesn’t know it, but as far as I’m concerned his work is finished. Through him I’ve got the information I wanted, so he might as well come home. It’s unlikely that he could get out even if he tried. Not knowing what I know, it’s more likely that he won’t try. Unless I can get hold of him quickly, I may lose sight of him for good.’

  ‘I see. How can I help you?’

  ‘I don’t know my way about. That is, I’m not familiar with the Zonal boundaries. I want you to lend me a guide who does. There are reasons why I’d rather not risk being questioned at any of the control points — our own, or Russian.’

  ‘Where exactly do you want to go?’

  ‘I’ve reason to think that my man is in the Hotel Prinz Karl, in the Zindenplatzer.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be very difficult to get you there. When do you want to go?’

  ‘Now, if it’s all the same to you?’

  ‘It’s all the same to me. D’you want the guide to wait for you and bring you out?’

  Biggles hesitated. ‘That’s a bit difficult. I’ve no idea how long I shall be. How long could the guide wait?’

  ‘As long as you like, within reason.’

  ‘Suppose he waits for an hour? That should be long enough. If I’m not ready to leave by then I may be over the other side indefinitely.’

  The officer pushed a bell. ‘Suppose you get into trouble? Do you want me to do anything about it?’

  ‘No, thanks. It’s unlikely that you would be able to do anything, short of starting a full-scale diplomatic row. If our friends over the way get their hands on me, knowing who I am, they’ll keep me there.’

  ‘Watch how you go.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  A man came in, a youngish man in a well-worn suit. There were no introductions, but a glance told Biggles that he was a German. This was confirmed when Major Boyd spoke to him in that language, explaining what was required of him. The guide simply said, ‘Jawohl,’ and went out, to return a minute later wearing a hat and raincoat. ‘I am ready,’ he announced, looking at Biggles.

  ‘Thanks, Boyd, much obliged,’ said Biggles, and got up.

  ‘No trouble at all. Good luck.’

  ‘Do you want to see me when I come back?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I shall probably have left the office by then. The guide will come back here.’

  ‘Fair enough. Goodbye.’ Biggles followed the German into the street.

  The man set off at a brisk pace. Not a word was spoken in the long walk that followed.

  At first the way lay through busy thoroughfares, but presently these gave way to quiet streets in what was obviously a residential quarter. In one of these the guide turned abruptly into a private house, one of a long row built in the same pattern. Three steps led from the pavement to the door. This the guide unlocked with a key which he took from his pocket.

  They entered. The door was closed. All was in darkness, but the guide switched on a torch, to reveal a long hall. To the far end of this he walked. Another door was opened, and another hall traversed. Yet another door gave access to a street much like the one they had just left. But there was a difference. The soldiers now encountered wore Russian uniforms, not British. The guide walked on, in an atmosphere that had suddenly become sinister. There was no need for him to tell Biggles that they were in the Russian
Zone.

  Ten minutes brought them to an important street of shops and bright lights. There was a fair amount of traffic. The guide stopped at a corner and spoke for the first time. ‘The hotel is about a hundred paces along, on the right. It is the only one, so you cannot make a mistake. A few doors along from here there is a bierhaus. I will wait for you there.’

  ‘If I’m not back in an hour, you’d better go home,’ said Biggles.

  ‘As you wish.’

  Biggles went on alone and had no difficulty in finding the hotel. It was larger, and of much higher class than had been the one in Prague. The clientele was altogether different and, Biggles noticed, included a fair sprinkling of Russian officers. Several cars stood outside. There was also a patrol vehicle of the jeep type, with two soldiers standing by it.

  Just how he was going to locate Ross, Biggles did not know. Apart from the name of the hotel he had no information on which to work. He had a vague hope that he might see him, or his escort, passing through the vestibule or in one of the public rooms. If these failed, he decided, he would try his luck with the reception clerk, trusting to his spotted tie to produce answers to his questions. There was, of course, no certainty that it would; but it had worked in Paris and in Prague, so it might work in Berlin.

  He had no other plan, for which reason he had told the guide not to wait more than an hour. He himself was prepared to stay there all night, and all the next day, if necessary.

  It was obviously not much use standing outside, so he went in through big revolving doors to find himself in a reception hall of some size, furnished with the customary appointments. The office, with its counter and rack of keys, was at the far end near the foot of a broad flight of stairs. Near it was a cloakroom. On either side were doors, one leading into a lounge and the other to the dining-room. Near the door of the lounge, a lift was operated by a uniformed attendant. The usual chairs and settees, with occasional tables near them, were arranged round the walls to leave an open space in the centre.

  Sitting about were, perhaps, a dozen men, alone or in pairs, some talking, others reading newspapers. So much Biggles took in at a glance.

  He walked over to a settee near the lift, intending to sit and watch it for a while. It was occupied by one man, who sat at one end half hidden by a newspaper in which he appeared to be engrossed. Tobacco smoke spiralled up from behind the printed pages.

  Paying no attention to him, Biggles sat down in a position from which he could keep an eye on the stairs, the lift, the lounge and the dining-room.

  He was feeling for his cigarette case when his companion on the settee lowered his newspaper. His attention being elsewhere, he did not notice this until a voice spoke. He paused imperceptibly in the act of taking a cigarette from his case. Then he turned his head, to meet the sardonic eyes of Erich von Stalhein.

  ‘Good evening, Bigglesworth. I was hoping you’d look in.’

  Biggles finished lighting his cigarette before he answered. He needed a moment to recover. ‘It was nice of you to come along,’ he replied. ‘Dear me! How you do get about.’

  ‘You’re quite a traveller yourself, you know,’ came back von Stalhein suavely. ‘On this occasion, however, I fear you have given yourself a fruitless journey. You were, I presume, looking for a young man named Ross?’

  ‘What gave you that idea?’ questioned Biggles.

  ‘Call it instinct,’ answered von Stalhein, smiling. ‘It pains me to disappoint you, but I’m afraid you won’t find Ross here.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. He left here about an hour ago. By now he should be many miles from Berlin.’

  Biggles’ eyes searched the face of his old enemy, and he decided that he was telling the truth, for the simple reason that there was no need for him to lie. Had Ross still been in the hotel von Stalhein could have said so without risk of losing him.

  ‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Biggles evenly. ‘Still, it was worth coming here if only to have a word with you. We so seldom have time to compare notes.’

  ‘Surely that’s your fault,’ protested von Stalhein. ‘I wonder you don’t exhaust yourself rushing about the world as you do.’

  ‘I like rushing about,’ asserted Biggles, who was thinking fast. ‘It keeps me alive.’

  ‘One day it will defeat that object,’ said von Stalhein gravely. ‘Indeed, it may have already done so. By the way, Bigglesworth, you have disappointed me.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that. In what way?’

  ‘I always understood that in your country it is considered bad form to wear a club or regimental tie to which one is not entitled.’

  Biggles fingered his tie, laughing softly. ‘Yours looked so attractive that I succumbed to temptation. I knew, I must admit, that it was rather — er — exclusive.’ He became serious. ‘Tell me, why did you decide to join a club, an organisation, which at one time I am sure you would have regarded with abhorrence?’

  Von Stalhein sighed. ‘We are not always masters of our destiny.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ argued Biggles. ‘You could be yourself if you could get that grievance bug out of your brain. Do you think you are helping Germany by what you are doing?’

  Von Stalhein stiffened. ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘It seems a pity,’ murmured Biggles. ‘One day we must go into it, and I guarantee to convince you that tea tastes better on my side of the fence. I can’t stop now. Don’t forget I have to find Ross.’

  ‘You will have to go a long, long way.’

  ‘That will be nothing new to me,’ averred Biggles. Actually, he hardly knew what he was saying, for his brain was occupied with something very different. He had been playing for time, and so, for some reason not apparent, had von Stalhein.

  Biggles had been watching the movements of the lift attendant who, from time to time, when his services were not required, did odd jobs, such as folding newspapers thrown down carelessly. He now began to empty the ashtrays on nearby tables into a bowl which he kept handy for the purpose. Biggles had not failed to notice, too, that von Stalhein’s eyes went constantly to the main entrance, as if he was expecting someone.

  When, through the revolving doors, marched a Russian patrol, he understood.

  ‘Well, think over what I’ve said,’ murmured Biggles, reaching casually for the newspaper that lay between them. ‘I shall have to be going. Here’s your paper.’ He flicked the journal into von Stalhein’s face and in the same movement vaulted over the back of the settee. Two steps took him to the lift. He slammed the gate and pressed the first button that his finger found. Von Stalhein had moved almost as quickly, but he was a fraction of a second too late. The lift shot upwards.

  Biggles counted the floors as they flashed past. The lift stopped at the third. He stepped out. A long, carpeted corridor ran to left and right.

  To the right, a man in a dressing-gown, towels over his arm, was crossing the passage, apparently going to a bathroom. Biggles walked along, his eyes on the door of the vacated room. It stood ajar.

  Just inside was a hat and coat stand. Several garments hung on it. They included a Russian officer’s cap and greatcoat.

  He lifted them off and strode on to the end of the corridor. Another passage ran at right-angles. Half-way down it a red light glowed. Putting on the cap and coat as he walked he went on to it and found, as he expected, a door under the red light marked ‘Fire Exit.’

  Opening the door he saw a narrow stone stairway spiralling downwards. He went down.

  The stairway, he knew, was bound to end at the ground floor. It did, in a stone passage with doors on either side, from behind which came the rattle of crockery. A man, white clad, wearing a chef’s tall hat, came out of one of the doors, singing to himself. He looked at Biggles curiously, but said nothing.

  ‘I’ve lost my way,’ said Biggles apologetically. ‘Where is the nearest exit?’

  The man pointed. ‘It is the staff entrance,’ he explained.

  ‘Danke,’ thanked
Biggles, and strolled on to the door.

  It opened into a dingy little side street. As he stepped out he heard whistles blowing and orders being shouted. Two soldiers came running round the corner. Biggles, already walking towards them, continued to do so, not daring to turn. The men steadied their pace as they passed him, saluting. Biggles returned their salute and went on without a backward glance.

  Presently, to his chagrin, he found himself in the Zindenplatzer, with the main hotel entrance twenty yards to his right. Von Stalhein was standing on the steps, gesticulating as he spoke to several uniformed men. Biggles turned the other way. He would have done so in any case, as it was the direction of the corner where he had left his guide. He found the entrance to the bierhaus and, turning in, saw his man sitting alone at a small table with a glass of beer in front of him. There were several other men there, mostly soldiers, but their attention was on a girl at the end of the room, singing at a piano.

  Biggles touched his guide on the arm. At first he was not recognised, and the man started guiltily. But when recognition came the man moved in such haste that he nearly knocked his beer over.

  ‘Let’s get along,’ said Biggles quietly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve started something at the hotel.’

  The man needed no persuasion. It was clear that he did not want to be involved. Without a word he went out into the street and hurried along, with Biggles beside him, until they came to a less frequented street, into which they turned. Several cars, travelling at high speed, overtook them, but none stopped. Once they met a police patrol on foot. The leader saluted. Biggles acknowledged.

  More narrow streets and the guide turned into an iron gate Biggles recognised it as the one by which they had entered the Soviet Zone. There were, he suspected, from the length of the halls, two houses, built back-to-back. Through them they reached the British Zone.

  ‘Take off those clothes,’ said the guide in an agitated voice. ‘We may meet a British patrol. Without giving you a chance to prove who you are they may hurry you back into the Soviet Zone. Russians may be watching, too. We are still too close to be safe.’