'Thank you,' acknowledged Biggles.
Smith smiled again. 'No need to thank me. I'm here to do a job and I try to make the best of it. See you later.' He went out.
'Stout fellow, that,' said Biggles, finding a seat on a box.
CHAPTER VII
Over the Roof
I
C t's going to be a bit of a bind, sitting here twiddling our thumbs while wretched Ross is flown to the far side of the world,' remarked Ginger presently.
'We should have found it more of a bind had it not been for our friend Smith,' returned Biggles, lighting a cigarette and putting the dead match in his pocket. 'A queer type,' he went on. 'I've met several of them. But then, no normal fellow would take on such a job, spending his life in a hostile country, never knowing when an axe is going to drop on his neck.
Beheading, by the way, is a common method of liquidating spies in this part of the world.'
'Why did you have to remind me of that?' complained Ginger.
Biggles smiled.
After a little while Smith returned with a basket of cold food. 'This is the best I can do,'
he said as he set the basket on the box. Are you short of money?'
inquired Biggles.
'Of course not. But if I started buying more than I could eat myself people might wonder who it was for. And here, when people wonder, they talk. They talk out of fear, hoping that by getting someone else into trouble they will avoid it themselves. You have no idea of the sort of life one lives here. The place is rotten with government snoopers and spies.
No man dare trust another.'
'What on earth made you choose such a miserable job?' asked Ginger curiously.
Smith shrugged his crooked shoulder. 'With me it isn't so much a job as an occupation,'
he explained. 'After all, how could I serve the country? Look at me. As a lad I was crazy to join the army, but a fall in the hunting-field buckled my spine and that was that. My people put me in the hands of a Czech specialist who thought he could cure me. That's how I came to be here in the first place. The cure didn't work, but I got to know the country, the people and the language, so I stayed on. Of course, it was all very different here then. When the war came along the Intelligence people at home were glad to have someone with my qualifications. That's all. I've been here ever since.'
'Do you never go home?' asked Ginger.
'I was just going home when Russia grabbed the country. I was asked to stay and here I am. It isn't as dull as you may suppose. A lot of quite remarkable people pass through my hands, and from them I gather interesting news.'
'But surely you are in touch with home?' prompted Biggles.
'Of course, otherwise what use would I be? I have radio. But not here. It would be dangerous to use it regularly, but it is available should an emergency arise. Why did you ask the question? Have you a message to transmit?'
'It's a matter of getting home,' answered Biggles. 'In view of what has happened it would be futile to try to get out of the country by any form of public transport. If I could make contact with home I could arrange for an aircraft to come out and pick me up. That's all laid on.'
'Are you ready to return home?'
'Yes. There's nothing more we can do here. Fresh plans will have to be made.'
'I gather you haven't actually got an appointment with an aircraft?'
No. It wasn't practicable to make one, because when we started we had no idea of where we should end up. Aside from that, we had no knowledge of suitable landing-grounds behind the Iron Curtain.'
'I may be able to help you there.'
Biggles looked interested. 'You mean, you know of such a place?'
'Yes. It is one I have used before. You are not the first people for whom I have had to arrange transport home. By air is the best way, and the quickest.'
'Where is this place, this landing-ground?'
'It's a field, on a farm, about twelve miles from here.'
'Would you send a message home for us, giving the pinpoint of the field, a date and a time? Given that information, my own fellows could come out and pick us up.'
'Of course I'll send the message. Let me have it and I'll send it through tonight. There's no need for me to give the location of the field. My contact in London knows it. Just tell me the date and the time.' Smith got up from the box on which he had been seated. 'I must go back to the shop now.'
'What time would you send the message?' asked Biggles.
'About six. The air is stiff with radio at that hour, so my signal —
which will be in code, of course — may pass unnoticed by enemy listeners.'
'Six! That means we could get a machine out tonight!'
'Certainly, if there's no hold-up at the other end. Give me your code cipher and the signal will be delivered to your chief immediately it is received. See you later.' Smith went back downstairs.
Biggles turned to Ginger. 'The sooner our people know what's happened, the better.'
'How about Ross? He'll be feeling pretty sick by this time.'
'I haven't forgotten him. Obviously, we shall have to get him out, but it may take a little longer than we expected. I don't see how we can get to him, though, direct from here.'
'I imagine you'll ask Algy and Bertie to fetch us out?'
'Of course. They're standing by. If Smith sends the message at six they should have it by seven. An hour should be long enough for them to get weaving. Another four hours brings us to midnight. Allow a margin of an hour and the machine should be able to get here by one in the morning.
The only thing that might upset the schedule is the weather, but there's nothing we can do about that. We'll fix things with Smith next time he comes up.'
They did not see their host until a little after five, when he reappeared with tea and cakes. Biggles had his signal written out ready. Smith looked at it, and said he would see about getting it put into code forthwith.
The thing that worries me most is the weather,' Biggles told him. 'It was pretty putrid this morning. What's it like now? My pilot must have reasonable visibility for a job of this sort.'
'It's still raining a little, but the clouds are breaking, and the immediate forecast is fair generally.'
'Good,' said Biggles, pouring out a cup of tea.
'I'll leave you now, to get things fixed up,' said Smith. The plan, as I shall try to organise it, will be this. First, I'll get the signal off.
When receipt is acknowledged from the other end I'll see about the rest, which really means no more than getting you to the landing ground. I can't go with you myself for several reasons, and obviously it wouldn't be wise for you, not knowing the country, to try to find the field yourselves in the dark. At eight-forty-five you will stand by, ready to move off. At nine, a farm cart that has taken vegetables to the central market will pull up outside the scrap-metal yard which I have already mentioned. It's at the corner, about fifty yards from my door. I'd rather the cart didn't stop outside the house. If you hear the driver speak to his horse you will know that no one is in sight. Get into the cart. Cover yourselves with the old sacks which you will find in it. There's no need for you to say anything to the driver. He will indicate when you have arrived at the objective. The journey will take a good three hours. Once you have seen the field the rest will be up to you. I'm sorry if I appear to have made the thing sound melodramatic, but in my experience it doesn't do to leave anything to chance. Success in this sort of operation is more often than not determined by careful planning before the start.'
'How right you are,' agreed Biggles.
'Is there anything you can think of that you might require?' 'We're pretty well equipped, but I'd like a powerful torch, to bring the machine down.'
'I'll get you one.'
'One other thing. What happens if, for any reason, the plane doesn't turn up? Weather conditions or engine trouble might upset the timetable.'
'Yes, that's a point,' conceded Smith. 'I'll make arrangements for the same cart t
o come back, at dawn, with a load of vegetables. Don't try to get here on it. Just show yourselves to the driver. He'll let me know you're still in the country and I'll try to arrange something. On no account try to get back here by yourselves.'
'Fair enough,' agreed Biggles.
Smith departed.
'I don't know what the country would do without people like that,'
murmured Ginger. '
Smith must have nerves of steel to stand the strain of this sort of existence. We take chances, I know, but we keep on the move and have time to get our breath between shows. He's stuck here, without friends, day in and day out.'
'And the people at home take it all for granted — except those in the know,' answered Biggles moodily. 'All the same, I wouldn't say he's entirely without friends. There must be a lot of people in Czechoslovakia who are browned off with being pushed around by the Russians.'
'You know,' went on Ginger, 'I can't help thinking what a stinking bit of bad luck it was, running into von Stalhein as we did. I bet he's fairly set things buzzing.'
'As long as he doesn't come buzzing at Smith's front door, I don't mind,'
averred Biggles.
'Smith must know that every time he takes in people like us, he's taking his life in his hands. But, there, he must be well able to take care of himself or he wouldn't have lasted as long as he has.' He looked at his watch. 'The tiresome part of this sort of scheme is the waiting, with nothing to do,' he muttered.
At about seven o'clock, with the daylight fading, Smith came back with some sandwiches. 'Better have a last snack before you go,' he said cheerfully. 'We're all set.
Everything is arranged. My contact in London has acknowledged my signal.
Your message has been passed on to your department, with implicit instructions for finding the field. The plane should touch down at one in the morning. Come down just before nine. I'
ll be in the shop, keeping an eye on things. Don't leave anything about, not even a crumb.
'
'What's the weather like?' queried Biggles.
'Pretty miserable, but it's improving. The sky should be clear by zero hour.'
'Thank goodness for that.'
'See you presently,' said Smith, and went out.
Ginger watched him go, not knowing that he would not see him again.
The next hour and a half passed slowly, as is always the case when important events are impending. The grey light that filtered through the skylight became weaker, and finally died. The dim twilight in the attic gave way to darkness. Not even a cigarette glowed, for Biggles had refrained from smoking for some time, rather than leave any ash about. Only his wrist watch, at which he looked with increasing frequency, glowed like a luminous eye.
At last he got up. 'Okay,' he said. 'It's a quarter to nine. Let's go down.'
So saying he walked over to the door and opened it. Simultaneously there came a peremptory knocking on what sounded like the door of the shop.
Confirmation of this impression came a few seconds later when the bell jangled, announcing that the door had been opened.
Biggles did not move. Ginger, too, stood still with his heart in his mouth, as the saying is.
Up the narrow stairs came the murmur of voices, muffled by distance. Then came the sound for which Ginger was by this time prepared, although he still hoped that his fears were groundless. Somewhere in the room behind them a buzzer buzzed urgently. It was a simple sound, but in the circumstances there was something so sinister about it that Ginger experienced a feeling of chill down his spine.
Biggles closed the door carefully, quietly. 'Apparently we don't leave by the front door, after all,' he said calmly. 'The skylight it is. Up you go.'
'What about Smith?' protested Ginger.
'What about him?'
'We can't just bolt and leave him.'
'Use your head,' said Biggles curtly. 'If we're found on his premises he won't have an earthly. With us out of the way he'll hold his own. He must have made provision for this sort of situation. You're wasting time. Get cracking.'
Ginger delayed no longer. In the light of the torch provided by Smith, held by Biggles; he climbed on to the table, and then on the box that stood on it. This enabled him to reach the single large pane of glass above his head. He pushed it up, and allowed it to fall back gently on its hinges. A pull and he was through, lying flat, groping desperately
for a hold on the sloping roof, aghast at what he saw. A few feet below him the roof ended in a black void. From other, similar holes of darkness rose the misshapen gables of ancient roofs, with here and there a gaunt chimney pointing like a black finger at the murky sky.
What struck him at once was, Smith must have arranged his escape route in dry weather.
He could have had no idea of what the old tiles would be like after rain.
The roof might have been smeared with grease.
'Move along,' said a voice at his elbow, and, twisting his face round, he saw Biggles beside him, replacing the skylight.
'Move along,' muttered Biggles again. 'What are you waiting for?'
Ginger gasped. 'This is frightful,' he managed to get out. 'If I move, I shall slide off'
'You can't spend the rest of your life where you are,' said Biggles tersely. 'Get weaving.
If the police look through the skylight they'll see us.'
The next five minutes were to Ginger something in the nature of a nightmare. Spread-eagled flat on the roof he inched his way along, fingers pressing against the tiles for any slight projection which might help him. Once a piece of moss came away in his hand and he thought he was gone; and he did in fact slide a little way before a protruding nail gave him respite. His eyes never left the chimney stack which was his objective. He thought he would never reach it. When he did, he clawed at it as a drowning man might clutch at a lifebelt; and there he clung, panting, striving to steady a racing heart, watching the black shape that he knew was Biggles making the dreadful passage. At the last moment, Biggles, too, started to slide; but with one arm round the chimney stack Ginger was able to give him a hand. For a nerve-shattering moment Ginger feared that the whole stack would come crashing down under their combined weight as Biggles drew himself up. But then the immediate danger was past, and they both paused to recover from the shock of the ordeal.
'By thunder! That wasn't funny,' remarked Biggles, breathing heavily.
'Are you telling me?' panted Ginger.
'Let's get on or we shall miss the cart,' urged Biggles.
Ginger, it may be admitted, in the anxiety of the moment, had forgotten all about the cart.
Slowly and with infinite care Biggles pulled himself erect and put a hand in the chimney-pot. It came out holding the rope which, yard by yard, was withdrawn. Ginger guided the loose end over the edge of the gable, from which the chimney was an extension. What lay below he could not see, but according to Smith there was a flat roof. He stared down, but the starlight was dim with mist, or cloud, and he could see nothing distinctly.
Biggles made a running knot round the chimney. 'Down you go,' he ordered.
The rest was simple. Ginger went hand over hand down the rope and soon found himself on a flat surface. The relief, after the strain, was almost overwhelming. `Biggles appeared beside him, and brought the rope down with a thud. They coiled it, picked it up, and advanced cautiously until another pool of gloom appeared. Still nothing could be seen distinctly, but below them was obviously the yard of the scrap-metal merchant.
There was a little delay while a projection to which the rope could be fastened was found. Then Ginger went down, to stumble with a clatter on a heap of junk.
'Do you have to make so much noise?' muttered Biggles shortly, as he joined him.
'Sorry, but I can't see in the dark,' answered Ginger coldly, wiping filthy hands on his jacket.
Biggles buried the rope under a heap of rubbish. Then he looked at his watch. 'Five minutes to go,' he whispered. 'This way.'
They
could see the street now — or, rather, the position of it — by the glow of lamps.
Getting to it without making a noise was another matter, for the place was strewn with old metal objects of every description, from tin cans, bedsteads and fireplaces to the bodies of ancient vehicles. However, the short journey to a low wooden fence that ran between the yard and the street was made without disturbance, and there a halt was called while Biggles, looking over the fence, made a quick reconnaissance.
'No sign of the cart,' he reported presently. The corner is just along to the left. There are two cars outside the shop, which means that either the place is being searched or Smith is being questioned. There are one or two people moving about, two of them standing by one of the cars, but they are too far away for me to make out who or what they are.
Police, probably. There's nothing more we can do except sit tight and wait for the cart.'
They squatted, Ginger praying fervently that the cart would be on time, and hoping every moment to hear the clatter of hooves. Instead, the sound that came to his ears was of slow footsteps approaching. That at least two persons were responsible was revealed presently by the murmur of voices. The footsteps approached at the dead-slow pace of men who were waiting for something.
Biggles touched Ginger on the arm and got into the back seat of an old wheelless car, the door of which gaped open. Ginger joined him. The footsteps came nearer. Two voices were talking in German. Ginger's nerves twitched as he recognised one of them. It belonged to von Stalhein. He was saying to his companion: '
But you don't know this man Bigglesworth. I do. I've been trying to pin him down for years, but he's as slippery as an eel.'
'We should have found him by now,' answered the other. 'We've covered all the likely places.'
'Exactly,' replied von Stalhein, sarcasm creeping into his voice. 'All the likely places.
You will never find this man by looking in likely places. He has a curious knack of appearing where one would least expect him. If you are sure that he must still be in Prague, the chances are that he is miles away.'
42 Biggles Follows On Page 7
