Biggles Takes a Hand

by W E Johns

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I: A SINISTER ASSIGNATION

  CHAPTER II: DEAD END?

  CHAPTER III: VON STALHEIN GIVES A HINT

  CHAPTER IV: LADY IN TROUBLE

  CHAPTER V: ANNA TALKS

  CHAPTER VI: DISAPPOINTING NEWS

  CHAPTER VII: CITY OF FEAR

  CHAPTER VIII: ALGY MEETS TROUBLE

  CHAPTER IX: ANNA DISOBEYS ORDERS

  CHAPTER X: A SHOCK FOR BIGGLES

  CHAPTER XI: GINGER TAKES CHARGE

  CHAPTER XII: BIGGLES PLANS ACTION

  CHAPTER XIII: THE SHOW-DOWN

  CHAPTER I

  A SINISTER ASSIGNATION

  “LETTER for you.” Ginger handed it to Biggles who, in his dressing-gown, at home in the London flat, was sipping an early morning cup of tea with the first cigarette of the day.

  Biggles looked at the envelope, back and front. “This didn’t come through the post. There’s no stamp and no address; just my name. Where did you find it?”

  “In our box, when I went down for the papers. Somebody must have dropped it in during the night.”

  “It isn’t often I get a letter here,” remarked Biggles, as he slit the flap. “I can’t recall ever seeing this handwriting before, either.” He withdrew the single sheet of notepaper contained in the envelope and read what was written on it. He took a sip of tea and read it again.

  “Come on, old boy; what’s it all about,” inquired Bertie, from the other side of the table. “You’re killing me with curiosity.”

  Said Algy, softly: “From his expression somebody’s trying to touch him for some money.”

  Biggles looked up. “You’re right off the beam. Listen to this.” He read aloud: “‘If you will go to the Adlon Restaurant in Bank Street, Kensington, today, at a quarter to one precisely, and sit at table number two, you will be joined by someone who will give you information you should be glad to have. A Well-wisher.’” He tossed the letter on the table. “What do you make of that?”

  Ginger answered. “Only what it says. Are you going to keep the appointment?”

  “That needs thinking about.”

  “There is this about it,” asserted Bertie, cheerfully. “You can’t come to much harm in Kensington.”

  “I wasn’t contemplating any such possibility,” returned Biggles. “I’m not alarmed, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s the man who wrote this letter who is scared. It’s just that I don’t like anonymous letters.”

  “What makes you think he’s scared?”

  “What other reason could there be for his reluctance to divulge his identity? That doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s frightened physically; but he must be mighty anxious that no one should know what he’s doing.”

  “Some crook who’s lost his nerve and is prepared to squeal, perhaps,” suggested Ginger.

  Biggles shook his head. “I don’t think that’s the answer. If I know anything about crooks such a man would have got in touch with Scotland Yard; probably by phoning from a call-box. Why pick on me, personally? Obviously the writer knows me and knows what I do for a living. He knew I lived here. How? I’ve taken good care to keep my private address under the hat. Our number isn’t in the phone book. I kept it out. No doubt the man who wrote this letter would have preferred to phone had he known the number. I feel I should keep the appointment if for no other reason than to find out how the fellow got this address. I don’t like that.”

  “Will you go alone?” put in Algy.

  “I see nothing in the invitation about bringing a guest so I shall have to go alone.”

  “Then you’ve decided to go?”

  “I might as well. I’ve nothing to lose.” Biggles smiled. “On the contrary, if my unknown well-wisher turns out to be a man with money in his pocket I might get a free lunch. Let’s leave it at that. I’d better be getting dressed.” Biggles stubbed his cigarette, finished his tea and retired to his bedroom.

  He arrived at the rendezvous five minutes early, thinking that, as he had never heard of the place, he might have some difficulty in finding it. It did in fact take him a little while, and when he saw it he understood why the name was unknown to him. It was small, and while not exactly shabby it did not give the impression of being prosperous. In a word, it was like thousands of similar eating establishments to be found in and around the metropolis which somehow manage to make a living for the proprietors.

  However, when Biggles went in he found the place fairly well patronized, from which it could be assumed that the food served was reasonably good. This became understandable when presently he picked up a menu card and observed that the various dishes offered were not as cheap as he had expected they would be. In short, the dining-room was far from being in the “sausage and mash” class which he had suspected from the outside. The important thing, from his point of view, was that the table-cloths and cutlery were clean.

  He counted fourteen tables, laid for parties of from two to four, fairly well spaced along a room that was long and rather narrow. A waitress came forward and asked him if he had booked a table. He said he was to meet a friend at table number two, whereupon the girl escorted him the full length of the room to a table laid for two and pulled out a chair which, either by accident or design, commanded a view of every other table in the restaurant. It occurred to him to wonder if this had been arranged, but he thought it prudent not to inquire. He was inclined to think it had, because his host would have his back to the room, which was in accord with the surreptitious nature of the proceedings.

  People continued to trickle in and sit down. In particular he noticed a party of three, because from the confident way they entered, and went straight to a table without waiting for the waitress, they were evidently regulars. He did not pay any further attention to them, however, assuming his host, when he arrived, would be alone.

  At a quarter to one the first man who had entered by himself walked in. He, too, behaved as though he knew his way about, giving a nod to the waitress in passing her. He was thin, and tall above the average, but as the lower part of his face was hidden by a grey beard, and the upper part by dark glasses, little of his features could be seen. Walking with a slight limp he came straight on to the table where Biggles was seated and sat in the opposite chair.

  “I’m glad you could come, Bigglesworth,” he said softly.

  Biggles stared, frowning. He still did not recognize the man from his appearance but he knew the voice. “Von Stalhein,” he breathed, incredulously. “So it’s you! What’s the idea of this theatrical stuff?”

  “Ssh. No names. And please speak quietly. This happens to be one of those occasions when a disguise is very necessary.”

  “For heaven’s sake! Why?”

  “Because there are men in the room I would not like to recognize me.”

  “You know them?”

  “Yes. And they know me.”

  “Did you know they would be here?”

  “I reckoned on it.”

  “Then if you didn’t want them to see you why in the name of common sense did you come here?”

  “Because I wanted you to see them. To have a good look at them, so that you will know them again wherever you might meet them. Here you have ample time to study them, which would not be easy outside in the street.”

  “Which men are you talking about?”

  “There are three of them. They are sitting at the far end of the room near the door that leads into the kitchen. One is going bald in front.”

  Biggles nodded. “I’ve got them. I noticed them when they came in.”

  “Why?”

  “Because from their behaviour I took them to be regulars.”

  “They have had their lunch here every day for at least a week. It so h
appens that I often use this restaurant. The food is quite good and within reach of my purse. I assumed they would be here again today, which is why I sent you the invitation to join me.”

  “Have you been watching them?”

  “Not seriously. I have other things to do. But knowing who and what they are I found myself wondering what they are doing in England. There is a chance they are looking for me, but I don’t think so. I am no longer a man of importance, or of sufficient importance to warrant their employment. Still, one never knows. The day I came in and saw them sitting there I turned about and went out. Fortunately they did not see me. Since then I have thought it advisable to alter my appearance. When such people are about one cannot be too careful.”

  “I see. Now perhaps you’ll tell me how I come into the picture.”

  “After giving the matter careful thought I decided that, in return for the political asylum I have received here, someone in authority should know who these men are and why they have come here. There can be only one reason. Naturally, I thought of you.”

  “Very well. Who are these men?”

  “They are probably three of the most dangerous men in the world.”

  “Very interesting. In what respect?”

  “They are professional murderers.”

  Biggles frowned. “Say that again.”

  “I said their chosen job in life is assassination, in which unpleasant trade they are experts, having had a good deal of experience. To put it plainly, those three villains are in the employment of men who from time to time decide that someone, for one reason or another, must be killed to ensure his silence. There are not many people in the world who find it necessary to employ killers, so no doubt you will guess to whom I am referring. As you see, the three agents are in England. That can only mean they have been sent here to destroy someone. They are not criminals in the common meaning of the word. I am speaking only of political murder, although no doubt for a consideration they would undertake to liquidate anyone.”

  Biggles looked hard at Von Stalhein’s face. “Had anyone else told me that I would have had doubts; but knowing you as I do I am sure you wouldn’t waste my time, or your own, fabricating such a monstrous story.”

  At this point the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress, notebook in hand, for their order. They both decided on steak and fried potatoes with half a pint of beer.

  While this was going on Biggles took the opportunity to study the faces of the three men Von Stalhein had brought him to the restaurant to see.

  On close scrutiny one could only say that they did not look British, although the reason for this was not immediately apparent. It may have been the clothes they wore, and the materials used, for there is something about the cut of an English-made suit that is different from others. Generally speaking there was nothing about any of them to indicate what Von Stalhein had claimed to be their sinister occupation.

  The man with the half-bald head had a rather square face, clean shaven. His eyes were set wide apart and there was a grim set to his jaw, although in the ordinary way this would not have been noticed. His movements were slow and deliberate. Another of the trio was almost his exact opposite, being lean, with deep-set eyes that were never still under straight black eyebrows that met above the nose. He had a thick crop of hair without a parting. The third member was as conventional a type as could be met anywhere. His face was pale, his mouth wide with lips thin and bloodless. He looked as if he might have been ill. He kept a cigarette going through the meal and coughed frequently.

  The waitress having departed Biggles turned his eyes back to Von Stalhein. “How do you know about these men?”

  A ghost of a smile for a second softened Von Stalhein’s customary austere expression. “Let us not go into my past history. Let it suffice that I have known of these men for some long time. I have never associated with them, but I was once asked to assist them. This, being a soldier and not a murderer, I refused, with the result that I knew would be inevitable. As you know, in certain countries the refusal to obey an order involves a trial on a charge of treason. This, as a matter of detail, was the reason why I was condemned to life imprisonment on the island of Sakhalin, from which vile durance you so kindly rescued me.”1

  “Who was to be murdered on that occasion?” inquired Biggles.

  “You.”

  Biggles smiled whimsically. “As a matter of fact an attempt on my life was made about that time, but it misfired. A man fired a gun at me from inside a car as I was walking home. But to return to the present: have I ever run up against these particular men, without being aware of their identity?”

  “Not to my knowledge. They are not engaged in espionage, or anything of that nature. Their job is to liquidate any person named by their employers. They can employ any method they wish.”

  “I’ve sometimes made myself a nuisance to people we both know,” said Biggles thoughtfully. “Could it be that these cold-blooded gentlemen are here to get me?”

  “I’ve considered that possibility. I would hardly think so. If I may presume to say so I doubt if you are now sufficiently important. These men are only employed when someone who could cause mischief is to be, to use the popular expression, bumped off. Besides, had you been the target, as they have been in the country for at least a week it is unlikely that neither you nor they would be sitting here now. They would be on their way home, their mission accomplished.”

  “That at least is a comforting thought,” rejoined Biggles cheerfully. “What are the names of these thugs?”

  “I imagine they have many, with passports for all of them. When I knew them, the name of the leader—he’s the man with the bald head—was Ludwig Karkoff. He’s the planner. The other two are his assistants. They are the actual executioners. Their names are Molsk—on the left as you look at them—and Rallensky.”

  “What nationality are they?”

  “I don’t know. They may not know themselves. I know they speak many languages, one of the accomplishments that makes them so useful. They belong to what we might call the international brigade. As a result of the war, when so many people were displaced, Eastern Europe is full of such men.”

  “Why have these vultures never been caught at their dirty trade?”

  “They have an advantage denied ordinary criminals. If hard pressed they can always find refuge in one of the Iron Curtain embassies, not only in London but in any country in Western Europe. That gives them diplomatic immunity while arrangements are being made to send them home. It is all too easy.”

  At this juncture there was another delay while the waitress served their food.

  Then Biggles went on. “Assuming these men are living in London do you happen to know where they are staying?”

  “Yes, I can tell you that. Anticipating your question I have made a point of watching them go home. I think they must have rooms in one of the many private hotels in the Cromwell Road. It is called the Cosmolite, one that appears to cater particularly for foreigners— as the name would suggest. Of course, I know what you are going to say about all this.”

  “What am I going to say?”

  “You will say there is nothing you can do about it.”

  Biggles shrugged. “As this is a free country no man can be arrested until he has broken the law.”

  “Not even if, as in this case, you know what he intends to do?”

  “How can you prove what a man intends to do until he has done it?”

  Von Stalhein shook his head sadly. “That, if I may presume to say so, is the weakness of a democracy.”

  “Let’s not get on to politics,” requested Biggles. “We have ways and means of dealing with special circumstances.”

  “Such as?”

  “If we could prove that these men had entered the country by using false papers we could get a deportation order.”

  “Even if you did that it wouldn’t solve your big problem. They would merely be replaced by others. In fact, you would have done you
rself a disservice. It is better to deal with men you know than those you don’t know.”

  Biggles agreed. “Our real problem is to find out why these men are here. In plain English, who they have come here to murder? Have you any idea of the probable victim?”

  “No. Why should I?”

  “I imagine you read the newspapers so it struck me you might know the names of some of the people here who are not popular with the various dictators and their puppets.”

  “The person who has been sentenced to death may not be in this country at the moment. He may be coming here. Look at it like this. The murderers have been here for a week or more. Why haven’t they struck? I can think of only two reasons. Either the proposed victim is not here or they have been unable to locate him.”

  “I take your point,” said Biggles slowly. “If we knew the name of the man we should be able to judge the reason for killing him. There could be several. If he happened to be a foreign diplomat his assassination in this country could have tremendous repercussions. Fanned by propaganda it could turn friendly countries into enemies, and that could have more far-reaching effects in the world, as it is today, than the death of the man himself. Do you know the method usually employed by these professional murderers?”

  “No. I only know that whenever possible the death is made to look like an accident. For example, the man might fall off a boat and be drowned. He might fall out of a window to crash on the pavement below. That has happened. The aeroplane in which he is to travel could be sabotaged.”

  “And kill a lot of innocent people at the same time.”

  “You don’t suppose that would worry them,” sneered Von Stalhein.

  “I see they’re getting ready to move off,” said Biggles, looking up the room at the three men under discussion.

  “I must go, too,” said Von Stalhein, beckoning to the waitress for the bill. “I have work to do.”

  “I’m very much obliged to you for what you’ve told me,” thanked Biggles seriously. “Also for an excellent lunch.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m glad to be of service and it has been a pleasure to see you again.”