Biggles Goes to War

by W E Johns

  ‘I don’t like the look of that stuff,’ declared Biggles to Algy, who was sitting beside him.

  Algy looked down at the vast, blue-black shadow that was Maltovia. Ahead, a thin grey ribbon wandered roughly at right angles across their course. ‘Visibility is still fairly good,’ he opined. ‘I can see the river ahead. We ought to have no difficulty in finding the field.’

  ‘It won’t be so easy later on if this cloud thickens,’ returned Biggles grimly. ‘I smell a change in the weather. It was fairly clear when we started, for which reason I hardly took the weather into consideration. It’s getting colder, too. If it starts to rain, we shall be in ice-forming1 conditions before we get back.’

  Nothing more was said. At twelve thousand feet, while they were still some seven or eight miles from the river, Biggles cut out the engines and began a long glide towards the frontier, his idea being, of course, to enter the enemy country unremarked.

  ‘If I can get her down without using the engines again no one should be any the wiser,’ he observed as he strained his eyes into the gloom beyond the river, trying to pick up the field on which they had landed earlier in the day.

  ‘I can see it! There it is, slightly to the left,’ called Algy, who had opened a side window and was gazing down at the silent earth. ‘There is no one about by the look of it; there isn’t a light for miles except the headlights of a car on the road about five miles away.’

  ‘Fine!’ declared Biggles, beginning to sideslip2 gently towards the field on which he now fixed his eyes.

  Slowly, the big machine dropped lower and lower, silent except for the faint hum of wind in the wires. A slow S turn brought the nose of the machine in line with the landing-ground, and a minute later the wheels were running over the soft turf. The machine ran to a standstill not far from the hedge.

  ‘Good! That’s that,’ murmured Biggles with a sigh of thankfulness as he switched off, for such a landing as the one he had just made is always a strain on the nerves.

  Ginger was already untying the motorcycle by the time the others joined him in the cabin, and a few minutes saw the little surface vehicle standing under the wing of the machine that had brought it.

  ‘All right, Algy, we’ll get off,’ announced Biggles. ‘You know what to do. Stand by as long as things are quiet, but if there is trouble beat it for home. If you have to go, watch the whole area when you come back in case for any unseen reason we cannot reach this particular field. Three flashes on the torch will locate us; it will also mean that you can get down where you see the flashes. If we are not back here by dawn, go home, and you’ll have to use your discretion as to what to do after that. If you come back again after daylight watch for a white handkerchief being waved. Is that all clear?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Cheerio, then.’

  ‘Best of luck.’

  Biggles pushed the motorbike off its stand and began to wheel it towards the road which ran along the northern edge of the field. Ginger pushed from behind. It was by no means an easy task, particularly as they took some time to find a gap through the hedge, which was tangled and overgrown, but in the end they managed it and stood on the road, which they now saw was in a shocking state of disrepair.

  ‘It doesn’t look as though this part of the country is used very much, does it?’ murmured Ginger, as he switched on the headlight.

  ‘No, it’s a pretty wild spot,’ agreed Biggles as he started the engine. ‘Get aboard.’

  Ginger blew on his hands as he straddled the luggage bracket. ‘I fancy we are going to find it a bit chilly by the time we get to Shavros,’ he said. ‘OK, Chief, let her go.’

  As the motorbike with its two riders moved down the road with gradually increasing speed, Biggles knew that they had started on one of the most difficult and dangerous tasks they had ever undertaken; but he kept his thoughts to himself.

  It seemed to Ginger that they were hours getting to Shavros. Actually, they covered the forty miles to the Lovitznian capital in about an hour and a half. The machine was capable of greater speed, but the roads were in a bad state, and Biggles pursued a policy of slow but sure. They met two or three cars, and an occasional wayfarer, none of whom caused them any anxiety or alarm. One or two pedestrians called out what was evidently the Lovitznian equivalent of ‘Goodnight’, to which Biggles, not being able to speak the language, could only grunt a reply.

  But with their arrival in Shavros he knew that their difficulties might begin at any moment, and here again their greatest handicap was ignorance of the language. For this reason he dared not park the motorcycle in a garage, although they saw more than one, both in the outskirts of the city and in the main streets through which they presently passed. Finally, he left it in what looked like a public parking place in the big square in the centre of the town, where several cars were standing, one or two with chauffeurs and the others empty.

  ‘This looks like the place where we get our car when we want one,’ murmured Ginger, in a low voice, as he cast an appraising eye over the vehicles.

  ‘It will be time to think about that when we get what we came for,’ answered Biggles quietly. ‘Let us see if we can find Gustav.’

  They had no difficulty in finding the secondhand shop, but it was closed, the time now being nearly ten o’clock. A knock on the side door, however, produced a little, wizened old man with watery eyes and a furtive manner. He eyed the two ‘peasants’ suspiciously.

  ‘Gustav?’ questioned Biggles softly.

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘Einige Zigaretten Greta, bitte3,’ murmured Biggles softly. The old man started slightly. ‘Herein4,’ he muttered, and stood aside to allow them to enter, after which he led the way to a small sitting-room.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ asked Biggles curtly.

  ‘A leedle, yes.’

  Biggles took a plunge, knowing that he had either to trust the man entirely or not at all. ‘Tell me what you know of Count Stanhauser,’ he demanded. ‘We have come to fetch him.’

  Briefly, in broken and often halting English, Gustav repeated the story Ludwig had already told them.

  ‘In what part of the hotel is he?’ asked Biggles, when he had finished.

  ‘Der room twenty-von.’

  ‘On what floor is that?’

  ‘You mean – der stairs?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Der second.’

  ‘Is he free? I mean, is he allowed to walk about?’

  ‘Yes, but always der two men watch.’

  ‘Is it possible to get a message to him?’

  ‘The old man shook his head. ‘Nein – nod possible. In time it could be arrange, perhaps yes, but tonight, no.’

  ‘Well, we can’t hang about here until the morning.’ Biggles looked at Ginger. Ginger looked at Biggles.

  ‘Bit awkward, isn’t it?’ he said.

  Biggles did not answer. For a minute or two he stared into space, turning over the problem in his mind. At last he drew a deep breath. ‘I want to avoid anything dramatic, if it is possible,’ he said slowly. ‘Simplicity is the key-note of success in this sort of thing.’ He turned to Gustav. ‘Do you happen to have a lorry?’ he asked.

  ‘Lorry? What is dot?’

  ‘A big motor-car for carrying luggage.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity. Could you get one?’

  ‘Not at dis hour. Tomorrow – perhaps.’

  ‘Forget about tomorrow. I am only concerned with tonight.’

  ‘I have big hand-truck in der yard – der ting I vetch my cases from der station.’

  ‘That’s better. Do you happen to have an old blouse amongst your stock, a blouse such as the porters wear, and a cap?’

  ‘You want to look like porter – ja?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The old man disappeared into the shop, and presently returned with a loose blue linen blouse and a peaked cap. Biggles put them on; they did not fit very well, but well enough. ‘Get me a suitcase,’ he ordered.

 
‘Big or liddle? I ’ave many.’

  ‘Better bring a big one.’

  Again the old man rummaged in his shop and came back with the desired article.

  Biggles smiled. ‘Good!’ he said. ‘Now we are getting on. Gustav, I want you to load up on your truck all the glass and crockery you’ve got in the shop.’

  The old man stared.

  ‘All right, you’ll be paid for it,’ Biggles told him.

  ‘What you do wid it?’

  ‘Break it.’

  ‘Break—’

  ‘Listen. ‘This is the plan. I want the cart piled high, as high as you can get it, with anything that will break when it falls over. Ginger, this is what I want you to do. I want you to wheel the truck past the hotel. When you get opposite the main entrance it will get out of hand, run into the gutter, and turn over. The idea is to make a noise.’

  ‘And attract every eye within a hundred yards to the fool who did the damage?’ put in Ginger. ‘Thank you kindly.’

  ‘That’s the idea. You’ve hit the nail absolutely on the head. When you unload those crocks on to the pavement I’ll warrant everyone within earshot will dash up to see what it’s all about. What is more important, every one in the vestibule of the hotel will run out. It isn’t in human nature to resist. As they dash out I shall walk in, and I’ll bet you not a single soul will see me go. But don’t you worry about me. All you will have to do after you have upset the applecart – I mean the crock cart – is to get across to the other side of the square and stand by an empty car ready for a quick get-away. As soon as you see me and the Count coming, jump in, start up, and be ready to put your foot down.’

  ‘Is that all?’ inquired Ginger, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘It should be enough to go on with, too,’ muttered Ginger. ‘OK. Let’s start loading up the glassware. All my life I’ve wanted to hear a load of glass fall on a stone pavement, but I’ve never been able to afford it.’

  ‘Your wish is about to come true, and what is more, it’s going to cost you nothing – not a bean,’ grinned Biggles. ‘Come on, Gustav, let’s get busy.’

  The old man raised a half-hearted protest at this proposed wilful destruction of his entire stock, but Biggles waved him to silence. ‘Think of what is at stake,’ he reproved him, as they made their way through to a yard at the back of the house.

  Ginger laughed quietly once or twice as the load of crockery and glass rose higher and higher on the truck.

  ‘Go ahead,’ invited Biggles. ‘Now is the time to laugh. The noise this little lot will make when it hits the concrete is going to surprise you, and there won’t be any time for laughing then.’

  ‘This must be what they call going out for a grand slam.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘That’s it.’

  In about twenty minutes the load was complete, and Ginger eyed it nervously.

  ‘I feel as if I was about to commit a murder,’ he confessed.

  ‘I’ll commit one if you spill these plates in the wrong place,’ Biggles told him seriously. ‘Watch how you go. Give me a minute to get across.’ He picked up the suitcase. ‘Goodbye, Gustav, in case I don’t see you again,’ he said. ‘When I get back I’ll let them know how useful you’ve been.’ With that, he opened the gates of the yard and walked boldly towards the hotel. Halfway across the square he looked back and saw Ginger following. Reaching the pavement, he took up a position a few yards from the hotel entrance and there awaited events.

  He had not long to wait. Ginger came striding across the square with his fragile load swaying dangerously. It was clear that the whole thing might go over at any moment. Ginger evidently realized it, for he suddenly swung the vehicle round and deliberately charged the pavement in front of the hotel. The pile was already toppling before the wheels hit the kerb, and the few passers-by scattered when they saw what was about to happen.

  The crash far surpassed anything Biggles had imagined. He was, for a moment, stunned, and with the mighty crash still ringing in his ears he could only stare at the ruin, while mugs, jugs, pots, and glasses continued to dribble out of the over-turned hand-cart; unbroken plates and saucers bowled down the pavement and crashed into the railings, or fell into the gutter.

  There was a moment of silence, as if every one within earshot had held his breath. Then uproar followed. People ran from all directions; windows were thrown open; the swing doors of the hotel were flung aside as the hall porter, attendants, and visitors who had been standing in the vestibule poured out. The sight brought Biggles back to normal. Picking up the suitcase, he walked calmly up the steps and entered the hotel. One glance showed him that the vestibule was empty. Straight across it he walked to the stairs which he could see on the other side. As he went up he met several people running down, for the lift-boy had joined the crowd on the pavement, but he took no notice of them. He did not even pause at the first-floor landing but went straight on up to the second. At the top a notice caught his eye. An arrow pointed to the left with the numbers 29–45. Another pointed to the right, 16–28. Biggles took the corridor indicated, eyes running swiftly over the numbers on the doors. Six paces brought him to the one he was looking for – number 21. Without hesitation he turned the handle and walked in.

  Three men were seated in the room, all in dark civilian clothes. One he recognized instantly. It was Count Stanhauser. The others were strangers and they sprang to their feet at the intrusion. Their movements ceased, however, when they found themselves staring into the muzzle of Biggles’s automatic.

  ‘Come on, sir,’ said Biggles crisply.

  The Count rose to his feet like a man sleep-walking.

  ‘Come along, sir, hurry up,’ called Biggles peremptorily.

  The Count recovered himself with an effort, and thereafter he acted swiftly. As he walked through into the corridor Biggles took the key out of the inside of the door, backed out of the room and locked the door behind him.

  ‘Follow me, and whatever happens, keep going. We’ve no time to talk now,’ Biggles told the Count as he put the pistol in his pocket and set off towards the stairs.

  They went down the first flight without meeting a soul, but on the next landing they almost collided with a man who had evidently just come in through the vestibule. Biggles was about to pass when he caught the other’s eyes. They both stopped dead. Recognition was mutual and instantaneous. It was Zarovitch, the Lovitznian minister who had visited them in their rooms in London on the night when Count Stanhauser had first called.

  Biggles’s hand jerked to his pocket, but before he could prevent him, the Lovitznian had turned, and, yelling at the top of his voice, was going down the stairs three at a time.

  ‘That should set things buzzing,’ growled Biggles. ‘What is he saying?’

  ‘He is shouting for the police.’

  ‘In that case we had better find another way out. Let’s try this passage.’ Biggles hurried along a corridor, but after taking several turnings it came to an end. The corridor was a cul-de-sac. Shouts and the sound of running footsteps reached their ears.

  ‘We are lost,’ declared the Count with bitter fatality.

  ‘Never say that,’ returned Biggles coldly. A flat double door caught his eye, and he recognized it for a service lift, the sort that is used for heavy luggage. But the lift itself was not there. He pressed the call-button and heard a bell jangle somewhere below. Would it be answered? He realized that everything now depended upon that. A moment later there was a grating jar as the lift doors were slammed somewhere below. Then came the peculiar electric hum of an ascending elevator. At the same moment Zarovitch, with several men, some in uniform, appeared round the corner of the corridor. They pulled up dead when they looked into Biggles’s gun.

  ‘One more step, Zarovitch, and it will be your last,’ called Biggles crisply, the last word being cut short by the crash of the lift doors as they were thrown open.

  A yawning porter stepped into the corridor, but his jaw
s snapped together and his eyes bulged as he took in the scene.

  Biggles swept him aside with a swift movement of his arm. ‘In you go,’ he told the Count shortly.

  There was a rush of footsteps as he slammed the doors. He pressed the bottom button and the lift started going down. ‘The question is, where is this going to land us?’ he murmured, as he put the pistol in his pocket and waited expectantly for the exit to appear.

  It came, and revealed a large, dimly-lit room, littered with trunks and suitcases. ‘Looks like the reception dump,’ said Biggles as his eyes flashed round the room, seeking the door. Finding it, he reached it in a few brisk strides and threw it open. A courtyard, with access to a side street, met his gaze, but it was not this that made him falter, speechlessly. Everything was covered with a mantle of white. It was snowing steadily.

  1 If ice forms on wings, engines or control surfaces of a plane, it can force it down, causing a crash landing.

  2 A sideways movement of an aircraft used in this case to lose altitude quickly.

  3 German: some Greta cigarettes, please.

  4 German: come in.

  Chapter 14

  Fresh Dangers

  ‘WHAT ARE WE waiting for?’ asked the Count anxiously.

  Biggles took a fresh grip of himself. He laughed harshly. ‘Nothing,’ he said, as he stepped forward. ‘Funny how the one thing you don’t think of so often happens to trip you up, isn’t it?’ he added bitterly.

  ‘Why, what has happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later. Let’s go.’

  As Biggles expected, the side street brought them to the main square, now nearly deserted. A few curious spectators were still lingering by the wreck of Gustav’s stock-in-trade, but he paid no attention to them as he cut straight across the square to where the cars had been. He increased his pace as he saw that only three remained, and in one of these a chauffeur was making ready to depart. Ginger was leaning against a tree near one of the others, but he was evidently on the alert, for as soon as he saw Biggles coming he slipped inside the nearest car, and by the time the others had reached him the engine was running.