by W E Johns
‘By what authority does General Bethstein issue such an order as this?’ asked Biggles coldly. His object was really to gain time, for he saw that they were in a tight corner, and his brain was feverishly seeking a way out.
‘His own,’ replied Vilmsky bluntly. ‘Where is Lieutenant Hebblethwaite?’
Until that moment Biggles had almost forgotten Ginger; or rather, perhaps, it would be more correct to say that he imagined that he was standing somewhere behind him. He now realized, however, that he must be still lying on the floor of the machine. ‘How do you suppose I know?’ was his reply to Vilmsky’s question. ‘You saw us land, didn’t you?’
‘He isn’t here. Where is he?’
‘I shouldn’t be likely to tell you if I knew.’
‘Very well. No doubt we shall find him. Come.’
‘Where to?’
‘Where we are going to take you.’
‘Where is that?’
‘To the barracks.’
‘Also by the general’s orders?’
‘You are now under my orders.’
Biggles shrugged his shoulders. He perceived that either resistance or argument was futile, and that the wisest plan was to get away as quickly as possible in order to give Ginger a chance to do something. ‘All right,’ he said loudly, hoping that Ginger would hear him and take the hint. ‘When her Highness hears of this you’ll get some orders, my friend – marching orders. How do we travel?’
‘My car is waiting.’
‘Then let us get on with it. I am very tired and rather cold, so the sooner this nonsense ends, the better.’
Vilmsky snapped an order, and the soldiers lined up on either side of the prisoners.
Algy moved nearer to Biggles. He was white with fury. ‘If ever I get my hands on this skunk, or his crooked pal Bethstein, I’ll twist their windpipes into a knot that will take a bit of untying,’ he breathed vindictively.
Biggles nodded. ‘I should have anticipated something of this sort,’ he said bitterly, as the party began to move towards the road. ‘But to tell the honest truth I did not think that Bethstein would dare to go as far as this. The question is, how far will he go? If he is prepared to go to these lengths to get rid of us he may go to any lengths. Well, we can only wait and see. If we start a rough house they’ll shoot us, and there are too many of them for us to hope to get away with it. I have a feeling that Vilmsky would like us to try to get away. I hope they don’t separate us, that’s all.’
Two cars were waiting on the road. The prisoners, with an escort, were put into the first one and the remainder of the soldiers filled the other. Another order from Vilmsky and the cars began their journey.
‘The barracks are somewhere on the other side of the city,’ whispered Algy. ‘If they take us right through the main street we may get a chance to do something.’
‘They won’t,’ replied Biggles grimly.
In this assumption he was correct, for soon afterwards the cars took a turning to the right and then proceeded to make a detour round the city. Consequently, it was a good hour before they arrived at their destination, the so-called barracks. The building was, in fact, a medieval fortress modernized in a half-hearted way. The massive gates were closed, but a hoot from the horn brought out a sentry who opened them to admit the cars and then closed them again.
‘This place looks more like a jail than a barracks,’ muttered Algy, eyeing the old stone walls with disfavour.
‘I imagine it would be as hard to break out of,’ answered Biggles moodily, as the cars came to a halt in a flagged courtyard, where they were invited to dismount.
No further information was given them as they were marched through a gloomy archway and along a damp corridor, in which their footsteps, and those of their escort, echoed eerily, to what was, without doubt, a cell. The roof was circular, after the manner of a large culvert, and the stone walls were bare of decoration except for countless initials that had been carved on them, apparently by previous prisoners. One of these, with a ghastly sense of humour, had sketched, in charcoal, a grinning skull and crossbones over his monogram. A plain deal table occupied the centre of the floor; a rough wooden form stood beside it, while two crude trestle beds at either end of the apartment completed the furniture. A wan grey light filtered through an iron-barred window high up in the end wall.
‘Very pretty,’ remarked Algy, with bitter sarcasm, as the door slammed and he stood regarding the skull and crossbones device. ‘This place has an unpleasant resemblance to a well-used condemned cell.’
‘Try thinking of something cheerful,’ suggested Biggles, sitting down on the form and yawning. ‘I’m too tired to think.’
‘You had an exciting night, I gather?’
‘We certainly did,’ Biggles told him wearily, and thereafter ran briefly over their adventures for his benefit.
‘You didn’t expect to find me still in the field when you got back to it, I hope?’ said Algy, when he had finished.
‘Of course not. You couldn’t have done anything, if you had stayed. You were quite right to go home.’
‘I waited as long as I dared, but when the snow began to come down good and proper, I decided that my best plan was to get back while I could. I could have come back if the weather had cleared. It was as black as the pit by the time I got home, and but for Smyth’s flares I should never have found the aerodrome. As it was, I ran into the trees and smashed a wing-tip. That’s why I came over in the two-seater this morning.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I thought something of the sort must have happened.’
‘As a matter of fact, I had been beetling up and down for the best part of half an hour when I saw that bloke who sports the pennants behaving as though he was shooting up somebody on the ground; I guessed who it was, and down I came in a hurry. He really showed me where you were, because, naturally, I was concentrating on the other side of the river.’
‘We saw you,’ Biggles told him, ‘but we didn’t know it was you. You were very high up, and in any case we were expecting the big machine. By the way, what did you do with the Count?’
‘I unloaded him at the aerodrome. He insisted that I should go back for you immediately. The last I saw of him he was walking up the road towards the city. He waved to me as I took off again.’
‘I hope he got to the palace all right,’ said Biggles quietly. He glanced round suspiciously and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Ginger is bound to try to get in touch with him, to let him know what has happened. It was a bit of luck for us that he did not get out of the machine. Frankly, had he been caught with us and brought here I wouldn’t give a fig for our chance, but if he manages to get clear he will be certain to make a bee-line for the Count, or Ludwig.’
‘Even so, they may have a job to find us.’
‘I realize that, but they will be certain to guess that Bethstein was at the bottom of it, and they ought to be able to find him even if they don’t find us.’
‘On the other hand, the cunning devil may take care that they do not,’ returned Algy morosely. ‘After all, it isn’t a bona fide case of arrest on suspicion of espionage. The whole thing is a frame-up arranged by Bethstein to keep us out of the way while he gets on with his dirty work.’
‘That is so,’ agreed Biggles. There was never any doubt about that.’
Further conversation was cut short by the arrival of four guards, armed with rifles with bayonets fixed, under the command of Vilmsky. Biggles stood up and faced them with some surprise, for he had hardly expected them back so soon. He stood still, and advised Algy to do the same, while they were searched, for he realized that resistance was useless. Everything in their pockets having been removed, he turned to Vilmsky expectantly.
‘March!’ was the curt command.
‘What’s the idea?’ asked Biggles coldly.
‘You are going to be tried by a military court on a charge of espionage.’
‘Espionage my foot,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Of whom does this court consist?�
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‘Officers of the Maltovian army.’
Biggles looked at Algy and raised a shoulder helplessly. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better go,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s no use fighting and being hauled up by brute force like a couple of pickpockets.’ He turned to Vilmsky, who was regarding them with a supercilious smile. ‘Lead on,’ he said grimly.
Back along the corridor they marched and then up a flight of stone stairs that emerged on to a wide landing. Outside a door two sentries were on duty. They stood aside when they saw the prisoners and their escort. Vilmsky opened the door and walked in. Unhurriedly, with Algy close behind, Biggles followed, his eyes taking in the scene.
Within the room, a lofty chamber lighted by several lamps, for the winter afternoon was drawing in, five men were sitting behind a long refectory table. All wore the uniforms and badges of rank of senior officers of the Maltovian army. On the table, which was covered by a green baize cloth, were sheets of paper and writing materials. That was all.
All eyes were on the prisoners as they advanced slowly towards the table, but Biggles’s hostile gaze was fixed on one man, obviously the president of the court, for he sat at the centre of the table with two others on either side. It was General Bethstein.
The general returned his stare. ‘Is your name Biggles-worth?’ he asked in a loud voice.
Biggles’s lips curled slightly. ‘Why waste time asking fool questions?’ he said harshly. ‘You know it is.’
‘Answer my question!’
‘Let me ask you one. What is the meaning of this farce?’
The general leaned forward. ‘You do not appear to realize that you are being tried on a charge for which, if you are found guilty, the punishment is death,’ he said evenly.
‘And you, having found us guilty before the trial begins, are only waiting to pass sentence. Am I right?’
The general’s eyes half closed. ‘Insolence will not help your case,’ he grated.
‘Neither will anything else, I imagine.’
‘Silence!’
Biggles regarded the other members of the court in turn. There was not a single friendly face among them – not that he expected to find one, knowing that they must all be fellow conspirators of the general’s or they would not be there. He turned back to Bethstein. ‘Who are all these people?’ he asked, indicating the court.
‘They are officers of the Maltovian army.’
‘Friends of yours, I presume?’
The general eyed him malevolently. ‘It would seem that you do not take these proceedings seriously,’ he said in a hard voice.
‘On the contrary, I take them very seriously indeed,’ answered Biggles evenly.
‘Very well. Let us proceed.’ The general cleared his throat. ‘What is your nationality?’
‘That is something else you know, but you are likely to know a thundering sight better if you try any monkey tricks and the British Foreign Office gets to hear of it, as it certainly will.’
‘Will you answer the questions put to you?’ snapped the general, who was obviously fast losing his temper.
‘No, I won’t,’ returned Biggles tersely. ‘This court is irregular, and you know it. You have no right to detain us, much less hold this farcical trial. I know what you are doing as well as you do, and as well as every one else in the room knows, no doubt. Why waste time with these absurd proceedings? If you fondly imagine that they will save your face you are making a big mistake, so cut out the nonsense and do what you have already decided to do.’
The general smiled curiously and picked up his pen. ‘No one shall say that you did not have a fair trial,’ he said mockingly. ‘Where were you last night?’
‘You evidently know that, or you wouldn’t ask.’
‘Were you in Lovitzna?’
‘I was.’
The general wrote something on the paper in front of him and then looked at the other members of the court triumphantly. ‘You heard that?’ he said sharply. ‘The prisoner admits he was in Lovitzna.’
An idea suddenly occurred to Biggles. Somehow – he did not know how – the general had learned of their visit to the enemy country. Did he know the reason, he wondered? ‘Do you know why I went to Lovitzna last night?’ he inquired.
The general started, making it clear that he did not. ‘Why did you go?’ he asked in an odd tone of voice.
Biggles noted that the atmosphere of the room had suddenly become tense. ‘I went to fetch somebody,’ he said quietly, looking the general straight in the eyes. ‘Can you guess who it was?’
Suspicion, and then understanding, flashed across the general’s face. ‘So,’ he ejaculated in a voice that trembled with rage.
‘So,’ mimicked Biggles. ‘I am pleased to be able to inform you that you went to a lot of trouble for nothing, although as a loyal subject of Maltovia you should be delighted to learn that Count Stanhauser is now at the palace. I and my friends brought him home, and that, I think, knocks on the head once and for all any charge of espionage. I’ll bet you don’t write that down on your paper.’
The general’s lips came together in an ominous line. ‘You lie,’ he snarled.
Biggles’s eyes flashed as his temper got out of control. ‘You call me a liar? If there is a liar in this room it is you, you dirty, yellow, double-crossing spy.’
The general sprang to his feet livid with fury. In his convulsive grip the pen he held in his hand broke across the middle. He flung the pieces on the table and reached for his revolver, but he checked himself in time. ‘I think we have heard enough,’ he almost hissed.
‘I thought you’d soon get tired of hearing the truth,’ sneered Biggles.
The general turned to the court. ‘What is your verdict, gentlemen?’ he asked.
‘Guilty,’ came the answer, as in a single voice.
The general drew a deep breath and sat down heavily. ‘You heard that?’ He glowered at the prisoners. ‘It now falls to me to pronounce sentence.’
‘Pah! Don’t waste your breath.’ Biggles’s voice was heavy with loathing and disgust.
The general stood up, smiling sardonically. ‘The sentence of this court is that you be taken to the place from whence you came, and at the break of dawn be shot to death by a party of soldiers detailed for that purpose.’
‘You must have recited that little piece a good many times to bring it out as pat as that,’ jeered Biggles.
‘And may God have mercy on your soul,’ concluded the general piously.
‘Save your good wishes for yourself. You’ll need them,’ taunted Biggles.
A heavy hand fell on his arm and swung him round. The escort closed in around them and marched them back to their cell. The door closed with a dull clang. A key grated in the lock.
Biggles looked at Algy with a whimsical smile on his face. ‘The biggest blunder I ever made in my life was to underestimate that scoundrel’s villainy,’ he said bitterly.
‘You think he means it?’
Biggles sat down on the table and thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said quietly, ‘we have been in several awkward corners in our long and somewhat chequered careers, but never in such a tight one as this.’
‘What are we going to do about it?’
Biggles glanced round the bare stone walls. ‘There doesn’t seem to be much we can do, does there?’ he said coolly.
Chapter 17
Ginger Takes the Warpath
GINGER, LYING ON the bottom of the fuselage of the two-seater at the moment when the arrest was made, nearly gave himself away by his impetuosity, although it is true that he had no reason to suspect that matters were as serious as they really were. The actual sequence of events occurred in this order.
After Algy had got out of the cockpit, he, Ginger, at once moved to follow him, but found to his annoyance that owing to his cramped position his right leg had what is called ‘gone to sleep’. Muttering in his impatience, he proceeded to massage it vigorously to restore the circulation, and
he was still employed in this unusual occupation when a few words of a conversation reached his ears, words that caused him to cease rubbing and adopt a curious attitude of attention. The actual words he heard were Biggles’s sharply uttered ‘What is the meaning of this?’ when he had found himself suddenly confronted by Vilmsky. Needless to say he listened – all ears, as the saying is – for the reply, and he started when he heard Vilmsky’s suave ‘You are under arrest.’
His next action was purely instinctive. Naturally, he wanted to see what was going on. Grabbing the seat, he pulled himself up, and for two or three seconds gazed wonderingly at the scene below him. It was fortunate for him, although in the circumstances it was only natural, that all eyes were on Biggles and Algy, for which reason his jack-in-the-box appearance passed unobserved. If, at that moment, he had made the slightest sound, or had one of the soldiers looked in his direction, he would, inevitably, have been discovered. Upon such slender threads do lives sometimes hang. Once the realization of what was happening penetrated into his startled brain, he sank down again, and from the floor of the cockpit heard the rest of the conversation.
The few minutes’ duration of this saw him in a fever of indecision, for without warning he found himself faced by a major problem. Two courses were open to him. Either he could sit still in the hope of escaping, when subsequently he might be able to effect a rescue, or he could attempt a rescue there and then. He had a loaded pistol in his pocket. Could he, with any real hope of success, take on seven or eight men – for he had seen at least that number – armed with rifles? No, he decided, he could not. In the fracas that would certainly ensue, it was inconceivable that none of them would be shot, and thus, instead of averting a tragedy, he might be the means of causing one. In the end he decided on the former plan, although he drew his pistol prepared to put the latter into execution if discovery became imminent. As it happened, no one thought of looking into the two-seater from which two men had already emerged.
He not only heard the rest of the affair, but he saw it, through a tiny hole which he cut in the fabric of the fuselage with the point of his pen-knife. He watched Biggles and Algy being marched across to the cars, and saw the cars disappear up the road in the direction of Janovica. Then, and not before, did he risk a cautious peep over the rim of the cockpit. Not a soul was in sight. Silence reigned. Where was Smyth? And Carter? Surely they should be about, or had they been arrested, too?
