by W E Johns
By this time he had got to within a few miles of the frontier, and the traffic began to thin out. The Germans were fewer, from which he judged that he had about reached the limit of their operations. The calm manner in which peasants were walking home from the fields suggested that they had not yet heard that their country had been invaded.
As twilight closed in and darkness fell, Biggles stopped. A signpost told him that the frontier was only a mile ahead. He contemplated the motor-cycle, and knew that it would not do to try to get into Sweden on such a machine. Already alarmed by what had happened to Norway, the Swedes would not want anything German in their country. He decided that he would have to abandon the machine, but he hardly liked to leave it by the road-side where it would certainly attract attention, so he turned down a lane and lifted it bodily into the bottom of a deep ditch, near a coppice, covering it with any rubbish he could find so that it would not be noticed by a passer-by. He took off his armlet and pushed it under the saddle.
This done, he made a cautious survey of the landscape, as far as it was possible in the darkness, and then set off at a brisk walk for the frontier. He now had only one fear. Would the Swedes allow a Norwegian to enter the country? For that is what his passport proved him to be—Sven Hendrik, a Norwegian subject. The photograph on the passport, and the particulars it registered, were, of course, correct; only the name was false; but the Swedes, in their natural anxiety, might refuse to allow him to enter the country. Had he possessed any British papers this difficulty would not have arisen; but he had none—it would have been far too dangerous to carry such papers on his person.
As he expected, the frontier barrier was down, but he marched boldly up to it and took his place at the end of a short queue of people who were waiting to get through. All were pedestrians, for vehicles had been stopped and confiscated farther back. He had no difficulty in passing the Norwegian guards. His difficulty would be at the next barrier—the entrance to Sweden—a few paces ahead.
In the queue everyone was talking at once, talking to anybody, as always happens when danger is a common enemy. There were even two or three English people there. Actually Biggles found himself next to an American tourist—who had chosen a bad moment to visit Norway. He was bewailing the folly that had brought him from his own country, and cursed with hearty sincerity everybody responsible for the upheaval.
Slowly the queue shuffled forward towards the Swedish police and soldiers, who had come to reinforce the frontier guards. Some people were allowed through, but others were turned back. The man in front of Biggles was an elderly Norwegian, and Biggles waited with tense interest to see what would happen to him. He soon learned.
‘Nationality?’ snapped the passport officer.
‘Norwegian.’
‘Sorry, but you can’t come through here.’
‘But I must.’ The man’s voice was desperate.
‘Why must you?’
The man poured out a score of reasons.
‘Sorry, but we can’t take in any more Norwegian refugees. Only foreigners passing through the country on their way home can be admitted, and they won’t be allowed to stay in Sweden without a good reason.’
The man pleaded, but in vain. Sobbing, he was turned away.
Biggles had already realized that if he gave his nationality as Norwegian, he, too, would be stopped, so he switched his plan abruptly.
‘Nationality?’ questioned the officer.
‘British.’
‘Where are your papers?’
‘Sorry, but I haven’t any.’
The officer frowned. ‘Why haven’t you a passport?’
‘I was in my hotel in Oslo when the Germans rushed in and seized everything,’ answered Biggles readily, and this was no less than the truth. ‘In the circumstances you can hardly blame me for not stopping to argue over my luggage. I reckoned I was lucky to get away at all.’
The officer bit his lip thoughtfully. ‘So you’ve absolutely nothing to prove your identity?’
‘Nothing, but I’m sure the British Consul will vouch for me if only you will let me see him.’
‘Hmm.’
The officer was obviously in a quandary. It was clear that he didn’t want to refuse admission to an Englishman; indeed, he had no reason to refuse; but, on the other hand, he didn’t want to admit an enemy. If he admitted a man without papers he would be taking a serious risk.
Biggles saw the man hesitating and pressed his case. ‘I’ve plenty of money on me,’ he announced. ‘You can take charge of it so you won’t be put to any expense on my account. All I ask is that you take me, under guard if you like, to the nearest British Consul, and allow him to vouch for me. After all, if he accepts responsibility for me you won’t have anything to worry about.’
This was so obviously true that it carried the point. The officer drew a deep breath. ‘All right,’ he agreed, and beckoned to two policeman. ‘Escort this traveller to Rodas,’ he ordered. ‘If the British Consul there will take responsibility for him you can get a receipt and leave him. Otherwise, bring him back here.’
Biggles almost gasped his relief as he passed through the narrow gate. He was more or less under arrest, but that did not worry him. He was free, free from the Nazis, and therefore free from worry. His one thought now was to get back to France. If there was one anxiety that lingered in his mind, then it was fear that Sweden, too, might be invaded before he could get out of the country.
He was put in a car and taken to Rodas, less than half an hour’s journey, and thence to the British Vice-Consulate. The Vice-Consul was still in his office, so Biggles introduced himself without loss of time, asking to be taken under protection.
Biggles stood in front of the two Swedes, so they did not see him drop an eyelid meaningly. The Vice-Consul did, however, and, realizing that there was more in the case than appeared on the surface, asked the guards to wait outside. He said he would take responsibility.
As soon as they were out of the door Biggles confessed everything. ‘Believe me, I’m glad to be out of that,’ he concluded feelingly.
The Vice-Consul was interested, as he had every reason to be, for queer things were happening in Scandinavia. Over a cigarette and a cup of coffee Biggles told the whole story, quietly and concisely, holding nothing back, as a sick man might explain his symptoms to a doctor.
‘My word! You were certainly lucky to get out,’ said the Vice-Consul when he had finished. ‘I expect you want to get straight back home?’
‘You bet I do!’ returned Biggles. ‘The sooner I let Colonel Raymond know where I am the better.’
The Vice-Consul looked up sharply. ‘Would you like to speak to him?’
‘Speak to him? How?’ Biggles was amazed.
‘On the telephone.’
‘Can you get through to London?’
‘Of course. Sweden isn’t at war—at least, not yet.’
Biggles was delighted. ‘Why, that’s fine’
‘I’ll get Raymond for you,’ the Vice-Consul promised.
He was as good as his word, but there was a long delay before Biggles found himself speaking to the Colonel. In a few words he told him what had happened, describing how he had narrowly escaped serving as a traitor Norwegian in the Nazi Air Force. Even before he had finished a doubt crept into his mind, a doubt as to whether he was wise in telling the Colonel this now. It would have been better to wait until he got home. The Colonel might ask him. . . .
The Colonel did ask him. Biggles knew instantly what was coming from the sudden change in Colonel Raymond’s voice.
‘You know what I’m going to ask you to do?’ said the Colonel.
Biggles hesitated. ‘I’ve got a pretty good idea,’ he said slowly. ‘You want me to go back into Norway.’
‘Yes. Fate or fortune has put an astounding opportunity your way. It’s a chance that we ought not to lose. With you behind the German lines in Norway, serving as an officer in the Air Force, we should learn every move —’
�
��Oh, no,’ interrupted Biggles curtly. ‘I’m a pilot. I’ve had quite enough of Secret Service work.’
The Colonel made a longish speech in which he dwelt on the extraordinary opportunity that pure chance had put in Biggles’ way, and the wonderful service he could render his country by going back.
‘Of course,’ he concluded sadly, ‘I can’t order you to go. But, frankly, you’re not the man I take you to be if you let this golden opportunity slip.’
‘But I’m not a professional spy,’ protested Biggles vigorously.
‘My dear Bigglesworth, you yourself have seen what Germany is doing in Norway. There’s black treachery for you, if you like. We’ve got to fight the enemy with his own weapons, if only for the sake of the Norwegians.’
Thus spoke the Colonel. It was a subtle argument that he put forward, put in such a way that Biggles could hardly refuse.
‘All right,’ he said at last, wearily. ‘How am I going to get into touch with you when I have something to report?’
‘Leave that to me,’ said the Colonel quickly. ‘I can’t tell you now. Arrangements will have to be made, but you’ll get further instructions in due course. Get back to the aerodrome and learn all you can about the enemy’s movements.’
‘Just one request,’ put in Biggles. ‘I feel very much on my own up here; if you could get Lacey and Hebblethwaite somewhere handy, somewhere where I could reach them in emergency, I’d be grateful. As you know, we always work as a team, and I need a little moral support, anyway. If they hear nothing they’ll be worried to death about me.’
‘I’ll get them within striking distance of you at once,’ promised the Colonel without hesitation. ‘As a matter of fact, knowing things were warming up, I brought them home from France yesterday, since when they’ve been waiting on the East Coast ready to slip across in case you needed help. They can be over in a couple of hours.’
‘But how can I make contact with them?’
‘I shall have to think about that, but I’ll arrange something immediately, don’t worry. Good luck. I mustn’t hold the line any longer.’ The Colonel rang off.
The Vice-Consul heard Biggles’ end of the conversation, of course. He shrugged his shoulders sympathetically.
‘Bad luck, old man,’ he said quietly. ‘But you must admit that Colonel Raymond is right. It is on such chances as this that wars are sometimes won or lost. How do you propose getting back into Norway?’
‘I think the easiest way would be for you to refuse to accept responsibility for me,’ suggested Biggles readily. ‘In that case the Swedes will soon have me back across the frontier.’
The Vice-Consul nodded and pressed the bell. The two policemen came back into the room.
‘I have had a conversation with this—er—applicant,’ said the Vice-Consul coolly. ‘He may be telling the truth, but he has no means of proving it, so in your interests as well as mine I’d rather not accept responsibility.’
‘You’ll leave him with us to deal with then?’ said the senior of the two police.
‘Yes, I’m afraid no other course is open to me.’
The officer tapped Biggles on the arm. ‘Come,’ he said.
Obediently, Biggles followed.
Half an hour later he was gently but firmly shown across the frontier back into Norway. He made no demur. It would have been a waste of time even if he had wanted to stay in Sweden. For a while he walked slowly down the road, but as soon as he was out of sight of the frontier post he quickened his steps and made his way to where he had left the motor-cycle. It was still there, so he dragged it out and recovered his swastika armlet from under the saddle. Deep in thought, he started the engine. Reaching the main road, he turned away from the frontier and headed back towards Boda, back towards the enemy.
He had no difficulty in getting back—his swastika flags saw to that. As he dismounted near the clubhouse Kristen hurried towards him.
‘Hello,’ he said curiously. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Only for a ride,’ answered Biggles casually. ‘Why?’
‘Baron von Leffers has been asking for you.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I’ll report to him at once,’ he said quietly.
Chapter 4
Cross-Examined
Biggles found von Leffers in his office. He was not alone. Two other men were there. One was the man whose motor-cycle he had got; the other was an elderly, hard-faced civilian whose pugnacious jaw, gimlet eyes, and arrogant bearing bespoke an official of importance. His grey hair had been cropped so short that he appeared to be completely bald. Biggles guessed to what department he belonged before he was introduced.
Baron von Leffers stared at Biggles stonily. ‘Leutnant Hendrik, this is Oberleutnant*1 Ernst von Hymann,’ he said curtly, waving a hand towards the stranger. ‘He is a senior officer of the Gestapo. He wishes to speak to you. You have kept him waiting.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir, but I didn’t know he was here,’ returned Biggles contritely.
To his infinite relief the Commandant did not ask where he had been. He left it to the Gestapo officer to continue the conversation.
Von Hymann invited Biggles to be seated, and then stood up, legs apart, to face him squarely. In some strange way he reminded Biggles of a mangy bulldog. When he spoke his voice was brittle.
‘Leutnant Hendrik,’ he began, ‘earlier today when you were interviewed by the Commandant of this aerodrome you gave him certain particulars of your flying career. Among other things you said that you had been a pilot in America, and more lately in Canada. Is that correct?’
‘Quite correct, sir.’
‘As you may have heard,’ continued von Hymann, ‘we make a point of checking up on every statement made by aliens. You, as a Norwegian, come into that category.’
‘But —’
‘We shall get on faster if you leave me to ask the questions.’
Biggles bowed.
‘You further stated that when you were in Canada you were employed as an air pilot.’
‘Correct.’
‘And you were once employed by a firm called Arctic Airways located at Fort Beaver?’
‘Quite right.*2’
Von Hymann crouched like a wild beast about to spring.
‘We have been unable to confirm that you ever had any connexion with Arctic Airways.’
Biggles remained calm. ‘To whom did you go for your information?’
‘Our agents in Canada have been through the official records. We also have newspaper reports of the scandal in which the company was involved.’
‘You mean the stealing of the Moose Creek gold?’
Von Hymann relaxed slightly. ‘Well, you do at least know something about it,’ he conceded. ‘Yes, that was what I meant.’
Biggles had, of course, flown for Arctic Airways, so he knew all about the incident, as well as the company’s affairs. But it had been under his own name, so he could understand why the German agents in Canada had failed to find any particulars of a pilot named Hendrik. However, since he, Biggles, knew all about the company, and all that he had said concerning it was true, he was not unduly alarmed by the cross-examination to which he was being subjected. But then he did not know what it was leading up to.
Von Hymann continued. ‘In the reports concerning Arctic Airways we can find no record of a pilot by the name of Hendrik.’
‘That’s quite likely,’ remarked Biggles coolly. ‘It is unlikely that any record would be kept. Pilots were always coming and going. I imagine that the only ones whose names were noted in the files were those mentioned in the newspapers in connexion with the gold robbery’
‘Can you name the pilots chiefly concerned?’
The atmosphere in the room was now tense, and Biggles perceived what was coming. He had just been asked a leading question, for if it were true that he had flown for Arctic Airways he would—or should—be able to name the pilots.
‘Certainly,’ he replied easily. ‘Arctic Airways was run by a fellow named W
ilkinson, an Englishman who established a base aerodrome at Fort Beaver. The trouble started when a fellow named McBain tried to grab the aerodrome, bringing with him two pilots and two German transport planes. His pilots were both ex-crooks. One was named Sarton and the other Feroni.’
Von Hymann nodded. ‘What about Wilkinson’s pilots?’
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘There was a chap named Graves—he was killed, I remember. Then there was Lacey, and—oh yes, a lad named Hebblethwaite—or some such name.’
‘Anybody else?’
Biggles saw the trap clearly now, but his expression did not change.
‘Yes, there was another fellow—a fellow with a curious name—Tigglesworth—or was it Nigglesworth?’
‘Was it Bigglesworth?’
Biggles started. ‘That’s right—funny name.’
‘You must have seen something of him?’
Biggles’s pulses were beginning to beat faster. He didn’t like the trend of the conversation, but he still hoped there was nothing serious behind it. One slip, though, and he was lost. An expression of anxiety on his face would be noted at once by the cold eyes that were fixed on his in unwavering intensity.
‘Oh, yes, I often saw Bigglesworth,’ he admitted.
‘Would you know him again if you saw him?’
‘I should think so. Of course, this Arctic Airways business happened some time ago, but if he hasn’t grown a beard or anything like that, I think I should know him at once.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘More or less. He was a slim fellow with fair hair—rather sharp features. As a matter of fact, he was about my build.’
Von Hymann glanced at a paper that he held in his hand. ‘He must have been very much like you.’
