by John Pearson
There was a pregnant silence as Biggles uttered these cruel words, and for a while the Colonel seemed to be examining the surface of the table as if uncertain what reply to make. Finally, he screwed his monocle in place and glared around the dining room to make sure nobody was listening.
‘James,’ he said at last, putting on that cold, impersonal voice he always used for matters of the utmost secrecy. ‘There’s something that I have to tell you about Lacey. Previously, I insisted that for his sake, you, like everybody else, would have to be kept firmly in the dark, and he agreed — reluctantly — but he agreed. Algy Lacey is no traitor. On the contrary, he’s one of the bravest men I know.’
‘You mean he was,’ said Biggles bitterly.
‘I mean he is. Today. At this very moment. Everything that happened, James, was done on my express instructions — from the very moment he was introduced to that appalling woman, to the day he left with her for Germany.’
Biggles looked slightly stunned at this.
‘But that’s impossible,’ he said. ‘What about that row we had at the Café Royal? He even flung a full Martini in my face, you know!’
The Colonel smiled and nodded to himself. ‘That was my suggestion, I’m afraid. One of my finer strokes, I thought. Two of my chaps were just behind you at the time to make sure nothing could go wrong, and I took great care the papers got the story.’
‘You did what?’ said Biggles angrily. ‘Really, sir, I don’t know what you’re playing at — or why — but there are limits. And I’d say that getting a chap like Algy to insult his oldest pal in a place like the Café Royal goes beyond the bounds of civilised behaviour.’
The old spy master smiled like an embarrassed greyhound.
‘James, my dear boy,’ he said. ‘Calm down, calm down. Your attitude to Algy does you credit, but we live in an unpleasant world, you know. A dashed unpleasant world. At times I feel like you and think I’ll chuck it in, but someone has to do the dirty work, and so much is at stake that some of us must compromise. Algy saw the point at once.’
‘What point, sir? I still don’t understand,’ said Biggles, mastering his emotions sufficiently to pour himself a glass of port.
‘That the von Sternberg creature was an invaluable potential source of information on the latest air developments in Germany, of course. For some time now, the R.A.F. at Farnborough has been desperate to find out more about that Junkers monoplane she flies. That’s how it all began. As soon as Algy met her at the Hendon Air Display, I saw the possibilities, but it isn’t often that one gets quite the reaction that eventually occurred. Of course, she has a fearful reputation. She’s what we used to call a regular man-eater, don’t you know?’
‘And you fed my old pal Algy to her, sir? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?’
Colonel Raymond nodded. ‘Rather afraid it is. Not that Algy was all that averse to being eaten. Rather enjoyed himself by all accounts — at any rate at first. What was it he said? “Not often that one does this sort of thing for King and Country.” Rather good, what?’
Biggles frowned. ‘I find it all exceedingly distasteful, sir. I know that sometimes you use women for this sort of thing, but dash it all, they’re different. You’ve exploited Algy just as if he was some Mata Hari.’
‘Oh, come now James, you mustn’t be old fashioned. You’d be surprised at what goes on these days, and Algy Lacey has turned out to be a first-rate operator. Taken to it like a horse to water.’
‘I thought it was a duck’ said Biggles drily.
‘Is it? Well, call him what you like, but the point is that since he’s gone to Germany, we have been receiving quite incredible reports from him — news of the latest German aircraft, airport layouts, their defensive plans from air attacks, even seems to have had a chat with that fat fellow, what’s his name?’
‘Goering,’ said Biggles tersely. ‘I flew against him once in France. He was rather good. That was before he put on weight.’
He downed the remainder of his Cockburns, and rose to leave. ‘Well, thank you, sir, for a delicious dinner. And thanks too for telling me the truth about poor old Algy. I see now that I’ve misjudged him and that we can still be friends. That means a lot to me.’
‘Sit down, sit down,’ said Colonel Raymond with just a hint of irritation in his voice. ‘Pour yourself-another glass of port and listen carefully. I haven’t told you this simply to make you feel better over Algy, though I’m naturally delighted that you do.’
‘Why then, sir?’ asked Biggles, feeling suddenly uneasy.
Colonel Raymond gazed at him appraisingly through shrewd grey eyes.
‘James,’ he said at last, ‘there’s something that I think that you should know. Algy Lacey is in frightful danger, if the reports that I’ve received are true.’
Biggles felt his mouth go dry, despite the port.
‘Danger, sir?’ he hissed.
Colonel Raymond nodded. ‘It’s been suggested that his messages are being intercepted. I wouldn’t know, but what really worries me to death is the report that our man in Berlin filed this morning. You know who has suddenly appeared upon the scene?’
‘No. No idea,’ said Biggles.
‘An old friend of yours. Hauptmann Erich von Stalhein.’
Biggles clenched his fists beneath the table.
‘But that’s not possible,’ he said. ‘Von Stalhein’s been in disgrace ever since we made a fool of him in the Singapore air race. Besides, he was never in the Nazi Party. Himmler hated him.’
The Colonel shrugged his shoulders.
‘That’s as maybe, James,’ he said, ‘but we mustn’t fool ourselves. He always has been a cunning devil and I know he’s vowed revenge on you and Algy after the Singapore affair. For a while he was in a concentration camp, but suddenly he’s right back in the middle of Berlin. Three nights ago he was dining at the Adlon with Goebbels himself, and he has several powerful allies in German Military Intelligence. Worst of all, he seems to have been taking an unhealthy interest in Algy. It may be pure coincidence of course, but he was in the audience when Algy and the von Sternberg woman lectured the German High Command the other day.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Biggles.
The Colonel cracked his bony hands.
‘The source was unimpeachable,’ he said.
‘Then why on earth not order Algy back at once? Once they can prove that he’s a British spy, there’s absolutely no hope left for him.’
‘You’ve no need to remind me of that, James,’ replied the Colonel sharply. ‘But that’s not the point. With von Stalhein in the picture, I daren’t make a move. Algy is obviously being shadowed night and day, and any move that I make will betray him. He’d never escape from Germany alive.’
‘What’s to be done then, sir?’ asked Biggles.
‘Precisely the question I’ve been racking my brains to answer for the last few hours. I’ve hit upon a plan. It’s hideously risky, but with the right man and just a little luck it ought to work.’
‘Wonderful!’ said Biggles, brightening at once. ‘I knew that you would find a way. But who’s this chap you need?’
‘You,’ replied Colonel Raymond.
Biggles had never been inside the German Embassy before and he could only hope that his expression would not betray his feelings — particularly when faced with a full-length portrait of Herr Hitler in the second secretary’s office. It had all proved surprisingly easy — the phone-call to von Wittelsbach, the German Air Attaché, the meeting they had had beside the Thames at Wapping, and now this summons to meet Kornfeldt at the Embassy. He had heard about Kornfeldt in the past. Theoretically, he was an ordinary diplomat, but as Colonel Raymond had already warned him, he was the top representative of the German Secret Service based in Britain. He was a close associate of Himmler and had probably more power than any other German at the Embassy — even including Herr von Ribbentrop, the Ambassador. So Biggles was quite curious to see this man on whom so much depended.
&nbs
p; Von Wittelsbach had met him at the door and was there to introduce him to his master, and Wittelsbach was clearly nervous. Biggles had got on well with him. He was a tall Bavarian and a former combat flier who had been attached to von Kirtner’s ‘circus’ during the last phase of the war: Biggles had fought against him in the skies of France, and sensed instantly that camaraderie which unites airmen of all nations who have risked death in the cockpit. He was a brave man and a skilful flier, but it was obvious that he had the jitters about facing Kornfeldt.
But, when Kornfeldt finally appeared, Biggles was surprised. Instead of the ogre he expected, he saw a plump, ingratiating little man with pince-nez and a clammy handshake. Biggles noticed that his finger-nails were bitten to the quick. Tea was served. Polite conversation followed about English weather, the boat race and the Royal Family, and it was Biggles who finally brought up the subject he had come about.
‘There’s this new aircraft that Lord Elberton’s company’s developing from the Swallow prototype, you know. Von Wittelsbach and I have been discussing it.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Kornfeldt, nodding amiably. ‘Lord Elberton, a splendid man! How is his Lordship?’
‘Fine,’ said Biggles. ‘We’re on the best of terms. And as I was saying, this new plane of his is probably the most effective bomber of our time. Extraordinary range, enormous pay-load — a revolutionary warplane in every sense.’
‘Ah,’ said Kornfeldt once again.
‘Well, knowing Lord Elberton as I do, I have been asked to test-fly the aircraft for the company. There’ll be no problem. As you know, I’ve flown the prototype before, and I’m quite looking forward to the job. But I’m in something of a quandary, Herr Kornfeldt.’
‘A quandary?’ asked the German softly, and for just a moment Biggles caught a flash of keen intelligence behind the spectacles.
Biggles nodded, and paused to search for words before continuing. ‘Can I speak quite frankly to you, Herr Kornfeldt?’
The German smiled encouragingly and spread his hands, as if to show that he had nothing in the world to hide.
‘Please, Major Bigglesworth,’ he said. ‘I like to feel that we are friends.’
‘Well, it’s about my old pal, Algy Lacey. He’s my cousin and associate and, well, I’ve known him all my life. We’re very close.’
The German nodded and lit a small cigar. ‘I know a little already about Captain Lacey, Major Bigglesworth.’
‘I rather thought you might,’ said Biggles evenly. ‘It’s probably not news to you that he’s been very foolish.’
‘Over the Frau von Sternberg? Young men like Captain Lacey are often foolish where women are concerned, and she is very beautiful. Also a strong-willed lady. So?’
‘That’s not the point I’m getting at, Herr Kornfeldt,’ Biggles answered. ‘Algy has been a frightful ass, and has allowed himself to get involved with the British Secret Service.’
The German blew a thoughtful cloud of pale Havana smoke, then added softly.
‘That too I knew. A very dangerous game to play these days in Germany.’
‘Exactly, sir. That’s what I told him, but he insisted on going through with it. And now I hear he has to pay the price. Von Stalhein’s after him — and I know von Stalhein well enough to understand exactly what that means, Herr Kornfeldt.’
‘You’re very well informed, Major Bigglesworth, but why tell me all this? What can I do? I am a humble diplomat.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Biggles, ‘but the point is this. I will do anything for Algy, absolutely anything, and if his so-called friends in the British Secret Service won’t help him, then I feel it’s up to me.’
‘And how would you propose to do that, Major Bigglesworth?’
‘By doing a deal with you — a private deal. Herr Kornfeldt, I am prepared to exchange the secrets of Lord Elberton’s new bomber for my friend.’
‘I see,’ said Kornfeldt, sounding as if Biggles had just proposed a quiet game of bridge. ‘And how would this be done?’
‘Well, it would not be all that difficult for me. I’m trusted by Lord Elberton and know his staff. I know a lot about the plane already, and within a few days I can have all the details you would want.’
‘And how would you get them to us — just supposing we agreed?’ purred Kornfeldt.
‘That’s what I’ve been wondering myself,’ said Biggles. ‘I don’t trust von Stalhein any more than he trusts me. We’d obviously have to meet on neutral ground. I suggest Strasbourg — it’s in France but close enough to the German frontier. I can be there in three days’ time. There’s a hotel called the Maison Rouge in the Place Kléber. I must deal with von Stalhein personally. I will be there next Thursday evening with detailed plans of the aircraft. In return, von Stalhein must bring Algy Lacey with him. Is that understood, Herr Kornfeldt?’
The plump German smiled his pudgy smile. ‘I can see certain obvious objections to your plan, but I will make sure that your message is passed on, Major Bigglesworth. I promise you will hear from us. And now, another cup of tea before you go?’
The Maison Rouge is probably the best hotel in a city that is renowned for good hotels, and, in any other circumstances, Biggles would have thoroughly enjoyed the chance of staying there. He had flown to Strasbourg late that afternoon in the old Cormorant. The ancient aeroplane was fast becoming something of a museum piece, but thanks to Smyth’s tender care it was still in splendid nick and Biggles saw it as an old and valued friend, and loved to fly it. It also had the great advantage of attracting less attention than any of the newer aircraft Colonel Raymond had suggested.
Since visiting the German Embassy, Biggles had carefully prepared himself for his meeting with von Stalhein. A dossier of plausible, but utterly misleading, documents on the new bomber had been concocted by John Prizeman, the celebrated forger, whose work had baffled half the banks in Europe in its time, and who was now a trusted employee of Colonel Raymond’s, with his own extraordinary department at New Scotland Yard. Biggles had also been to Elberton’s secret airfield in the Cambridgeshire fens and flown the bomber several times himself. (He was enthusiastic, but found time to make some critical suggestions on the cockpit layout which were, in fact, incorporated into production models of the plane.) Finally, he had been to Wapping once again to meet von Wittelsbach, who told him tersely that the deal was on and that von Stalhein had agreed to contact him at Strasbourg some time on Thursday evening at the Maison Rouge. That was all he knew — but it was enough for him if it meant that Algy could be saved.
Biggles always had pretended to despise the role of a spy, but it was one that suited him. He was always at his best in times of crisis and loved a duel of wits. And so, despite his genuine concern for Algy, he was looking forward now with keen anticipation to his encounter with von Stalhein.
At the hotel — a very grand establishment dripping with chandeliers and flunkeys — he booked in, in the name agreed upon with von Wittelsbach, Conrad Peterson, a Swedish dealer in oriental carpets, checked his room, and settled down to wait. It was an unenviable situation, for as he knew quite well, von Stalhein had the advantage of being the one to make contact first. But Biggles wasn’t frightened of him, and thought he knew him well enough to understand the workings of his cold Teutonic mind.
So he played the part of Conrad Peterson, sat for an hour in the bar, drank a stein of Strasbourg beer, and then went in to dinner on his own. The dining room was nearly empty and he was beginning to feel uneasy, for there was no sign of the Prussian — and still less of Algy. Von Stalhein should have come by now. Something was going on, and he hated the idea that the life of his old chum had now become the pawn in whatever game of wits von Stalhein chose to play. But there was nothing he could do, except wait until von Stalhein finally decided to reveal himself.
He had to force himself to eat, and as he did so, he reminded himself that forcible feeding was something of a speciality of the city. A sudden sense of sympathy for those unfortunate Strasbourg geese put him
off ordering pâté de foie gras — or any of the other gastronomic pleasures of this well-fed city — and he contented himself with consommé and chicken Maryland. Both were equally disgusting. So was the music being played by a trio to beguile the diners as they ate. Biggles was no music-lover and the Tales from the Vienna Woods grated on his nerves.
He looked around him at his fellow diners, but there was no sign of von Stalhein — a group of jolly businessmen at the next table, a pair of lovers near the orchestra, and a fat old dowager near the cash desk stuffing herself with cream cakes with appalling gluttony. Biggles felt angry and on edge, for something had obviously gone awry, and as he knew only too well, if his mission failed, his chance of ever seeing Algy alive again was slim indeed.
He drank his coffee, gave the waiter the number of his room, and rose to go. As he did so, he noticed the old woman rise as well and shuffle towards him leaning on a stick. Her bloated face was rouged and powdered, and her bright red hair made her appear particularly grotesque. But as she passed, she smiled at him and said, ‘Herr Conrad Peterson? I think you have something for me.’
Biggles stared at her — and suddenly saw something familiar about the eyes.
‘Von Stalhein!’ he cried. ‘By all that’s holy, what on earth ...?’
‘Just walk straight on,’ said the old woman. ‘I’ll be behind you. And no tricks please. I have a gun concealed in my dress and if you try anything I’ll blow your head off.’
‘So,’ said von Stalhein when they were safely seated in Biggles’ room on the second floor of the hotel, ‘you thought that I would bring your foolish friend Lacey here with me? Really, Major Bigglesworth, I would have credited you with more intelligence than that.’
‘So where is Algy then?’ asked Biggles, with a tightening of the muscles of his throat.
‘Safely in Berlin and still enjoying life with Frau von Sternberg. Naturally, my agents keep him under full surveillance, but he doesn’t know it. I will deal with him when it suits me, but just for the moment I’m content to leave him where he is. And now to business, Major Bigglesworth. But first, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll remove this wig. It’s rather hot.’
