Biggles

by John Pearson

  In any other circumstances Biggles would have laughed at the sight that now revealed itself — the fat, old-woman’s body crowned with the Junker’s close-cropped head and the duelling scar just visible through the make-up on his cheeks. But the hatred in von Stalhein’s eyes wasn’t funny. Nor was the Mauser automatic in his bejewelled hands.

  ‘Where are the documents you promised, Major?’ barked von Stalhein.

  ‘Find them yourself,’ said Biggles, trying to stall for time.

  ‘I will — if you compel me to,’ replied the Prussian, saying which he pressed the bell for service. Almost instantly the door behind him opened and a man with the face and shoulders of an all-in-wrestler entered and clicked his heels.

  ‘Ja, Herr Hauptmann?’ he inquired in the accent of a Hamburg docker. ‘You rang for me?’

  Von Stalhein nodded. ‘Yes, Gustav. Search this, er, gentleman for me. Make sure he isn’t armed, then scour the room for documents. He’s probably concealed them somewhere very obvious.’

  There was no point in struggling, and Biggles felt the brutal hands of von Stalhein’s bodyguard searching him.

  ‘He’s unarmed, Herr Hauptmann,’ the man said. Von Stalhein nodded. ‘Excellent. And now the papers. Where are they Major?’

  ‘I was promised Algy Lacey, and thought you’d keep your word. I see I was mistaken.’

  ‘Ach!’ growled von Stalhein. ‘You English really are absurd, with your ideas of what you are pleased to call “the decent thing”. When will you learn that life is not a game, Herr Biggles worth?’

  Biggles treated this remark with the contempt that it deserved, and watched as Gustav methodically searched the room. Things were working out exactly as he had planned, and he smiled to himself when Gustav found the documents where he had hidden them — taped behind a picture over the bed.

  ‘A little obvious, Major Bigglesworth,’ von Stalhein said, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. ‘I would have expected something just a little cleverer. Well, there is nothing else that need detain us in this boring city. Is the car ready, Gustav?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Hauptmann.’

  ‘Then we will go downstairs together now, Herr Bigglesworth. You will pay your bill and explain that you have been called away on business. And, please, no nonsense. I would hate to have to shoot you now.’

  Gustav picked up Biggles’ suitcase, and the Junker paused a moment by the mirror to replace his wig.

  ‘Where are we going then?’ asked Biggles brusquely.

  ‘Why, to Berlin of course. Where do you think? You wished to see your Captain Lacey and you shall. And since your aircraft’s here, I think we’ll use it.’

  As Biggles brought the Cormorant in to land at Tempelhoff, his mind was racing. He had been certain all along that von Stalhein would attempt to trick him, and he had risen to the bait. As for the next move, all would depend upon von Stalhein’s behaviour now. Biggles had no clear plan of action, but he was confident that he could cope with anything that lay ahead. There were times in life when one quite simply had to take a chance and use one’s wits and courage to defeat the enemy. Once he had seen ancient Algy he could work things out from there.

  So, with von Stalhein’s automatic in his ribs, he checked the airport landing lights with steady expertise and brought the old Cormorant in to a copybook three-pointer.

  ‘Nice flying, Major Biggles worth,’ said von Stalhein suavely. ‘A pity that you don’t fly for our German Luftwaffe. We could use pilots of your calibre.’

  During the flight, von Stalhein had changed out of his disguise, and was now the Prussian with the bullet head and ramrod back that Biggles remembered from the past. He barked an order, and Biggles felt himself being bundled from the cockpit by the burly Gustav, and checked an impulse to crack the fellow firmly on the jaw.

  ‘Take him away Gustav,’ snarled von Stalhein. ‘I’ll see him later.’

  It was a tiny cell where Biggles found himself. There was a hard-backed chair but nothing else, and the lights were on permanently. He had no idea where he was — the windows of the big Mercedes that had driven him from the airport had been carefully blacked out — and he would have given almost anything for a cigarette. But there was no chance of that, for all his possessions had been taken. Nor could he sleep. Instead he sat, and racked his brains and waited for the dawn. It took an age to come, but even when it did it brought him no relief. Finally, the door was opened and a dumb-faced guard thrust a tray of gruel and watery coffee at him, but when Biggles tried to shout at him, he turned and simply slammed the door. There was nothing for it but to wait.

  The hours ticked by, and hunger mingled with anxiety, but Biggles knew enough to realise the game his enemies were playing. To stop himself from going mad, he forced himself to play all sorts of mental games — working out a detailed order for a squadron to attack a target on the Western Front, going through each working part of a Bentley rotary aero-engine, making a mental journey from the flat in Mount Street to his stockbroker in Lombard Street and back. It helped to pass the time and finally, in what he guessed to be the middle of the afternoon, the cell door opened once again and Biggles found himself confronted with a figure from the past.

  ‘Good God,’ he gasped. ‘Marie!’

  In the years since he had seen her, she had put on weight, but otherwise was little different from golden-headed temptress who had been his mistress in his youth. She was dressed severely — knee-boots, dark tweed skirt and jacket, white silk jabot at her throat — but this merely served to emphasise her beauty.

  ‘Biggles!’ she said, and flashed a sad but utterly entrancing smile. ‘And so the Fates have brought us back together. I always knew they would, but what a pity that it has to be like this.’

  ‘Whose fault is that?’ asked Biggles bitterly.

  ‘I know, my dear,’ she sighed, ‘but there was nothing I could do. I had my duty to perform — and you had yours.’

  ‘But did you have to leave me for von Stalhein, of all people?’

  ‘Ah Biggles,’ she said softly, ‘I can see you’re still as innocent as ever. How little you can understand the workings of the human heart. I have had many men, but there are only two that I ever truly loved — you and von Stalhein.’

  ‘But why?’ gasped Biggles. ‘I don’t understand. The man’s a swine, and completely ruthless ...’

  ‘Perhaps that is what appeals to me,’ she said, and laid a gentle hand on Biggles’ arm. ‘Try not to judge me, Biggles, please!’

  Biggles pushed her hand away.

  ‘What are you doing here anyhow?’ he asked angrily. ‘He must have sent you. He could have spared me that at least.’

  ‘But Biggles, please be reasonable,’ she said. ‘I’m here to help you. No one else will and I had to beg him for this interview.’

  ‘But what do you want?’ said Biggles. ‘I made a deal with von Stalhein and he’s broken it. I risked everything I had to secure Algy Lacey’s safety — and I end up here like any common criminal. How can you possibly expect me to co-operate with somebody like that?’

  ‘Biggles,’ she said, and now a sharper note had crept into her voice, ‘you must be fair with me as well. We know what you were up to. Kornfeldt in London is no fool. He’s had you followed, and he tells us of your meetings with that creature, Colonel Raymond. Also, my love, our experts have been studying those so-called plans you brought us of the secret aeroplane.’ She shook her head. ‘Really, Biggles, really! And you accuse von Stalhein of dishonesty!’

  ‘But surely you never thought that I could possibly betray my country?’ Biggles muttered.

  ‘No, of course not, Biggles. That’s why I never believed any of this nonsense from the start. But both you and your friend Algy are in most frightful danger. Thanks to Kornfeldt, the Gestapo are now all set to arrest Algy, and the Gestapo aren’t like us. I truly shudder to think what will happen to him. Whatever else von Stalhein is, he’s not a torturer or a cold-blooded murderer, but once they have Algy they will
come for you as well. We have no power to stop them.’

  ‘So we’re really in the soup,’ said Biggles, trying to disguise the cold fear in his heart. ‘Not much that anyone can do about it.’

  ‘Probably not,’ said Marie, with a tremor in her voice, ‘but I can’t stand and watch you dragged off to the torture-chamber. Whatever else I’ve done, I couldn’t live with that on my conscience.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Biggles said.’ We asked for it, and if we’ve come unstuck it’s our own silly fault.’

  ‘No Biggles,’ she said firmly, ‘there is a chance, a slim one, but if you’re man enough to take it, you and Algy could still escape. Now listen carefully ...’

  ‘Herr Bigglesworth, wake up! Wake up Herr Bigglesworth! It’s time to go!’

  From where he was lying on the hard floor of the little cell, Biggles had seen the cell-door open and Gustav enter. Through veiled lids he watched the ape-like creature shambling towards him, but he made no move — except to tighten his grip upon the automatic which Marie had given him.

  ‘Wake up, Herr Bigglesworth,’ shouted Gustav, and Biggles smelled his sour breath as he bent down to shake him by the shoulder. Still Biggles made no move. The gun was hidden by his body, and he held it firmly by the barrel. The German swore and struck him hard across the face. But Biggles bit his lip and still lay doggo. The German swore again and, just as he leant forward to pull Biggles to his feet, Biggles came alive. He judged his moment perfectly, uncoiling like a steel spring and catching the unwary German just behind the ear with the gun butt. All Biggles’ force was in that blow — and Gustav gave a feeble groan, subsiding to the floor like a burst balloon.

  Biggles left his gaoler in the cell, locking the door behind him with his keys, and thanks to Marie’s instructions he had no trouble finding his way out of the building. There was a tense moment when he had to pass the Duty Sergeant at the entrance desk, but Biggles’ luck was in. He nodded to the man, said ‘thank you very much’ in German — and the man saluted. Biggles had no difficulty finding the big Mercedes which had brought him from the airport. It was exactly where Marie had said — parked behind the building — and the official number-plate gave him instant precedence as he accelerated through the evening rush-hour into the centre of Berlin. At the end of the Unter den Linden was the Hotel Adlon, where he parked the car and hurried in.

  Luckily the place was crowded owing to a Nazi Party function being held there, and the foyer of the huge hotel was crammed with the Party members and their monstrous wives. It was not a pretty sight, but it diverted the attention of the S.S. men who were supposed to be keeping watch on Algy’s suite on the second floor. Marie had given him the number of the room, and Biggles’ German accent was quite adequate to get him past the lift-boy. He knocked, and Frau von Sternberg opened the door in person.

  ‘Mein Gott, Herr Bigglesworth!’ she cried, and tried to slam the door on him. But Biggles’ foot was firmly in the doorway, and he was in no mood to be polite.

  ‘Where’s Algy? he cried, pushing past her.

  ‘Herr Bigglesworth, this is an outrage!’ she exclaimed. But Biggles grabbed her rudely by the shoulders.

  ‘Shut up!’ he said, and glanced around the empty room. ‘Tell me where Algy is, or I’ll break your neck!’

  It was probably the one time in her life that the Frau von Sternberg had been spoken to like this and it produced results.

  ‘He’s in the bath,’ she croaked.

  ‘Algy!’ bawled Biggles. ‘Open up, old lad. It’s Biggles! Don’t mind me, but bath-time’s over, dear old chap. We’ve got to go.’

  The bathroom door was opened instantly, revealing Algy dripping wet and naked as the day that he was born.

  ‘Biggles!’ he exclaimed, ‘by all that’s good and holy, what arc you doing here?’

  ‘Rescuing you, you blasted idiot. What do you think? Come on!’

  ‘Well, give a chap a minute to get dressed,’ said Algy plaintively.

  ‘No time for that,’ said Biggles. ‘The Gestapo’s after you and will be turning up at any minute. Here, bung this on, old boy!’

  As he said this, Biggles threw his friend a towelling dressing-gown, and seized him by the arm.

  ‘Quick, say goodbye to your girl-friend, Algy! We’re off!’

  Once again, luck was on Biggles’ side. The ill-assorted pair hoofed it along the corridor and down the service stairs to the street below, where a huge Mercedes with a swastika flying from the bonnet was decanting an enormous figure in a pale blue uniform outside the hotel, and thus attracting everyone’s attention.

  ‘Crikey!’ Algy said. Goering himself!’

  ‘And he couldn’t have come here at a better moment. Here, Algy, we’re parked round the corner.’ With this, the two chums sprinted for the car, and in seconds were away, and roaring down the road to Tempelhoff.

  The dear old Cormorant was waiting faithfully where Biggles had left it just the night before, and thanks to the official car, nobody stopped them when they drove onto the tarmac.

  Biggles leapt out first, with Algy, still in his skimpy dressing-gown, not far behind. There was a guard who tried to remonstrate with them, but a swift uppercut soon put an end to his objections, and in a moment both the chums were in the cockpit.

  ‘Contact!’ cried Biggles as the engines fired.

  ‘Contact it is!’ echoed Algy happily, as with a deep, full-throated roar the Cormorant’s engines surged with power and the graceful aeroplane swept down the runway and up into the air above Berlin.

  ‘Time to head for home, old fruit,’ said Biggles with a twinkle in his eye. ‘I think we’ve had enough of Germany, and Mrs Symes has your old room prepared for you in Mount Street.’

  ‘Biggles,’ said Algy feelingly, ‘you know that you’re the best pal a fellow ever had. I feel that there’s an awful lot I should explain.’

  Biggles cut him short with a grin. ‘Don’t worry, Algy. I’m only glad we’ve got you back. I expect Colonel Raymond will be wanting to see you, but the explanations can come later. If you look in the rear locker, you’ll find an old overcoat of mine. Perhaps you ought to put it on, if only to avoid embarrassing the Customs men.’

  9

  Second Time Round

  ‘Well, old chap,’ said Biggles wearily to Algy. ‘That about wraps it up. Miserable business, but it can’t be helped. I never realised quite how much rubbish we’d accumulated during the years we’ve been together. Are you absolutely sure you don’t want these old flying boots?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ replied Algy with a grin. ‘Give them to Mrs Symes. One of her nephews might be able to find a use for them. What are you doing with our remaining stock of booze? ‘Locking it away in the cupboard in my den,’ said Biggles, ‘and I’ll keep the key, my lad.’

  ‘I rather thought you would,’ replied his cousin.

  It was November 1939, and for all the chums’ attempts at cheerfulness, it had been a most depressing day, as they closed up the flat at Mount Street. Mrs Symes was staying on for the duration of the war, but Biggles and Algy thought it best to pack away their valuables and personal effects until it was over — whenever that might be — and the effort had been like the ending of a chapter of their lives. Also, it emphasised the break-up of the old alliance that had started in the far-off days of Biggles and Co. Now that the war had started, Algy, as Flight Lieutenant, had been officially posted to a night-fighter squadron ‘somewhere in southern England’, as it was officially described. Pilot Officer Ginger Hebblethwaite was flying Spitfires from Biggin Hill, and Biggles, to his chagrin, had been classified too old for active-service flying.

  ‘But I’m only forty, for Pete’s sake!’ he had exploded to the Postings Officer when the news came through. ‘What are you going to do with me? Shove me in an old folks’ home?’

  ‘Of course not, Squadron Leader,’ the officer replied as diplomatically as possible, ‘but with your experience you’re far too valuable to waste in a Front Line squadron. You
have been posted as Chief Instructor to No. 18 Flying School as Hazledon in Berkshire.’

  ‘Berkshire? A flaming training school! Good grief, man, what d’you think I am?’ raged Biggles. ‘It’s a confounded insult. I’ll be seeing somebody about this, I can tell you!’

  But although he saw a lot of people — from Air Chief Marshals to the Under Secretary for Air himself — the posting stood, and Biggles had reluctantly accepted it.

  ‘Old age, with a vengeance, dear old chap!’ he said ruefully to Algy, as he packed his bag, and Mrs Symes announced the arrival of his taxi to the station. ‘Well, this is it, old scout. Drop us a postcard if you’ve got a moment — and mind how you go on those night-time operations, particularly with the W.A.A.F.s. You won’t have Biggles to look after you.’

  ‘And you look after yourself as well,’ said Algy, doing his best to fight down the emotion that he felt. ‘As soon as I can get a drop of petrol, I’ll be up to see you.’

  ‘Good lad, Algy. Do your best,’ said Biggles. ‘I’ll miss you. Oh, and if by any chance you happen to bump into old Raymond, would you kick him firmly in the pants from me?’

  ‘You bet I will,’ replied Algy bitterly. ‘Just give me the chance.’

  The resentment of the two cousins against their former chief was all too understandable. They hadn’t in the least begrudged him his success in landing an impressive job at the Air Ministry when war broke out, nor his promotion to the rank of Air Commodore. As they knew quite well, no one was better fitted for the post of Deputy Director of Air Intelligence than that wily old policeman. And when he had called upon the chums for one of the most suicidal early operations in the war during that September, they had responded with an eagerness that did them credit.

  This was the extraordinary affair of Bergen Ait, the secret base the British had prepared on a tiny island in the middle of the Baltic. In his book, Biggles in the Baltic, Captain Johns has told the story of this operation in which Biggles, Algy and Ginger Hebblethwaite mounted a series of extraordinary missions from the rock against the German forces based at Kiel. They had succeeded beyond all expectations. Indeed, on their return to London, Raymond had nonchalantly informed them that he had thought that he had been sending them to certain death. He had thanked them in his usual, somewhat grudging manner — and that had been the last any of the chums had seen or heard of him.