Biggles in the Blue Page 2

  ‘He never accompanied Hagen on one of his yachting trips, I take it?’

  ‘No. He says he sometimes wondered why, he being a sailor, Hagen never asked him to go with him; but he didn’t.’

  ‘And he still doesn’t know Hagen’s real name?’

  ‘No.’

  Biggles eyed the Commodore thoughtfully. ‘Wolff had a nerve, planting himself on a British island.’

  ‘That was really rather clever of him. No doubt he worked it out that we shouldn’t search our own territory. But, then, he had plenty of time to make his plans, and facilities for providing himself with false papers.’

  Biggles took another cigarette and tapped it pensively on his thumbnail. ‘Von Stalhein, obviously looking for the same thing as we are, is likely to be a nuisance. Have you considered picking him up on a technical offence and putting him where he can’t get into mischief?’

  The Air Commodore shrugged. ‘I suppose we could do that. Major Charles was of the opinion that it was better to let him run loose until we’re certain that he knows nothing definite. If he does find a clue he may lead us to the documents.’

  ‘He’s more likely to disappear under your noses.’

  ‘He couldn’t leave the island without us knowing.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ averred Biggles grimly. ‘He’s a crafty bird. He was trained in the right school. Besides we don’t what plans he made before he started. He may have taken his friends in Eastern Europe into his confidence in order to get assistance, financial or otherwise.’

  ‘We can watch him.’

  Biggles smiled skeptically. ‘He’d know he was being watched in five minutes. He’s had years of experience and knows every trick in the game.’

  ‘He may be unaware that we have established Hagen’s identity, and that may make him careless.’

  ‘If he sees me, it won’t take him long to put two and two together and get the right answer. By the way, I’m assuming that the object of this little chat is an invitation to me to go and look for Hagen’s box of tricks?’

  ‘Quite right. But get the thing clear. We want these plans, not so much for our own use as to prevent them from falling into the hands of a potential enemy. If they were at the bottom of the sea, it wouldn’t matter. It’s the fact that they exist that’s worrying us. Burn them, do anything you like with them, rather than have anyone else get hold of them. While they’re floating about loose, we’re sitting on the brink of a volcano.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I understand. The sooner I get mobile the better. May I have these documents for further study?’

  ‘You may. From the air you should be able to check the sketch with the islands in the vicinity.’

  Biggles folded the papers and put them in his wallet. ‘There’s a lot of ground — or rather, water — to cover.’ He got up. ‘I’ll take my crew out and see what we can make of it. I seem to spend my life looking for needles in haystacks.’

  ‘That’s because you so often find the needle,’ rejoined the rejoined the Air Commodore soberly. ‘I’ll get the necessary authority prepared for you and warn Jamaica that you’re on your way. I take it you’d like everything handed over to you?’

  ‘Please, including the keys to the house and the safe. I’d like to have a look at things inside before I start scanning the horizon for pear-shaped islands.’

  ‘I’ll see to it.’

  ‘Then I’ll get along.’

  Leaving the room, Biggles made his way back to own office, to face the expectant gaze of Air Constables Algy Lacey, Bertie Lissie and “Ginger” Hebblethwaite.

  ‘Well, and, where do we go from here?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘To the West Indies,’ answered Biggles briefly.

  Bertie flicked up his eye-glass and caught it in his eye. ‘Goody-goody,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘Where the jolly old bananas come from. That’s me, every time.’

  ‘Don’t flatter your appetite,’ Biggles told him seriously. ‘This is no fruity frolic. Erich von Stalhein is already off the mark. If he gets what he’s after, there’s liable to be a considerable explosion in which Western Europe will go up in a cloud of smoke and come down in a shower of dust.’

  Bettie looked startled. ‘Here, I say, old boy, there’s no future in that.’

  ‘I hoped you’d see it that way,’ returned Biggles. ‘Now let’s get down to work.’ He took the sketch from his wallet and laid it on the table. ‘This is what we’ve got to find. The only man who knew what it represented is dead. Look hard and get the shape fixed on your minds, so that you’ll recognize it again if you see it.’

  * * *

  1 See Biggles Follows On.

  CHAPTER 2

  RUMKEG HAVEN

  A WEEK after the conversation in the Air Commodore’s office, Ginger, standing beside Biggles, was regarding with mild astonishment the flamboyant uniforms of the band of the Royal West India Regiment as it made music against a background of palms, lawns and deck-chairs, near the swimming-pool at Kingston, Jamaica. Although the hot season was well advanced, there were quite a few people about, holiday-makers and tourists, to give the place an air of gaiety, some swimming, some sun-bathing, others at small tables having mid-morning coffee or a cocktail.

  Algy and Bertie were not there. They had remained in charge of the aircraft selected for the operation, a twin-engined Otter amphibian that had found a mooring in Columbus Bay, where an unobtrusive hotel was available for accommodation. The main airport at Palisadoes, where every Central American Air Line seems to cross was too busy and altogether too public for their purpose, Biggles had decided. Taking Ginger with him in a hired car he had gone to the Capital to present his credentials to the Chief of Police, who was expecting him, and at the same time inquire if there had been any developments in the case on hand.

  This formality had produced little of interest. Von Stalhein, it appeared, was still there, spending most of his time, it was said, bathing or sitting about in gardens near the bandstand. It seemed to Ginger that the authorities had not quite grasped the seriousness of the man’s presence, although he made allowance for fact that they were not fully informed about his character or his purpose there. Nor did he overlook the possibility that von Stalhein’s behaviour was calculated deliberately to produce a lack of interest in his movements.

  For the rest, they learned that a daily caretaker, a coloured man, was still on duty at Hagen’s house, Rumkeg Haven. He had the keys. Nothing had been moved. The yacht Vega was still lying in the harbour.

  Biggles said they would take over. He collected the keys of Hagen’s safe and that was that. The authorities were content, Ginger thought, to have the responsibility taken off their hands.

  The case had by this time been discussed by Biggles and his assistants from every angle; but at the finish, with so little on which to work, the immediate plan was simple. First, Biggles decided, they would make thorough search of Hagen’s property for something more definite, something more in the nature of a clue; for he was convinced that their most important asset, the sketch, was a tracing that had been made from a map, a chart, a photograph, or an original drawing should be somewhere in the house. If this search produced no result, they would have to fall back on long and tedious task of making a reconnaissance of the surrounding seas for something that conformed to the shape of the sketch.

  However, for the moment they were making a tour of the area in which von Stalhein was normally to be found at that hour, to confirm that he was there, before going on to Hagen’s house to collect the keys from the caretaker and make a preliminary survey of the place.

  As a matter of detail, Biggles had remarked that he thought it odd that von Stalhein should fritter away his time round the swimming-pool when he had work to do. He was not that sort of man. What was his object? What was he waiting for? What could he hope to gain from this? There was, Biggles opined, something queer about it.

  Ginger had thought on the same lines, and said he could only assume that von Stalhein, supposing
Hagen’s real identity had not been discovered, was in no hurry. He might be waiting for the caretaker to be withdrawn from the house. He might even be contemplating buying, or hiring, the establishment, and living there. He would then be able to search the whole property end to end unmolested.

  Biggles agreed that these were possibilities, but not convincing ones. They were not in accord with von Stalhein’s usual methods. ‘But for the fact that he usually works alone, I’d be inclined to think he waiting for someone to join him,’ he concluded.

  ‘Well, there he is, anyway,’ announced Ginger. ‘Over there by the pool, in the long chair, wearing a bath-robe. That long cigarette-bolder, and the monocle, would give him away in a crowd.’

  Biggles’s eyes found the subject of their conversation.

  ‘Been bathing, apparently,’ he observed. ‘From the way he’s wrapped himself up, he’s no intention of getting sunburnt. He doesn’t look like moving yet. There’s no point in hanging around here any longer, so we’ll press on and give Hagen’s place the once over.’

  They returned to their car, and a drive of some ten minutes or so took them to their next objective.

  ‘My word! Hagen was no fool when he chose this spot for a hide-out,’ remarked Biggles admiringly, as he cruised quietly to a standstill and surveyed the dazzling scene that a turn of the road had brought into view.

  ‘Tew, the pirate, wasn’t a bad judge either, if this was in fact where he dropped his anchor,’ contributed Ginger, his eyes absorbing the picture. ‘Talk about gorgeous technicolour!’

  The anchorage, although small, was, he thought, the last word in tropic extravagance. Under a sky incredibly blue, turquoise undulations of water surged in to caress a crescent of glistening sands. At one point there was a rampart of coral on which tiny waves exploded in showers of diamonds before falling back in hissing sweeps of foamy lace. Behind the beach crowded coconut palms and sea-grape trees with leaves the size of plates. Behind, again, the land rose sharply under a cloak of colourful vegetation that included giant ferns, bougainvillea, jasmine and hibiscus. Over all hung the drowsy hum of insects.

  ‘Almost too good to be true, isn’t it?’ murmured Biggles whimsically, as he got out and walked toward a gate that promised a house beyond.

  It turned out to be the wrong one — for there were only two — presumably the home of the retired naval officer, Evans; but a hundred yards beyond, the words Rumkeg Haven, in faded paint on a sagging gate, told them that they had arrived at their destination.

  A mossy drive, bounded by an overgrown garden in which mangoes, bananas and yams fought a losing battle with a jungle of weeds, gave access to a house of fair size, and from the style of its architecture, of some age. In most of the windows the blinds were down. All was silent.

  Ginger looked expectantly for the caretaker, but he was not in sight, although the front door stood ajar. They went on to it. Biggles pushed it open. They stepped inside, and stopped.

  The coloured caretaker was in the hall. He did not rise to greet them or demand their business, the simple reason being that he was sprawled in an armchair, and from his stertorous breathing, fast asleep. From a cigarette, that had fallen from his drooping fingers to the carpet, a spiral of blue smoke still coiled upwards.

  Biggles glanced at Ginger, smiling sadly at this flagrant dereliction of duty, and touched the man gently on the shoulder.

  He did not move.

  Biggles shook him.

  Still the man made no response.

  Biggles’s expression of easy tolerance changed abruptly. Frowning, he put a finger to the black eyelid and raised it, to reveal the iris half rolled back. The muscles of Biggles’s face stiffened. Stooping swiftly, he picked up the half-smoked cigarette and raised it to his nose. He flicked it out of the open door and laid a finger on his lips for silence, while his eyes explored the doors that led off the hall — as did Ginger, who did not need to be to told what Biggles suspected.

  There were three doors, one on either side, and another, of lesser importance, at the far end, obviously leading to the rear of the house. All were shut. But as they stood there in listening attitudes there came slight sound from the room on their right, which happened to be the one nearest to them. Biggles tiptoed to it, and dropping on one knee put an eye to the key hole. A shake of the head told Ginger that this attempt to see into the room had failed, presumably because the key was in the lock on the other side. The caretaker was still snoring.

  Biggles’s hand closed over the old-fashioned china door-knob. With infinite care he turned it. The door yielded to his pressure. Slowly, and, as it seemed, without making a sound, it swung open. But there must have been a slight noise, or perhaps a draught, for a man who had been bending over a desk at the far end of the room spun round, so that they all stood face to face.

  For perhaps five brittle seconds nobody moved or spoke. Shock froze lips and muscles, and it must have been the same at both ends of the room.

  Indeed, Ginger could hardly believe his eyes, for the man was he, who, twenty minutes earlier, he would have sworn was wrapped in a bathrobe at the bathing-pool. They had travelled fast in a car and it had not stopped on the way. How the apparent miracle had been achieved he could not imagine, but there was no possibility of mistake. The man in front of them, tight-lipped, staring with half-closed, calculating eyes, was — Erich von Stalhein, one time Nazi secret agent, now a free-lance operative with headquarters behind the Iron Curtain.

  Slowly, but perceptibly, as the initial shock subsided, the tension relaxed.

  Biggles was the first to speak. ‘I’m sorry to see you’ve sunk as low as house-breaking, von Stalhein,’ he said evenly.

  ‘You jump to conclusions,’ answered von Stalhein suavely. ‘I am here on legitimate business.’

  ‘That must be a novel experience for you,’ returned Biggles coldly. ‘It would be interesting to know the sort of business you would regard as legitimate.’

  ‘There is no secret about that,’ averred von Stalhein. ‘I am at the moment concerned with the marketing of an excellent Rhine wine. I have some samples with me.’ He indicated an attaché case that stood just inside the door. ‘Would you care to try a half-bottle? I can recommend it.’

  ‘Not at the moment, thanks,’ replied Biggles. ‘Do you usually start by doping the servants of your prospective customers?’

  Von Stalhein shrugged. ‘I came here inquiring for Mr Hagen. I was given to understand that he lived here. It is true that in the course of conversation I gave the man in the hall a cigarette. But how was I to know that he suffered from a weak head? He should not have accepted it.’

  ‘It would need a strong head to stand up to your brand of smoking material, I’ll warrant,’ said Biggles grimly.

  ‘A matter of opinion,’ came back from Stalhein, casually. ‘Since Mr Hagen seems to be away, and our views on the quality of nicotine differ, and you are not interested in wine, there would appear to be no point pursuing this conversation. I must confess that I was surprised to see you walk in,’ he admitted, picking his case of samples.

  To Ginger’s surprise, Biggles made no attempt to stop him. He did no more than follow him to the front door. On the top step, von Stalhein turned, and for a moment a cynical smile softened his austere features.

  ‘Our meeting here today was a happy coincidence,’ he murmured. ‘Otherwise I might not have known that you were on the island. That, you will agree, would have be a pity. If you change your mind about the wine, let me know.’

  ‘Are you thinking of staying here for some time, then?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘It’s hard to say,’ replied von Stalhein thoughtfully. ‘It depends on how well my business goes... the wine business, I mean.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What about you, Bigglesworth? Are you thinking staying on?’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ answered Biggles slowly, his eyes on von Stalhein’s face, ‘I’m thinking of taking up residence here.’

  ‘In t
his house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know, I was thinking of doing that myself,’ returned von Stalhein. ‘It’s a delightful spot.’

  ‘The name, certainly, would have been appropriate for a wine-merchant,’ agreed Biggles.

  Von Stalhein shook his head. ‘I never touch rum. Beastly stuff. By the way, be careful if you decide to live here. They say there are snakes in the garden.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘Snakes don’t worry me. I can deal with them. After all, I’ve had a lot of experience — as you know.’

  ‘I believe it is a fact that even the best snake-charmers usually die of snake bite at the finish,’ said von Stalhein softly. ‘I merely mentioned the danger in passing. But I must be getting along. Good-day, gentlemen.’ He turned about and strode away.

  Biggles watched him out of sight with a curious expression on his face.

  ‘Are you letting him get away with this?’ inquired Ginger indignantly.

  ‘What can I do? We knew he was on the island, so from that angle the position hasn’t changed. I’m sorry he’s seen us. It puts a different complexion on the thing. Remember, he had no reason to suppose that Hagen’s true identity had even been suspected. No doubt he expected to be allowed to do his job in his own time without any hurry. Seeing us here has altered all that. It can only mean one thing — that British Intelligence knows the truth. It must have shaken him to the roots when we walked in, for up to that moment it couldn’t have occurred to him that we were on the job. Now he knows, and he’ll act accordingly. I’m sorry a bout it, because in effect it means that he’s scored the first point, as you might say. Now he must be wondering, and wondering hard, how much we know.