Biggles Looks Back Page 2

  “How did the letter get here?”

  “I wish I could answer that question. She must have heard through someone, perhaps an old friend of mine, that I am in England. I can only suppose the letter was brought out of the country unaddressed, in the pocket of someone she could trust. When the carrier got here he put an English stamp on the envelope and posted it.”

  “But how could he know your address? You’ve always been so careful to keep it secret.”

  “He didn’t know it. He sent it to the Aliens Department at the Home Office and asked them to forward it, which they did. As I am still officially an alien here on a permit, they would know it.”

  Biggles shook his head sadly. “What a complicated world we live in.”

  “The old aristocracy of central Europe still hangs together regardless of which side of the Iron Curtain they happen to live. They help each other whenever possible.”

  “Are you sure this letter isn’t a trap to catch you? Are you sure it was written by Marie?”

  “One can never be quite sure, of course, but I’m confident it’s genuine. Marie mentions one or two incidents no one but she could have known.”

  “Why did she write?”

  “The letter is mostly personal but I suspect the real purpose was to ask for news of you. She doesn’t mention you by name but I know to whom she refers. She says had it been possible she would have liked more than anything on earth to see you just once more. Which I take to mean she can’t get a permit to leave the country; or, possibly, she can’t afford the journey.”

  Biggles spoke bitterly. “First it was trenches and barbed wire that kept us apart. Now it’s power politics and iron curtains. Damn all dictators. Why can’t they leave people alone?”

  “Because they like being dictators. It flatters their vanity. But we were speaking of Marie.”

  “Yes. On second thoughts, would it be wise for us to meet again? A lot of water has rolled under the bridges and we’re not as young as we were. I think I’d prefer to remember her as I knew her — young, charming, gay, beautiful.”

  “You couldn’t get to her, anyway. To try would be asking for trouble. You might get past the Iron Curtain, but after that Roth affair not long ago they’d see you never got back.”

  “Would they know about my part in that?”

  “Without a doubt. Don’t forget you gave evidence in court against two of their top agents, Molsk and Rallensky. That would be reported by the Communist embassies in London. They never forget, or forgive.”

  “There would be no need to go through East Germany. It should be possible to get to Czechoslovakia via Switzerland and Austria.”

  “You might find a chink in the Curtain that way but you’d still have to risk being spotted in enemy controlled territory,”

  “Yes, it would come to that eventually.”

  “It seems a pity. Apart from seeing you Marie says she’d love to live here again. She went to school in England, you know.”

  “So she told me, to account for the way she spoke English. I assumed that was another lie.”

  “Not everything she told you was a lie. Her command of English was one of the reasons why she was selected for the job of spying on a British squadron. If she could be got out I’d be happy to fix her up in a little apartment near mine. She’d be one of my own people, an old colleague, for company. I get a bit lonely sometimes. But read her letter and tell me what you make of it.”

  Conscious of a sense of unreality Biggles unfolded the letter and looked down on lines of neat handwriting.

  He did not speak until he had finished reading. In deep thought he refolded it.

  “Well?” queried his companion.

  Biggles looked up. “When was the last time you saw Marie, or heard from her, before you received this letter?”

  “I had a letter shortly before I was sent to prison on Sakhalin Island.”

  “Would she know about that?”

  “Naturally. I was tried by a People’s Court, which is public, and she’d read about it in the newspapers.”

  “Now she writes to you here. That can only mean she must know you escaped. How could she know that?”

  “Obviously somebody told her.”

  “That would be dangerous talk. Who would take such a chance?”

  “Don’t forget Marie was a long time in the Secret Service. She knew many people, apart from me, doing the same work. Someone knowing we were friendly may have tipped her off. After the war quite a few turned to Russia for employment, as I did. Of course, she wouldn’t dare to mention in a letter who told her, or that she knew I was now free.”

  “The fact that she writes to you now suggests to me that she’s in trouble.”

  “How so?

  “When people are in trouble they look for a friend, someone to confide in. She had no one; so she wrote to you.”

  “For help?”

  “Not necessarily. She’d derive some comfort just from making contact with you. Apart from what she actually says, reading between the lines one or two other aspects can be deduced.”

  “Such as?”

  “She’s living in poor, if not impoverished, circumstances This is cheap paper. She wrote with an old pen and ink that had nearly dried up. You can see the breaks in the words. She had no blotting paper. She had to let it dry.”

  “She doesn’t mention money.”

  “She wouldn’t be likely to. Had she been comfortably to pass she’d have said so, to save you worrying about her on that score.”

  “That could be true. I can’t imagine any source from which she could get money. She must have lost everything when the war ended. Most of us did. Anything else?”

  “She isn’t well. I’d say another reason why she wrote this letter was because she was in poor health and thought she might die. To me this has an underlying tone of being a farewell letter. Notice the way she says she’d have liked to see me just once more. Why only once more? There’s a hint of finality there. I may be wrong but I read that to mean she feels she’s near the end of her tether.”

  “She doesn’t say she’s ill.”

  “Of course not. She knew that would have upset you. It might have caused you to drop everything and rush out to her, probably losing your life in so doing. To my way of thinking, had she been fit and well she would have said so. The fact that she doesn’t even mention her health is significant. Usually, when old friends write to each other after a long break health is a major subject. As people get older it becomes more and more important. She says nothing.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. Now you’ve said it I must admit I’ve been thinking on the same lines.” Von Stalhein looked at his watch. “Great heavens! How time flies when I am with you. Everyone else has gone. The waiters are getting impatient. It’s time we were going.” He got up, putting the letter in his pocket. “Well,” he concluded. “Even though digging up old history might be painful to you I thought you’d be pleased to know Marie is still alive and still thinks of you.”

  “I’m glad you told me,” returned Biggles. “There’s no pain any more. If one can survive a wound time will heal it — or at any rate one can get used to it. We’ll meet again soon and talk more about it. Meanwhile we can do some serious thinking.” He paid the bill.

  “I’ll get in touch with you,” were Von Stalhein’s last words as they parted on the pavement outside the restaurant.

  CHAPTER II

  ACCUSATIONS AND EXPLANATIONS

  The effect on Biggles of his conversation with Von Stalhein was at once apparent to those at Air Police Head quarters at Scotland Yard, although they were left in ignorance of the cause. Biggles remained silent on the subject. His manner was preoccupied and he seldom spoke unless spoken to. He spent a lot of time studying maps which, it was observed, were of countries in central Europe.

  Algy, Bertie and Ginger looked at each other, shrugged shoulders but asked no questions. They had on a few rare occasions seen their leader in this mood; but then they kne
w the reason. Now they did not, and Biggles gave no hint of an explanation.

  So an uncomfortable week passed. Fortunately nothing occurred to break the normal routine of the office; or perhaps it should be said unfortunately, for this would have given everyone something else to think about.

  Towards the end of the second week, which brought no change in Biggles’s behaviour, Algy could endure the tension no longer. As the senior of the three police pilots he spoke up. “Look Biggles; we’ve had about enough of this. What’s the matter with you?” he demanded bluntly.

  Biggles looked up from his desk where for an hour or more he had sat apparently lost in thought. “Why should there be anything the matter with me?” he asked evenly.

  “You know. I don’t. That’s why I’m asking you.”

  “Forget it. It would be of no interest to you.”

  Bertie chipped in. “But look here, old boy. We can’t go on like this. If you don’t give yourself a nervous breakdown you’ll give us one. We might as well work in a bally mortuary.”

  “It’s purely a personal matter.”

  “Fiddlesticks! What upsets you upsets all of us, and you jolly well know it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Algy was not to be put off. “This moribund atmosphere started following the night you had dinner with Von Stalhein,” he challenged. “Am I right?”

  “Quite right.”

  “It was something he told you.”

  “Right again.”

  “Then out with it and get it off your chest.”

  ‘It isn’t as easy as that.”

  “You behave as if you were waiting for something to happen.”

  “I am.”

  ‘What is it?”

  “Erich said he would be getting in touch with me to discuss a certain matter. I haven’t heard a word.”

  “What’s the certain matter,” pursued Algy.

  “Something that happened long ago.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Back in the old days of 266 Squadron.”

  “In France?”

  “Yes.”

  “In my time?”

  “You were there.”

  Algy thought for a minute. “Would it he something to do with that beautiful Boche spy you got tangled up with? What was her name — Marie something or other.”

  Biggles nodded.

  “A beautiful spy?” queried Bertie. “I don’t know anything about this.”

  “It was before your time,” Algy told him. “Biggles fell for a girl in a big way. She turned out to be a German spy.”

  Bertie looked shocked. “A girl. Oh no! I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. We never discuss it.”

  “Well, stew me in hogwash! This is an eye-opener.”

  “Oh pipe down,” requested Biggles curtly. “It might strike you fledglings as funny but at the time it was anything but that.”

  Algy went on, quietly, seriously. “Would I be right in guessing Von Stalhein gave you news of her?”

  “You would.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “No.”

  “Then why bring up something that’s best forgotten?”

  “Who says it’s best forgotten?”

  “Well — er — I would have thought so.”

  “That’s where you’d be wrong. I’ve never forgotten.”

  “Tell me about it,” pleaded Bertie.

  Algy looked at Biggles. “Mind if I tell him?”

  Biggles sighed. “Please yourself. But make it short.”

  Algy gave a brief account of the affair.

  “Now you all know I hope you’re satisfied,” said Biggles coldly, when he had finished.

  “There’s no need to get narky about it, old boy,” protested Bertie. “You know we’re all on your side, absolutely.”

  Algy came in again. “What’s this latest development that seems to have knocked you cold?”

  “She’d like to come here to live.”

  “Okay. Let her come so we can all be pals together and get back to normal.”

  “There’s reason to think she can’t get here.”

  “Why not?”

  “She happens to be living on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain.”

  “Oh spare my days! So that’s it. Where is she exactly — East Germany?”

  “No. Czechoslovakia. Bohemia, to be more specific.”

  “Strewth! You’re not thinking of going out to fetch her?”

  “Not seriously.”

  “I should say not. We’ve barked our shins on the Iron Curtain often enough as it is. There’s such a thing as playing that sort of game once too often. Let it rest till someone pulls up the Curtain.”

  “That may not be for a long time yet. Meanwhile we believe Marie is in a bad way.”

  Bertie came back. “But I say, look here, why get all steamed up about an enemy spy who twiddled you round her little finger and then let you down with a wallop — if you see what I mean?”

  “Marie Janis was doing the best she could for her side, the same as we were — and still are if it comes to that,” retorted Biggles. “Von Stalhein was doing the same thing. We’ve nothing to shout about on that score, anyway.”

  “Ah well. All’s fair in love and war, as they say.”

  “The war’s over.”

  “But not love, eh?”

  Biggles did not answer.

  “Is Von Stalhein doing anything about getting Marie here?” inquired Algy.

  “Not as far as I know. He said he’d get in touch with me to discuss the possibilities. That was a fortnight ago. I haven’t heard a word.”

  “If you feel like that about it why not call on him and put an end to this tearing your nerves to pieces — and ours.”

  “I’ve considered that; but I thought it better to leave things to him. Marie wrote to him, not me. I don’t want to butt in where I’m not wanted.”

  “Could he have got into trouble of some sort?

  “If so I don’t know what it could be. Things have quietened down lately.”

  “Then for all our sakes go to his flat and find out what he’s doing.”

  “Yes, I think the time has come to do that.” Biggles got up. “I’ll slip along right away. I’ve had enough of this suspense.”

  “Want anyone to go with you?”

  “No thanks. I’ll go alone. I shouldn’t be long.” Biggles put on his hat and went out.

  As the door closed behind him Ginger said to Algy: “Was he really in love with this girl?”

  “From what I can see of it he still is,” returned Algy grimly.

  Biggles wasted no time on his errand. He took a taxi to the block of flats in Kensington where Von Stalhein an apartment and was soon knocking on his door.

  There was no answer.

  He knocked again, loudly.

  Still no answer.

  “It’s me, Bigglesworth,” he called, knowing Von Stalhein was cautious about opening his door to strangers, as he had reason to be.

  No sound came from behind the door. He tried it. It was locked.

  Thoughtfully he turned away and returned to the ground floor. There he found the caretaker doing some cleaning. “I’m a friend of the gentleman who lives in Number 21,” he stated. “I can’t make anyone hear. Do you happen to know if he’s away?”

  “You mean the foreign gentleman?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I think he must have gone away.”

  “Has he given up the flat?”

  “No, I don’t think he’s done that or I’d have been told about it. But he’s cancelled his morning papers and the milk so perhaps he’s gone on holiday.”

  “Do you know if he’s had any visitors?”

  “Not to my knowledge.”

  “No one been asking for him?”

  “I ain’t seen no one and no one’s asked me about him.”

  “He didn’t say anything to you about going way or when he’d be back?”

 
“No. I didn’t see much of him. Nice gentleman. Quiet. Kept himself to himself.”

  “I see. Thanks.” Biggles went out.

  For a minute he stood on the pavement considering what he had just learned. He was puzzled. There was no reason why Von Stalhein should tell him he was going away; but he was still a registered alien and as such would have to report to the authorities any change of address. That could easily be checked.

  He took a taxi to the Home Office where, at the appropriate department, having shown his police credentials, he put some questions about Von Stalhein. He was kept waiting a little while, but when the inquiry officer returned he had the answers. Von Stalhein was still domiciled at the same address; but ten days earlier he had applied for permission to go abroad and this had been granted.

  “Did he give any reason for wanting to go?”

  “To see a relative who was ill.”

  “Where?”

  “In Austria.”

  “Did he have a passport?”

  “Yes. German, of course. It was issued by the German Office in London. We provided him with a document should he be questioned by the Immigration officers on re-entering the country.”

  “So he intended coming back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he say how long he’d he away?”

  The official consulted the file. “Two to three weeks.”

  “Thanks. That’s what I wanted to know.”

  Biggles went out and took a cab back to Scotland Yard.

  “Well?” queried Algy. “Did you see him?”

  “He wasn’t at home.”

  “You didn’t wait?”

  Biggles dropped into his chair. “It wouldn’t have been any use. He’s gone away.”

  “Gone where?”

  “Abroad. I’ve been to the Home Office. He got permission to visit a sick relative in Austria.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “No. He may have gone to Austria, but if so it was because he didn’t want to go through East Germany on his way to Czechoslovakia.”

  “So that’s where you think he’s gone?”

  “Where else?”

  “Hoping to get in touch with Marie Janis.”

  “I can’t imagine any other reason why he should dash off abroad at this particular moment.”

  “Without warning you!” put in Bertie. “I call that a bit thick.”