Biggles in the Blue Read online

  ‘That cuts two ways, too,’ muttered Ginger. ‘Bearing in mind that correspondence passed between him and Hagen, we can do a bit of wondering about how much he knows.’

  ‘We shall learn that in due course, no doubt.’

  ‘Why not scotch his antics right away? You could charge him with doping and house-breaking. He might have got what we know he came here for.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ answered Biggles. ‘He couldn’t have had time. Had he found anything he wouldn’t be hanging about. I’d say he was only in the room for minute or two. That doped cigarette was only half smoked.’

  ‘And so you’re going to let him go?’

  ‘Even if we went for him, we might find it difficult to prove a charge. He would say that he called to sell wine. He found the caretaker asleep, so he waited. That’s what he would say and it would sound reasonable. He didn’t hurt the caretaker. As far as we know he hasn’t taken anything. No. Von Stalhein saw how I was fixed as well as I could see it myself. He as good as said so. No doubt he’s a bit worried now he knows we’re here, and annoyed that we disturbed him just as he was getting busy. But we have this consolation. I’m pretty certain he hasn’t got what he came to Jamaica to find, or he’d away by now. It’s doubtful if he has a clue. It was the hope of finding one that he came to this house.’

  ‘But how on earth did he get here so quickly? No car passed us on the road and he couldn’t have got here any other way.’

  ‘That’s what took the wind out of my bellows when I saw him standing there,’ admitted Biggles. ‘There’s of one answer to that conundrum. The man we saw at the pool wasn’t von Stalhein.’

  ‘If it wasn’t, I’ll eat my hat.’

  ‘You’d better get ready for a long chew.’

  ‘But two men so much alike! That would be a fantastic coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t think coincidence comes into it.’

  ‘What do you, mean?’

  ‘I mean that the man at the pool was a stooge planted there by von Stalhein. The trick succeeded. It took us in — and the police, who von Stalhein must have suspected were watching him. Erich wanted to get on with his job. He couldn’t very well do that while he was under surveillance. So he planted a decoy. Quite simple.’

  ‘It’s a bit hard to believe that he could find here a man sufficiently like him to impersonate him.’

  ‘It’s very hard to believe. That’s why I don’t believe it. It’s my guess that he brought the man with him. After all, the resemblance need not have been very close. The man at the pool was well wrapped up, as we remarked, in a bath-robe. It was the eye-glass and long cigarette-holder that fooled us.’

  ‘If he brought one confederate with him he might have brought two or three,’ muttered Ginger.

  ‘True enough. With strangers in the game we shall have to watch how we go — particularly after that back-chat about snakes in the garden.’

  ‘Was that a threat?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’

  ‘Was he speaking literally?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, but I should hardly think so.’

  ‘Are there poisonous snakes in Jamaica?’

  ‘I’m not sure about that, although there is certainly a deadly serpent on some of the West Indian islands called the fer-de-lance.’

  ‘I’d like to be more sure about it,’ said Ginger. ‘There’s one thing that scares me, it’s snakes.’

  ‘Forget about them for the moment. Let’s go and have a closer look at this stooge at the pool before von Stalhein can make contact with him, so that we’ll know him next time. At least, we should be able to confirm he is what I suspect him to be. This place can wait. Von Stalhein isn’t likely to come back today. Let’s go.’

  There was a brief delay, however, for at this junction the caretaker yawned, stretched, and looking somewhat dazed, got unsteadily to his feet. He started as his eye fell on Biggles and Ginger standing there looking at him. ‘What you men want here?’ he demanded thickly.

  Biggles wasted no time in argument. ‘We’re police officers,’ he said curtly. ‘We want the keys. Then you can go home. What do you mean by going to sleep?’

  ‘Me? Sleep suh!’ The black looked shocked. ‘No suh.’

  ‘Never mind. Give me the keys and run along.’

  ‘If dat’s what you say, suh.’ The man handed over the keys, and still half asleep stumbled away.

  Biggles locked the house and pocketed the keys, after which they walked quickly to the car and returned to the bathing-pool. Ginger kept a look-out for von Stalhein on the way, but seeing nothing of him decided that he must have taken the path that skirted the seashore. The car parked, they walked on to where they had seen von Stalhein’s double. He was still in the same chair, still in a bath-wrap, reading a newspaper.

  ‘That in itself is suspicious,’ said Biggles, as they strolled towards him. ‘It’s getting on for lunch-time and as you see, most people have got their clothes on.’

  As they drew near, Ginger perceived that the resemblance to von Stalhein was not so pronounced as he had thought, and it was clear that the monocle and long cigarette-holder, such as von Stalhein habitually used, had been largely responsible for the deception. But still, apart from that there was just a sufficient likeness, both of face and figure, to support Biggles’s contention that the imitation was deliberate, not accidental. The man in the chair was a trifle more heavily built, and somewhat flatter in the face.

  As they passed close to him, as if aware of Ginger’s scrutiny, he looked up, and their eyes met; and there was a quality, a sort of cold-blooded absence of expression, in those of the man, that sent a chill down Ginger’s spine. As he presently described it to Biggles, it was like looking at the eyes of an octopus, ‘I’d hate to fall foul of him on a dark night,’ he stated.

  ‘Or at any other time,’ said Biggles quietly.

  He did not stop. He went on a little way to where a white waiter was wiping a table that had just been abandoned. He indicated the man in the bath-wrap. ‘D’you happen to know the name of that gentleman?’ he inquired.

  The waiter looked and shook his head. ‘Sorry sir, no,’ he answered, in a voice that had a frank cockney ring. ‘He only turned up here lately. I’ve served him with a drink once or twice, but I don’t know him from Adam. Foreigner, by the way he talks. He’s got some queer pals, I know that much. There’s one of them coming now.’

  Queer was understatement, thought Ginger, as he regarded the new arrival, who had said something in passing to the man they were watching and was answered by a curt nod. He was coloured; not quite the ebony black of a full-blooded negro, but the deep chocolate brown of a mixed breed, mostly negro. There was nothing remarkable about that. It was his get-up that fascinated Ginger — beautifully-pressed lilac trousers tapered almost to a point at the ankles, and a square-shouldered, wasp-waisted jacket with long lapels that ended in a single large button. A broad-rimmed hat snapped down in front, covered his head. A flaunting red tie decorated with dice, and a large gold pin, completed an outfit that would have been ridiculous had not the man, who was tall and slim, walked with the smooth grace of a panther.

  ‘Who’s that astonishing piece of work?’ Biggles asked the waiter.

  ‘Napoleon Morgan — at least that’s what he says,’ answered the waiter cynically.

  ‘By thunder! He certainly chose a name while he was at it,’ said Biggles.

  ‘Nappy Morgan, they call him; but I reckon you’d be smart to catch him napping,’ went on the waiter grinning at his own joke. ‘He’s well known here. Too well known. One of the high-lights of the Communist Party. Always stirring up trouble. That’s easier than working. Can’t think why they don’t push him back to Trinidad, where, so they say, he was a big noise in Saga Boys.’

  ‘What are the Saga Boys?’ inquired Ginger curiously.

  ‘Spivs, smart guys and razor-slashers, mostly,’ replied the waiter. ‘This particular specimen lives in the Dunghill.’

  ‘That’s a pret
ty address,’ murmured Biggles, smiling.

  ‘It’s the slums down by the railway yard, and a good place for a white man to keep away from,’ concluded the waiter, moving off to serve a customer.’

  Biggles found a shady seat under some palms. ‘We’ll sit here for a bit and see what else happens,’ he decided. ‘Von Stalhein seems to be flying with some strange birds. That fellow over there,’ he indicated the original object of their visit, ‘is a Slav from Eastern Europe, judging from his flat face and high cheekbones.’

  What happened next was not unexpected. About a quarter of an hour later von Stalhein arrived on the scene. He went straight to the man in the bath gown, said something to him and strode on. The unknown man at once got up and disappeared in the direction of the dressing-cabins.

  ‘That, I think, answers our questions,’ said Biggles drily. ‘Friend Erich is not alone here. Which of these two is the boss remains to be seen.’

  ‘Is there likely to be any doubt about that?’ asked Ginger, with a trace of surprise in his voice.

  ‘Plenty of doubt,’ replied Biggles. ‘People who draw their pay packet from behind the Iron Curtain can’t do as they like. They do as they are told — and there are people to see that they do just that. But come on. It’s lunch-time. Let’s go somewhere and tear a chop. Then we’ll go back to Rumkeg Haven and see what there is to see there.’

  CHAPTER 3

  AN EGG MAKES A MYSTERY

  Two hours later, having, satisfied their appetites and discussed the events of the morning, Biggles and Ginger were again at Rumkeg Haven. The atmosphere of any unoccupied house is usually one of brooding melancholy, and this one, Ginger found, was no exception. Moreover, in view of what had happened there, and in the absence of any other sound, the silent rooms seemed to convey an air: of secrecy, so that any sort of noise was magnified and became an intrusion. Wherefore they moved about quietly. Conversation was carried on in low tones.

  Having gone over the house to make themselves familiar with the general lay-out of the place, they returned to the room in which von Stalhein had been disturbed. This was an automatic choice, for, furnished both as a sitting-room and as a study, it was obviously the place where the ex-Nazi had spent most of his time.

  Ginger had no delusions about the magnitude of the task they had set themselves. If Hagen’s secret, or the clue to its whereabouts, was hidden somewhere in the structure of the house, as it might be, then short of taking the house to pieces it was likely to remain undiscovered. Their one hope, as Biggles had remarked earlier, was that Hagen’s death, coming suddenly as it did, had in some way left exposed something which in the ordinary way he would have kept concealed. This, of course, had actually happened in the case of the unfinished letter. But this alone was not enough. Something more definite was needed to put them on the track. And in a way that no amount of imagination could have foreseen, this was provided. Hagen had left something, although even he could hardly have imagined the curious link it was to form in his affairs.

  A tour of the house, a long, low, rambling, two-storied building, largely of wooden construction, yielded nothing sensational. It was clearly a bachelor establishment. From the fact that only a few of the rooms were furnished it was plain that Hagen did not expect, or intend to encourage, visitors. In the matter of bedrooms, the one that had obviously been his own was comfortable enough. One other was furnished, simply, as if for a servant. On the ground floor some trouble and expense had been taken to make the two large reception rooms really attractive. One was the dining-room; the other was just such a mixture of sitting-room, study and library, as might have been expected. The furniture everywhere was massive, old-fashioned mahogany. Outstanding in the living-room, facing tall french windows that gave access to the garden, was a ponderous Georgian writing-table, also of mahogany, with many drawers. It must have been in the equally heavy chair that served it that Hagen had died, reflected Ginger morbidly. A small modern steel safe stood near it. The walls supported a few pictures, depicting local scenery, and two large maps: one of the world and the other of the Caribbean, including the West Indian islands. For the rest, a miscellaneous collection of ornaments, instruments, and sundry utility objects, stood wherever room could be found for them. On the mantelpiece, flanking a brass-faced clock, was an assortment of sea shells, and, somewhat oddly Ginger thought, a large white egg. Two powerful sea-fishing rods, with their out-size reels, stood in a corner. So much was revealed at first glance.

  ‘Well, let’s make a start,’ said Biggles, walking over to the safe.

  ‘If we knew what we were looking for it would something,’ remarked Ginger lugubriously.

  To narrate in detail the investigations of the next hour would be pointless, for only one item of the slightest interest came to light. Biggles went through the safe, but it contained only a signed photograph of Hitler, some account books and loose money. He went through the drawers of the writing-table one by one, examining each item before replacing it as he had found it. Actually, there was very little in them other than stationery and miscellaneous trifles such as a petrol lighter, a fountain pen, paper fasteners and the like. However, in one he found a folded sheet of tissue paper from which a piece had been cut. The piece on which the sketch had been made, which Giggles took from his pocket, fitted exactly.

  ‘Unfortunately that tells us nothing,’ he said. ‘It merely confirms what we had already supposed.’

  The many books were a problem. They covered a number of subjects, and to go through every one would obviously be a long and wearying process. There was an atlas, and on it Biggles spent some time, scrutinizing it for marks such as a navigator might make. The same with the maps on the walls. Biggles even took them down and held them up to the light in the hope of finding pin-holes made by compasses or dividers. This again was without result. The smallness of the scale ruled out any possibility of the tracing having been made from the features shown on them.

  Ginger wandered about, picking things up and putting them down again, either for something to do or perhaps seeking inspiration. Several times his eyes went to the egg on the mantelpiece. At last he picked it up. ‘What’s this, and what’s it doing here, anyway?’ he inquired.

  Biggles came over. ‘It looks to me uncommonly like an egg,’ he observed with mild sarcasm.

  ‘I’d already worked that out,’ replied Ginger. ‘What did he want it for, I wonder?’

  ‘The usual object of bringing an egg into a house is to eat it,’ stated Biggles.

  ‘In which case you take it to the kitchen. I didn’t notice any chickens in the garden.’

  ‘It’s too big for a chicken’s egg.’

  ‘I’ve heard of double-yolked ones.’

  ‘Not as big as that, I think.’

  Ginger held the egg in the palm of his hand. It was about three times the size of a hen’s egg and of a peculiar chalky white. ‘This doesn’t belong here,’ he declared. ‘Yet Hagen must have had some purpose in bringing it here. What was it?’

  ‘Maybe he was going to start collecting eggs.’

  ‘In which case he would have blown out the contents.’

  Ginger weighed the egg in his hand, then shook it. ‘This hasn’t been here long,’ he said. ‘Anyway, it isn’t addled.’ He replaced it on the mantelpiece. ‘When I a kid I used to collect eggs myself,’ he confessed. ‘But I never saw one like that.’

  ‘There are probably a lot of eggs you haven’t seen,’ Biggles told him casually, going back to the table and examining it critically.

  ‘What are you doing now?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘I’m wondering if there’s a secret drawer in this thing.’ Desks of this period often had a secret compartment.’

  ‘If it could be found as easily as that there wouldn’t be much of a secret about it.’

  ‘True enough,’ conceded Biggles. ‘Assuming there is one, Hagen obviously didn’t put much faith in it or wouldn’t have bought a safe although, of course a safe is protection in case of fire. It
’s reasonable suppose that anything Hagen valued particularly, such as the letter from Hitler, he would put in the safe.’ He looked around, somewhat helplessly. ‘I’m afraid we’ve taken on something. Where do we go next?’

  Ginger shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me.’

  ‘If you’d get a bright idea occasionally, instead of fiddling about with birds’ eggs, you’d be of some use to me,’ said Biggles.

  ‘What about calling on the bloke next door — the naval type, Evans? He might be able to tell us something.’

  ‘He’s already been interviewed. He knows nothing Hagen’s private affairs.’

  Ginger raised a shoulder. ‘Okay. It was just an idea. But I can see this. It’s all very well to sit at home and talk about searching a house this size; but when you get on the spot it’s a different cup of tea. At the rate we’re going we’re likely to be here for weeks. Hadn’t I better let Algy and Bertie know that they can settle down for a nice long rest — either that or let them go exploring on their own account.’

  Biggles lit, a cigarette. ‘You’re quite right,’ he said shortly. ‘This searching business isn’t in our line. It’s too slow. But it seemed the obvious thing to do. Let’s go and have a word with Commander Evans. There’s just a chance that he may let something drop.’ He locked the safe.

  A few minutes later a black manservant was showing them into the sitting-room of the retired naval officer, an elderly but virile, jovial-looking man who greeted them cordially.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

  Ginger looked about in some astonishment until he remembered the man’s hobby, for the place was more like a natural history museum than a room in a private house. From every wall stuffed birds of many sizes and colours gazed at the visitors with glassy eyes.

  ‘We’re special investigators from London inquiring into the estate of the late Mr Hagen, who lived next door,’ explained Biggles. ‘There’s a question of the inheritance to the property.’