Biggles Defies the Swastika Page 4

  Biggles smiled. ‘Nobody has ever mistaken me for him,’ he observed lightly. ‘Why all this about Bigglesworth—do you know him?’

  Von Hymann ignored the question. Instead, he asked another.

  ‘Do you know what became of him subsequently?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘How should I? I believe he went back to England, but I wouldn’t swear to it.’

  The German’s manner became grim. ‘I’ll tell you what he did. He returned to England and set up as a free-lance pilot, and while he did a certain amount of casual work, in reality he was the British Intelligence Service’s chief flying agent.’

  Biggles made a grimace. ‘I shouldn’t have thought that was much in his line—he always struck me as being a nervous sort of fellow.’

  ‘It seems that it was very much in his line. Not long ago he was in Finland. We now have reason to believe that he has transferred his unwelcome attentions to Norway.’

  ‘You mean—he is actually in Norway?’

  ‘This morning he was seen in Oslo by one of our agents.’

  ‘Why didn’t you pick him up?’

  ‘Unfortunately the agent lost him in the crowd—the fool.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Pity. But what has all this got to do with me?’ he asked.

  ‘I will tell you. The man who saw Bigglesworth has dashed back to Berlin to get further particulars about him from Hauptmann von Stalhein,*3 who has had more to do with him than anyone else. In the meantime, he is the only man on my staff who could recognize Bigglesworth if he saw him, so I want you to go into Oslo and see if you can find him. We’ve rounded up a lot of suspects; if he isn’t among them you had better search the hotels and the streets until you find him.’

  ‘I don’t care much for this sort of thing. I really wanted to do some flying,’ protested Biggles as cautiously as he dared.

  ‘There will be time for that later. At the moment you are under my orders. Go to Oslo at once. You can stay at an hotel. If you see Bigglesworth, don’t let him out of your sight. Call the first soldiers you see and have him arrested. You had better take that armlet of and put it in your pocket for the time being, so as not to attract attention to yourself.’

  ‘Very well, sir. But if I don’t wear an armlet will the soldiers accept my orders? Isn’t there a risk of my being taken into custody myself?’

  ‘I was prepared for that.’ Von Hymann took a small, square card from his pocket. It was printed in red and black, and bore the number 2001. ‘That is a pass, signed by myself,’ continued the German. ‘It will take you anywhere without question. While you are working for me you will not use your name; use your official number.’

  Biggles noted the number and put the Gestapo pass in his pocket. ‘Suppose I want to get into touch with you, sir?’

  ‘My head-quarters are at the Hotel Port, on the waterfront.’

  ‘If I don’t find Bigglesworth at once, how long do you want me to go on looking for him?’

  ‘Until you hear from me again.’

  ‘Very good, sir. I’ll attend to it, but—if I may be allowed to say so—I hope you won’t keep me on the job too long. As a pilot, naturally, I’m anxious to get into the air, in which respect I should be useful, for I know the country pretty well. Moreover, as you know, I have had experience of flying over similar country and in similar weather conditions in northern Canada.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ returned von Hymann crisply. He turned to the Commandant. ‘Have you any questions for Hendrik?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s all then.’

  Biggles risked a last question, for the information would be valuable to him if he could get it. ‘What is the name of your man who knows Bigglesworth?’ he inquired. ‘I ask because it might be a good thing if we met some time, and compared notes.’

  ‘Brandt.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Biggles saluted and departed.

  As he closed the door behind him he drew a deep breath and moistened his lips with his tongue, for they had gone dry during the strain of the interview. For a moment he stood still, getting his nerves under control. They had not failed him during the difficult cross-examination, but the inevitable reaction, now that the immediate danger had passed, left him slightly weak. At the same time he endeavoured to adjust his ideas to meet the new situation.

  ‘Suffering rattlesnakes! Where am I getting to?’ he murmured, a ghost of a smile softening his face. ‘First I’m sworn in the German Air Force; now, of all things, I’m a full-blown Gestapo agent. I’ve done some strange jobs in my life, but this is the first time I’ve had to look for myself.’ Then his face hardened again, for he realized that that might well be a more difficult, and more dangerous, task than it sounded.

  He went to the dining-room and had a quiet bite of supper. Then he found Kristen, with whom he was anxious to keep in touch, for he made a point of neglecting nothing and nobody who might be of service to him. Without divulging his mission he told Kristen that he had got to go into Oslo on temporary duty, and would probably stay at the Hotel Kapital. Kristen was curious, but knowing who von Hymann was, asked no questions concerning Biggles’s task.

  ‘How are you going to get to Oslo?’ he inquired.

  ‘I’ve got a motor-bike: I will use that,’ returned Biggles.

  An hour later he was in Oslo, parking the motor-cycle in the hotel garage. The manager was still there, and recognized him. He said that the room Biggles had previously used was still available, and as this suited Biggles he decided to take it. At the foot of the stairs he was stopped by two men who stepped out of the shadows.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked one of them curtly.

  Biggles showed his Gestapo pass, and the power of it was instantly apparent, for not only did the two men withdraw hastily, but they apologized for troubling him—a rare concession for Nazis.

  Biggles continued on up the stairs, deep in thought. He was most worried by the knowledge that in the same city as himself there had been a man who knew him by sight. True, from what von Hymann had said, the man was now in Germany. But how long would it be before, he returned? Obviously, not long. Moreover, he had gone to see von Stalhein, Biggles’ arch-enemy, the man of all men whom he had the greatest cause to fear. The report that he, Biggles, was in Norway would probably be quite sufficient to bring von Stalhein to Oslo at top speed. In an aeroplane he could make the journey in two or three hours. He might even now be on his way to Norway. Indeed, for all Biggles knew, he might already be in Oslo; it all depended on how long Brandt had been gone, and the precise hour of his departure was something Biggles did not know. He knew the man’s name, and that was something; but he didn’t even know him by sight.

  Worn out by the day’s exertions and anxieties, Biggles flung himself on his bed just as he was to rest. He wanted to sleep, but his racing brain made it impossible. From far to the north came the low roar of bursting bombs; he could feel the thud and vibrations of the explosions; and as the window-panes rattled his face hardened with anger.

  ‘Well, I’m here, and if I can put a spoke in the wheel of the savages who drop bombs on helpless civilians I certainly will,’ he mused grimly.

  The suspense of not knowing what was happening, or if Brandt had returned, became intolerable, and, unable to rest, he got up and looked at his watch. It was not yet eleven o’clock. Perhaps he would sleep better if. . . .

  In a moment he had made up his mind. He would find out if Brandt had returned. If he had, then he would be in a better position to know how to act. On the other hand, if Brandt was still in Germany, then he could at least reckon on a few hours’ grace. How could he obtain the information? Obviously, there was only one way, one place, and that was at Gestapo head-quarters at the Hotel Port. By going there he might be putting his head into a noose, but anything was better than this gnawing anxiety, which would certainly impair his usefulness to Colonel Raymond.

  He put on his hat and went out. The same two men were in the hall, but they only nodded to him. The
re were few people in the streets, and no taxis, so he had to walk to his objective—not that that mattered, for it was only a short distance away. German troops were everywhere, particularly near the waterfront, where stores and guns were being unloaded. Biggles surveyed them with eyes trained by long experience; he noted particularly the number of guns and their calibres, the types of vehicles, and the quantities of other stores. He was stopped twice by plain-clothes men and questioned, from which he was able to gather an idea of the precautions being taken to prevent useful information from reaching the Norwegian troops, who—so he learned from snatches of conversation between passers-by– were putting up a spirited resistance farther north. However, in each case the production of his Gestapo pass acted like magic, and he went on to the Hotel Port.

  Two storm-troopers were on duty outside the main entrance. They stopped him, of course, and asked his business.

  Biggles smiled and showed his ever-ready pass. ‘Perhaps you can help me, and save me worrying people while they are busy—as I see they are,’ he said. ‘Do either of you know Herr Brandt by sight?’

  One of the men said he did.

  ‘Is he back yet, do you know?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered the man unhesitatingly. ‘He came in about half an hour ago. He came by plane—there it is.’ He pointed to a civil flying-boat that rested on the placid water, slightly apart from a number of military marine aircraft.

  ‘Was he alone?’ queried Biggles.

  ‘No, there was another man with him.’

  ‘You don’t know his name?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was he by any chance a thin man, with sharp features, wearing a monocle?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ agreed the man.

  ‘I see,’ said Biggles casually.

  ‘You can go in if you want to speak to them,’ invited the trooper.

  Brandt and von Stalhein were the very last two people on earth Biggles wanted to see at that moment, but he did not say so.

  ‘They’re probably tired after their journey,’ he remarked, yawning. ‘I’m tired myself. I’ll call again in the morning. Phew! What a day it’s been.’

  The storm-trooper grinned. ‘You’re right there.’

  ‘What’s happening, d’you know?’

  ‘They say we’ve got most of the country except Narvik. There’s a rumour that British troops are being landed there.’

  This was welcome information, and Biggles made a note of it. He chatted for a few minutes, learning where the Norwegians were resisting the German advance, and picking up scraps of news about the German forces, concerning which the two storm-troopers were quite ready to boast.

  All the while he was talking he was standing in a position from which he could see through the glass-panelled doors into the vestibule beyond. And it was a good thing that he did so, for, suddenly, from the foot of the stairs, appeared two men. One he did not know, but the other was his old enemy, Erich von Stalhein of the German Secret Service. Both were dressed as if they were going out.

  Biggles tarried no longer. ‘Well, I’ll get along and see about some sleep,’ he announced. ‘It looks as if we shall have a busy day again to-morrow. Good-night.’

  He walked away, but turning into a lane between two warehouses, watched the door of the hotel. He had not long to wait. A few minutes later von Stalhein and the other man—who he presumed was Brandt—came out, and walked briskly along the waterfront. From his retreat Biggles watched them pass within ten yards of him. They were talking animatedly, but in tones too low for him to catch what they said. As soon as they had got some distance ahead he followed them.

  At first he was glad that they took a direction which suited him, for it was the direction of his own hotel. It did not occur to him that they were actually going to the hotel until, from the opposite pavement, they walked straight across to the entrance and disappeared through the swing doors.

  Now Biggles, having stayed in it, knew the hotel well. He knew all the entrances—there were three, including a luggage entrance. Walking past the front door he saw the two Germans in the hall talking to the hotel manager, so hastening his steps, he hurried to a side entrance which he knew also led to the hall. But he did not go right in, for he wanted to know what the Germans were saying. He opened the door quietly and took a few paces along a corridor until he could hear their voices.

  The trend of the conversation was much what he expected. Brandt was describing ‘Bigglesworth’, and asking the hotel manager if he knew anything of him. The manager replied, of course, in the negative. He declared that the only person in the hotel who fitted the description was a Norwegian named Hendrik, who, at the moment, was out. On receipt of this information the two Germans announced that they would wait for him to come back, and made themselves comfortable on a settee.

  As there was no further point in remaining, Biggles returned to the street. He found a café still open, and sat at a side table over a cup of coffee to ponder his position, which he felt was getting desperate. Brandt and von Stalhein were now looking for Hendrik, all because the quick-witted Brandt had unfortunately caught a glimpse of him. Still, this did not necessarily mean that either he or von Stalhein now believed Hendrik to be Bigglesworth, but the very fact that they were anxious to interview Hendrik proved that they were suspicious. Once they saw him the game would be up, so if he remained in Oslo it was certain that sooner or later they would find him.

  For a little while he could not make up his mind what to do for the best. There were moments when he felt inclined to devote his entire energy to getting out of the country, for which Colonel Raymond could hardly blame him, for when he had agreed to remain the position had been altogether different. At that time he had been simply a renegade Norwegian, and in no immediate danger. He was not suspected of being Bigglesworth, and von Stalhein had not been in the country. Yet, on the other hand, he felt that with his Gestapo pass in his pocket, never before had he been in such an admirable position to gather information, information that might well be of vital importance to the Allies. In short, he felt it would be insane to remain, yet despicable to run away—even if he could. But he would certainly have to get out of Oslo. That, of course, would make von Hymann suspicious, and perhaps start a hue and cry. What excuse could he give for leaving the city?

  Sitting there alone in a quiet corner he worked out a plan; a plan which, if successful, might answer a lot of questions for him. The weakness of it lay in his abandoning—at least for the time being—the aerodrome at Boda, for it was clear from what Colonel Raymond had said that he was going to get in touch with him there, presumably by means of a secret agent. In the end Biggles decided that this could not be avoided. He got up, paid his bill, and went along to the garage at the corner of the street. It was, of course, owned by a Norwegian, so the wretched man was in no case to resist German demands. Biggles said he was a member of the Gestapo and demanded a car.

  The proprietor raised no objection. He pointed to an Opel saloon. ‘Will that do?’

  ‘Yes. Are the tanks full?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Without another word Biggles got in the car and drove slowly out of the city. He was stopped several times, but his pass always carried him through. Reaching the suburbs, he pulled up outside a telephone call box and rang up the Hotel Port, giving his number and asking for Oberleutnant von Hymann.

  He was told that von Hymann had been in, but had gone out again.

  Having ascertained that he was speaking to a Gestapo operator, Biggles then asked if he could leave a message, and was told that he might.

  ‘Take it down,’ he ordered. ‘My number is 2001. Say that I have located Bigglesworth. He has left the city in a car, heading northward. At the garage where he got the car he asked how far it was to Narvik, so that is presumably where he is bound for. I’m following him, and am not far behind. I’ll report again at the first opportunity. Got that?’

  The operator read over the message.

  ‘That’s right,’ conf
irmed Biggles, and hung up. He went back to the car. For a minute or two he studied the map which he always kept in his pocket; then he drove on, heading northward, whence came the sounds of battle.

  Chapter 5

  Unexpected Allies

  In acting as he did, Biggles was actuated first and foremost by the obvious necessity for getting out of Oslo; also he wanted time to think, to muster the many features and various aspects of his position. And this, presently, he did, having turned into a by-road for the purpose. He stopped the car so that he could concentrate on the problem.

  Slowly the situation clarified itself into a number of issues, all governed by the outstanding fact that not only was it known to the Gestapo that Squadron Leader Bigglesworth was in Norway, but von Stalhein was also in Norway for the purpose of finding him. Von Stalhein and Brandt knew him by sight, so it would be merely foolish to hope that he could continue to move about the country without being spotted. To carry on espionage work in such conditions would impose a strain not lightly to be borne, a strain that would certainly impair his activities as well as his efficiency. He felt that if Colonel Raymond knew this, he could hardly fail to ask him to leave the country. The trouble was that he had no means of getting in touch with the Colonel except by again crossing the frontier into Sweden. Yet, apart from the obvious risks involved in such a procedure, such a course would be letting Colonel Raymond down, for the Colonel, acting under the assumption that he was in Norway, might be making all sorts of plans, the success of which depended on his being at Boda. Raymond was even then taking steps to get into touch with him at the aerodrome, and would expect him to be there. If the secret agent arrived at the aerodrome and failed to find him, the consequences might be tragic. All of which meant that he ought to return to the aerodrome. But now, apart from Oslo, the aerodrome was the most dangerous place in the country. Von Stalhein and Brandt were interested in Hendrik, whose failure to return to the hotel would only deepen their suspicions. They would continue their search vigorously, and it could only be a question of time before they—or someone—discovered that a Norwegian named Hendrik had joined the Nazi Air Force at Boda. Von Stalhein’s agile brain would instantly perceive what had happened, and that would be the end.