Biggles Looks Back Read online

  “On the other hand,” said Algy, a trifle cynically, “he may have written this to hint that he was in difficulties, and would welcome your assistance.”

  “Possibly. Again, it may merely have been a way to account for the delay in making contact with me.”

  Bertie gave his opinion. “I’d bet he’s run into trouble and this card is as good as saying he’s stuck in jolly Bohemia. Now he’s waiting for you to do something about it.”

  Biggles shrugged. “You could be right. If he’s on a spot it must be serious. He’s no fool. With his experience he should be able to handle a difficult situation. As far as this postcard is concerned we may be sure he has done as much, and said as much, as he dare.”

  Algy came back. “Very well. The big question is, what are you going to do about it?”

  “I shall see the Air Commodore and ask for two or three weeks’ leave.”

  “To go to Czechoslovakia.”

  “I shan’t tell him that. But don’t worry. I’ve no intention of rushing bull-headed into this. I shall wait a few days to see if anything else turns up. He may come home. In any case it would take a little while to make the necessary preparations for a trip to Rodnitz.”

  “You mean — by train?”

  “There’s no other way.”

  Ginger spoke. “This seems a slow and roundabout way of getting to an objective. What’s wrong with a snappy airborne job, cutting out all these frontiers?”

  “What exactly are you thinking of?”

  “A parachute drop. One of us could fly you over.”

  Biggles shook his head. “Forget it. Brollies are out. To start with, Bohemia is beyond the range — on a straight flight from here — of a standard light plane. Apart from that, no one but a lunatic would make a blind drop in the dark not knowing what was underneath. I’ve told you the country is mostly high land, mountains divided by valleys and much of the lower slopes heavily forested. In wartime one might risk landing on top of a mountain; but we’re not at war, so there’s no reason why one should take unnecessary risks. It would be a different matter if we knew an open area and had someone on it to show a light signal. Anyway, it’s time you knew that aircraft can’t fly about Europe just as they like, ignoring frontiers. If we hear no more from Erich I shall buy myself a nice railway ticket to Rodnitz to see just how good the wine is in the Cafe Wagner.”

  “What about me?” asked Bertie, looking disappointed.

  “I’ll think about it. You’d better polish up your German in case I decide to take you. It was a bit rusty the last time I heard you use it. English won’t get you far, and you’re not likely to learn Czech, which, I am told, has forty-two letters in the alphabet.”

  Bertie saluted, clicking his heels. “Jawohl, Befehlshaber.”1

  Everyone laughed.

  Biggles looked at the dock and got up. “That’s enough for now. It’s time we were at the office.”

  * * *

  1 German: “Certainly, Commandant.”

  CHAPTER IV

  FIRST NIGHT IN BOHEMIA

  “WELL, we’re here, old boy, whatever else happens,” said Bertie cheerfully as he unpacked his light travelling case in a front bedroom of the Steinhof Hotel, overlooking the Ludwigstrasse, in Rodnitz. “No bother at all. A slice of cake, in fact.”

  “That’s how I rather hoped it would be,” answered Biggles. “Why not? We’re good sensible tourists prepared to spend money.” He went close to Bertie and whispered. “Careful what you say. Remember where we are. There could be a dictaphone hidden somewhere.”

  As Bertie had remarked, the trip out had presented no difficulties. In fact it had been enjoyable, for the train by which they had travelled passed through some magnificent scenery, notably after they had crossed the border into Bohemia. For once they were seeing a new country from ground level.

  The regular air service had taken them as far as Switzerland where they had cashed some travellers’ cheques for the currency they needed. Then, Biggles still convinced it was their best way, had taken a train via Austria to Czechoslovakia and finally to Rodnitz. No one had tried to stop them, or asked the awkward questions for which they were prepared. The officer of the guard, when they had crossed the last frontier, had, it is true, made a close inspection of their passports and checked their visas before stamping them and handing them back with a penetrating stare at their faces. However, no matter what he may have thought, he said nothing.

  As Biggles had remarked afterwards, why shouldn’t they be treated as ordinary tourists? They had broken no law, contravened no regulation, done nothing improper. Their intentions were not criminal; nor were they directed against the government of a country towards whom they felt no enmity. They had behaved as genuine tourists were expected to behave, and they would continue to do so unless pressure by the authorities forced them into irregularities in sheer self-protection.

  Of course, it could not be denied that they had an undisclosed purpose in coming to the country; but as was simply to call on, and perhaps help, an old friend, it could hardly he called a threat to the security the state or its people. Anyhow, as he was unable see into the future that was how Biggles regarded the situation at the time of their arrival. He expected no trouble from the Czech people, but of the power that governed them he was not so sure, bearing in mind that they had good reasons to treat him with suspicion — certainly if they associated him with the escape of Von Stalhein from the political prison on the island of Sakhalin.

  As they were travelling on their genuine civilian passports Biggles’ name gave him the greatest cause for anxiety, in case (for this was something he had no means of knowing) the names of all foreigners entering the country were sent to a central office for checking. In that event someone seeing the name Bigglesworth might recall it in connexion with some of his activities.

  For the rest, they had provided themselves with an excuse for their visit in the form of a letter naming them as representatives of a London business house specializing in high quality glass-ware. So far it had not been necessary to produce this. As a matter of detail, a recently concluded trade agreement between Britain and Czechoslovakia had enabled Biggles to obtain from the Board of Trade a permit to buy up to £100 worth of samples. He carried this in his pocket.

  That was all, and he thought it should be enough. They would remain good honest tourists for as long as this was possible. He thought it not unlikely that they would be watched, at any rate until the authorities were satisfied that they were what they claimed to be.

  A taxi-driver at the station had provided the name of the hotel. Biggles had asked him if there was a good hotel in the Ludwigstrasse and he had recommended the Steinhof, which turned out to be the largest. He had driven them to it. Their reception had been cordial. The service and the food were excellent. Biggles called Bertie’s attention to a notice on the wall stating that the hotel doors were locked at one a.m. After that, entrance could be gained by ringing for the night porter.

  They had arrived at six o’clock in the evening, and as this seemed rather early to investigate the Cafe Wagner it was decided they should have a bath, which was needed after the long journey, and a meal, before going out. Naturally, their first object would be to discover, if possible, the real purpose of Von Stalhein’s cryptic message. There was no point in doing anything else until that had been settled. They would, of course, have to visit the local glass factory sooner or later, to conform to what they were supposed to be doing.

  It was ten o’clock, and a dark, moonless night, when they went out and without difficulty found their immediate objective, the Cafe Wagner. In was within a hundred yards of the hotel, and looked, as Bertie observed — unnecessarily — exactly like the picture postcard.

  They entered to find themselves in the sort of establishment they had visualized; typical of the older drinking houses of Central Europe. A large room, hazy with tobacco smoke, well patronized by men mostly drinking beer in large tankards but a few drinking wine, at numerous tabl
es, some large some small. There was a babble of conversation as if everyone was in good spirits. The drinks were being served by women of various ages dressed in old-fashioned clothes, presumably some local or national costume.

  In a corner a four-man band comprising a piano, a violin, a zither and an accordion, made merry music. These, too, wore what was evidently the male part of the dress, a blue blouse with loose sleeves, tight round the neck but belted at the waist, over baggy trousers and light black boots that came halfway up the calf. There were snatches of song from some of the customers when the orchestra played a popular number. In short, it was a busy, cheerful place.

  Biggles led the way to a small, unoccupied table. To Bertie he said dryly, in a low voice, as a waitress came up: “Now we’ll see just how good the wine is.” He ordered wine, the best they had. The woman returned with a long-necked bottle and two glasses, which she filled. She lingered while they tasted it, and turned away, laughing, when Bertie winked, making a sign that it was perfect.

  Biggles agreed that Von Stalhein had told the truth about the quality of the wine served in the Cafe Wagner. “I can’t see him,” he added, looking round.

  For a while they sat talking, sipping their wine, taking note of everything that went on, particularly new arrivals. More people came than went, with the result that the room became crowded and the noise considerable. Occasionally the accordion player would get up and moving from table to table give a short solo performance. For this he was given a tip, and sometimes a drink.

  Presently it became the turn of the violinist to do this. Playing his instrument he moved slowly through the throng, always drawing nearer to the table where Biggles and Bertie sat smoking and slowly drinking their wine. He was a tall lean man with long hair, turning grey, ending in “sideboards” which ran down into a stubble of beard.

  “I think he’s going to give us a turn,” observed Bertie. “I may be wrong but I fancy he wants to have a close look at us. I have several times noticed him staring in this direction.”

  He was right. The violinist, a picturesque figure, still playing, slowly edged his way through the crowd, and stopping at their table gave them a tune. This sort of thing being commonplace no one took any notice.

  Nor, for that matter, did Biggles, until, having taken from his pocket some small change for the customary tip, he looked directly into the musician’s face, to meet a pair of hard, steely blue eyes. For a moment he forgot to breathe, such was the shock he received. He would not have recognized the man, dressed as he was, but there was no mistaking the eyes. The man was Von Stalhein.

  The musician finished his piece and bowed as he accepted his tip. With his lips hardly moving he spoke softly but distinctly. What he said was: “In the back courtyard at a quarter past twelve. By the gents’ toilet. Be careful. Someone may be watching.” Then, still playing his fiddle, he moved on, and presently made his way back to his place in the orchestra.

  “What did he say?” asked Bertie. “I couldn’t hear for the noise. Did he speak English or did I imagine it?”

  ‘We spoke English. Didn’t you realize who he was?”

  “No. Why should l?”

  “Von Stalhein.”

  Bertie’s eyes opened wide. “It isn’t true!”

  “It is.”

  “Well stiffen me rigid! Now I know I’m in fairyland. What did he say?”

  Biggles repeated the message, word for word. “We can take that to be an appointment.”

  “But why the secrecy?”

  “We may be sure he had a reason. We should know about it in an hour’s time. I’d say he knocks off at midnight. Then he’ll be free to join us. All we can do now is wait.”

  “How can we be careful? I mean to say, we can’t get to the yard without being seen, if someone is watching.”

  “As apparently there’s a gents’ outside lav. in the yard we have a good excuse. Maybe that’s why he chose the place. We shall soon know if anyone is following us. It’s more likely someone is shadowing him.”

  “I thought we might see him here but I wasn’t prepared for a fancy dress outfit.”

  “There’ll be a reason for that, too, no doubt. Erich doesn’t play games for the fun of it. Keep your eyes open for anyone taking an interest in us.”

  Nothing more was said.

  The time passed slowly, but the waiting came to an end on the stroke of midnight when, as Biggles had anticipated, the musicians played what was obviously their final number. They then got up, made their bow and retired.

  “This is it,” said Biggles, finishing his wine. “Don’t hurry. Behave casually.”

  They strolled out.

  There was no difficulty in finding the entrance to the courtyard. The tavern was apparently an ancient coaching stop, for within a few yards of the main door yawned a great arched entrance of massive timber with cobblestones underfoot and an extension of the building above. They went through what was in effect a vaulted tunnel to find themselves in a wide open yard, in which were parked a few cars. It was enclosed within long, two-storey outbuildings, once stables but now probably garages or store rooms. A single electric light bulb at the end of the tunnel gave just enough light for this to be seen. One or two other men who had entered the yard with them revealed the position of the convenience Von Stalhein had mentioned. Very soon they drifted out again.

  As soon as they had gone, after a quick survey of the situation Biggles took up a position in the darkness of a doorway from which it would be possible to see without being seen. A strong smell of leather suggested a harness room behind them.

  Minutes passed. Then from the archway appeared a tall figure of a man who walked with a slight limp. There was no mistaking it. Von Stalhein. Still in his band costume he advanced slowly, looking about him.

  A soft hiss from Biggles brought him to them.

  Von Stalhein spoke swiftly. “It wouldn’t be safe to talk here. Come to my room. Second door on the right. Up the stairs then first on the left. Wait for my light to come on. You’ll see it from here. Don’t come while anyone is in the yard.”

  With that Von Stalhein moved on into the gloom. A key scraped in a lock and he disappeared from sight.

  Biggles had made no answer. Asked no questions. None was necessary. With a hand resting lightly on Bertie’s arm to restrain him from movement he stood still, watching the archway.

  Seconds ticked by. Then, with no more noise than a cloud passing across the face of the moon, a thickset figure emerged close against the wall. It stopped. Looking. Listening. Another long minute passed before it moved on again to make a slow, silent tour of the yard before returning to the archway.

  A broad beam of light cut a slice out of the darkness from an upstairs room. This may have been what the man was waiting for, as it showed that Von Stalhein was in his room, for presently he turned away and echoing footsteps told of his return to the street. Or so it seemed. Not entirely satisfied Biggles did not move for a full five minutes, his eyes always on the archway.

  Then: “I think he’s gone,” he whispered. “Erich was right. He’s being watched. It’s as well we know that. I think it’s safe to join him now. Quietly. Keep close to the wall. Stop if you see or hear a movement.”

  “If that chap saw us come into the yard he must know we’re still here somewhere,” breathed Bertie.

  “I doubt if he saw us come in. He was watching Erich, in which case he’d have to wait for him to come out. We were then already here. Let’s go.”

  Hugging the wall, moving with extreme caution, Biggles advanced, Bertie close on his heels. They passed the first door Von Stalhein had mentioned and a few paces later came to the second. It was shut. Biggles felt for a handle, found one, turned it. The door opened. He waited until Bertie was inside and closed it gently. All was utter darkness. The click of his petrol lighter to see where they were broke a silence as profound as a tomb. In front of them was a flight of steep, uncarpeted, wooden stairs.

  Having seen all he needed to see Bigg
les closed the lighter and mounted the stairs, one by one, Bertie following. They creaked alarmingly, but this could not be prevented. They ended on a small landing. A slim line of light showed under a door on the left. Biggles went to it and tapped softly with the tips of his fingers.

  It opened. Von Stalhein, in shirt sleeves, stood before them, framed against the background of a small, furnished bedroom. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll put the light out. It would be better so.” This he did. “Come in,” he invited on returning, and closed the door behind them. “You’ll have to sit on the bed,” he went on. “I have only one chair and it’s ready to fall to pieces. We should be safe here, but speak quietly.”

  “Anyone else near us?”

  “No. I’m alone in this loft.”

  “Good. Now what’s it all about? I can tell you this; you were followed.”

  “So. I’m not surprised. A man?”

  “Yes.

  “Short, burly type?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah! I thought so. Did he see you?”

  “No. At least, I don’t think so. He left when you switched on your light, apparently assuming you’d gone to bed. What has happened here? You can imagine how anxious we are to know the position. Make the story as concise as possible because we’re staying at the Steinhof and they lock the doors at one o’clock. To get in then means ringing for the night porter and I’d rather not call attention to ourselves by doing that. Some busybody might wonder why we stayed out so late on our first night here.”

  “So you’ve only just arrived?”

  “On the six o’clock train.”

  “You must feel lost without an aeroplane.”

  “I still have legs.”

  Von Stalhein went to the window and for some seconds stared down into the courtyard before drawing a flimsy curtain.

  Returning, he lit a stump of candle in a cheap ornamental candlestick which he placed on a stool between them.

  “Smoke if you wish,” he said. “I often smoke here at night when I can’t sleep. You must be wondering why I am in these clothes working in what in England might be called a glorified pub.”