Sergeant Bigglesworth C.I.D Page 5

  A taxi not being available, a horse-cab took them to the Unterstrasse, which turned out to be an insalubrious thoroughfare in a poor quarter of the town. Biggles asked to be put down at the corner, where he paid the cab and dismissed it. Then he walked along the pavement, checking the numbers on the doors.

  It did not take long to find number forty, which turned out to be a tall apartment house. The door stood ajar, revealing in the light of a dusty electric globe, a stone-paved hall, cold, dreary, depressing. There was no janitor.

  “He said his room was on the top floor,” reminded Ginger.

  “Let’s go up.”

  Biggles led the way up four flights of stone stairs. There they ended. There were two doors, one on either side of the landing. One stood ajar, as if the room was unoccupied. Ginger struck a match and saw that the other door was closed. On it a piece of pasteboard had been fastened with two drawing-pins. He held the match close, to see more clearly a name that had been written on it in block letters. “F. Schneider,” he read aloud. “This is it.”

  Biggles knocked quietly on the door.

  There was no reply.

  He knocked again, louder.

  Still no reply.

  “He’s out, apparently,” remarked Ginger. “Probably gone round to the hotel.”

  “No,” replied Biggles in a hard voice. “At any rate, someone is inside—or has been. There’s a light shining through the keyhole. That means there’s no key in the lock. Why not, I wonder? Schneider didn’t strike me as the sort of chap to live in a room that he couldn’t lock.” As he finished speaking he reached for the handle, turned it, and pushed the door open.

  For a moment he remained motionless, rigid, staring first at something that lay on the floor, then at a chaos of overturned furniture, or as much of it as could be seen in the feeble light of the candle that stood on a draining-board beside the sink.

  “Good God! What a mess,” he breathed, and stepped into the room. “Careful—don’t touch anything,” he said in a brittle voice to Ginger, who followed him.

  There was no need for Ginger to ask what had caused Biggles to exclaim. Across the floor lay a man in an attitude so shockingly grotesque that it could only mean one thing. The knees were drawn up into the stomach, and the hands were raised, with fingers bent like claws, as if to protect the face. The head rested in a pool of blood. Blood was everywhere. It had even splashed on the whitewashed ceiling.

  Something inside Ginger seemed to freeze, yet, impelled by a horrid fascination, he took another pace forward and looked down at the face. One glance at the bared teeth and staring eyes settled any hope that the man might still be alive. It was Schneider, although he was only just recognisable.

  “Poor little devil,” said Biggles grimly. “He put up a fight for it, but he hadn’t a hope against a brute the size of Preuss. Admittedly, I don’t see anything to indicate that Preuss was the murderer, but knowing what we know, I haven’t any doubt about it. Preuss must have been suspicious, and followed him—followed him to the phone, no doubt, and then back here. Schneider’s fears were justified. Whether Preuss overheard the telephone conversation or not is something we are never likely to know, but he must have been pretty sure that Schneider had squealed to make a mess like this. Only a man blind with rage batters another man’s brains out. Killing wasn’t enough. Schneider’s head is smashed to pulp. Preuss must have gone on bashing him after he was dead. No wonder Schneider was scared of his boss; he knew him better than we did.”

  “We know now,” murmured Ginger.

  Biggles nodded. “I shan’t forget it, either.” He glanced round the room. “I don’t see the weapon, so the murderer must have taken it away with him. It must have been something pretty heavy, a tool, probably—a hammer, or spanner, or something of the sort. Well, it’s not much use staying here. We shall never learn from Schneider what it was he wanted to tell us. Let’s get out of this shambles.”

  “Just a minute!” cried Ginger sharply. “I think he’s got something in his hand.”

  Stooping, Biggles disengaged a small object from the fingers of the dead man’s right hand. “Hair,” he said. “Fair hair. Quite a tuft. He must have torn it from his assailant’s scalp in the struggle.”

  “That supports the Preuss theory,” said Ginger. “His hair is fair.”

  “So is the hair of several million other Germans,” Biggles pointed out. “If it did come from Preuss’s head it must have been from the front, because if I remember rightly the back is close-cropped, Nazi style.”

  “Are you going to take that hair away with you as evidence, or hand it over to the police?” inquired Ginger.

  “Neither,” answered Biggles. “I’ve no intention of getting mixed up with the German police. They’d probably be prejudiced against us from the start. On the other hand, in fairness to them, we’ve no right to remove anything from the scene of the crime. I’ll leave the hair in Schneider’s hand, just as we found it.” Biggles replaced the evidence, but retained one or two loose hairs, which he put in an envelope in his note-case.

  “Aren’t you even going to tell the police that a murder has been committed?” queried Ginger.

  “No. It would do more harm than good. One thing would lead to another, and we should find ourselves faced with a choice of telling lies or answering embarrassing questions. Our reason for being in Germany would come out, and that wouldn’t do at all. We’ll leave the German police to work it out for themselves. They might resent our interference. I don’t think there’s much chance of their dropping on Preuss, and, in fact, I hope they don’t, because, as I said just now, I’d rather he were free. Another aspect we mustn’t overlook is this. If it became known in Germany that there was, in fact, an ex-Nazi gang, operating outlaw-fashion against the victorious nations, the head of the thing would be regarded, not as a criminal, but as a national hero. We must avoid that. It’s happened before. Robin Hood, who made himself a thorn in the side of the Norman conquerors of Britain, provides a good example. To those who were trying to establish law and order he was a bandit; to the defeated Britons he was the cat’s whisker. We’ll behave as though we had never been here, although, of course, I shall report the incident to Raymond in due course. Later on, when we see more clearly how things are going, he may drop a hint to the German police.”

  While Biggles had been speaking, Ginger’s eyes, roving round the room, had come to rest on a small mirror over the mantelpiece. It may have been that a movement had attracted them. At all events, his glance was arrested by a movement; and he noticed that the door, which had been left open not more than a few inches, was ajar. And that was not all. Something—he could not at first make out what it was—was being projected into the room. It stopped, and at that instant he understood. With a shout of “Look out!” he flung himself against Biggles with such violence that they both reeled across the room. Simultaneously there came a sharp hiss, and the mirror, with which Biggles had been in line, splintered into fragments that radiated from a central hole.

  Ducking low Biggles made for the door, snatching out his pistol as he went. But he was just too late. The door was snapped shut from the outside. A key grated in the lock. Keeping his body clear Biggles turned the handle and wrenched hard, but it was no use. The door remained closed.

  “Of all the blithering idiots. I ought to be kicked from here to London,” he said bitingly. “I noticed the key had gone, too. Thanks, laddie. You saved my bacon that time.”

  He broke off and stood listening. For a little while there came a curious rustling sound from the other side of the door, then silence.

  “He’s gone,” breathed Ginger. “For a moment, that silencer on the end of his pistol had me baffled. I spotted what it was just in time. We should have watched the door.”

  Biggles shrugged. “It’s easy to blame yourself afterwards for being careless, but until you know just how far the enemy is prepared to go, it’s hard to think of everything. Well, now we know. These people don’t trouble to bl
uff, or threaten. They’re killers, in the best American gangster style. While we were standing here talking the murderer was in that room opposite all the time. Or was he... I wonder? Schneider must have been dead by eight o’clock or he would have come to the hotel. It was half-past eight by the time we got here, which means that Schneider must have been dead for at least half an hour. Would the murderer hang about here for half an hour after he had committed the crime? I doubt it. Why should he? He couldn’t have known we were coming here. On second thoughts I think it’s more likely that Preuss, assuming he is the murderer, came along to the hotel to see what we were doing. Or he may have watched the house from the other side, to see if we came. Either way, there’s no doubt that he saw, us arrive, and crept up on us.”

  “But what’s his idea, locking us in?” asked Ginger wonderingly.

  “I don’t know,” answered Biggles. “Maybe it was to keep us here with the corpse until the police came, and so saddle us with the murder—having failed to put a bullet through me.” As he spoke Biggles crossed to the window, and lifting the blind at the corner, looked down.

  Ginger joined him, and saw that the room overlooked the street. A man was just leaving the house, but what with the gloom, and the dark overcoat he was wearing, recognition was impossible. The man walked to a car that stood against the kerb a little higher up the street. He paused for a moment to look up; then he got in and drove away.

  Ginger turned back into the room. As he did so his eyes fell on a line of smoke that was curling under the door. “Hi! Look at this!” he cried. “He’s set the house on fire. That’s why he locked us in.”

  “In that case we’d better see about getting out,” returned Biggles. “It shouldn’t be difficult—at least, not if he left the key in the lock. The woodwork in a cheap lodging-house like this is usually pretty flimsy. It’ll mean making a noise, but, that can’t be prevented.”

  This confident prediction turned out to be justified. Without much trouble Biggles was able to drive the leg of a chair through one of the thin panels of the door, choosing the one nearest to the lock. This done, it was the work of a moment to put his hand through and turn the key. By this time a brisk fire, consisting mostly of old newspapers, was burning on the threshold; but there was no danger or difficulty in getting through. Biggles used the hearth-rug to smother the flames.

  “No doubt it would suit Preuss if the whole building was gutted, because that would effectually obliterate everything,” he remarked, as he splashed water from the sink bowl over the smouldering embers until he was satisfied that the fire was really out. “I think that’ll do. With one thing and another this top floor should provide the German police with a pretty puzzle. One day we may explain what really happened. Come on.” Biggles set off down the stairs.

  Apparently the residents of the establishment were accustomed to noise, for none of them appeared, and the street was reached without an encounter.

  “Now what?” asked Ginger.

  “We may as well go back to the hotel,” decided Biggles, after a moment’s reflection.

  “What? You mean—you’re going to let Preuss get away with this?”

  Biggles shrugged. “I don’t see much point in following him to the aerodrome, assuming that’s where he’s gone. Even if we found him there, what could we do?”

  “We could accuse him of killing Schneider.”

  “A fat lot of good that would do. When all is said and done, Preuss isn’t much more than a stooge. My only interest in him is that he may lead us to the people we’re really after. I doubt if we should find him at the aerodrome, anyway. He’s probably in the air by now, in his ugly Swan. According to Schneider, when he makes these trips he’s gone about twelve hours.” Biggles looked hard at Ginger. “That gives me an idea. We might have a look round Preuss’s office while he’s away. If he’s flying a compass course it’s ten to one he made some calculations before he went—or at any rate, made some notes about his line of flight. Few pilots trust to memory. There’s a wall map in his office, too. If he’s in the habit of referring to it there may be some interesting pencil marks.”

  “Preuss would lock his office before he went,” Ginger pointed out.

  “Perhaps,” agreed Biggles. “I’ll tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go back to the hotel for a rest, and make a start before dawn—say, around four o’clock. I want to be on the aerodrome when Preuss comes back. You see, we’ve got to find these Renkell machines, and we shan’t find them by cruising round the world haphazard. The only man who knows where they are—as far as we know—is Preuss. He’s working from here, so here we stay.”

  As they went in the hotel the hall porter handed Biggles a cable. Biggles went over to one of the small tables, sat down and ripped the envelope. As he perused the flimsy sheet that it contained a ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

  “It’s from Raymond,” he said softly. “This is what he says. Max Grindler, sometimes known as The Pike, while serving a life sentence escaped from New York State Penitentiary two months ago, and hasn’t been seen since. The Federal Bureau is still looking for him, but admits that it is baffled. Description: Age, forty-nine. Medium height and build. Black hair and grey eyes. Nose slightly bent. Little finger left hand missing.” Biggles folded the slip and put it in his pocket. “Unless I’m wide of the mark, the American police are wasting their time,” he murmured. “I’m not a betting man, but I’d risk a small wager that this particular fish is this side of the Atlantic. But let’s try and get some sleep. I’ll give you a shake about a quarter to four.”

  CHAPTER VI

  GETTING WARMER

  AT a quarter to four Ginger was awakened by Biggles shaking his shoulder.

  “On your feet,” ordered Biggles. “We shall have to walk to the aerodrome.”

  They arrived about half an hour later, and went first to the hangar that had been taken over by the R.A.F., where they found the Spur in charge of two airmen, in accordance with the arrangement made by Biggles with the wing commander. They had nothing to report. From them Biggles learned that an aircraft, presumably the Swan—they had heard it but not seen it—had taken off the previous evening about nine o’clock.

  While they were talking at the hangar door Biggles more than once glanced curiously across the aerodrome in the direction of the Renkell works, whence came sounds of activity. An engine of some sort could be heard running.

  “What goes on over there?” he asked the senior of the two airmen.

  “We’ve often wondered that, sir,” was the answer.

  “Often?” queried Biggles. “Do you mean it’s a regular thing?”

  “Well, of course, we’re not up here every night, so we couldn’t say that,” replied the airman. “But whenever I’ve been near the aerodrome at night someone has been hard at it in the Renkell machine shop.”

  “I don’t see any lights showing,” observed Biggles.

  “I reckon they can’t have taken their black-out blinds down yet,” suggested the airman.

  “I see,” said Biggles slowly. “All right, you fellows, stay here and look after the machine.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Accompanied by Ginger, Biggles walked on towards the Renkell workshop—not directly, but keeping close against the buildings that lined the aerodrome boundary.

  “What do you make of it?” asked Ginger.

  “Queer business,” returned Biggles. “The Renkell works are supposed to be doing nothing, yet here they are, running a night shift. Where’s the money coming from to pay these chaps? And why the black-out? I’d say the two things go together. Something is going on in the works that outsiders are not intended to see, which means that it’s fishy.”

  “Making spare parts, perhaps, for the Renkell prototypes?” suggested Ginger.

  “Either that, or they’re building a new machine. Anyway, it rather upsets my plan. I expected to find the place quiet, closed down for the night. Still, there may be no one in Preuss’s office. We shall h
ave to find a way in without being seen.”

  “That won’t be by the door,” asserted Ginger. “It opens straight into the workshop.”

  Biggles went on, and after making a detour to locate the heap of old fabric that concealed the valve of the undeclared petrol store, he arrived at the workshop door. Cautiously, he tried the handle.

  “Locked,” he said laconically. “Let’s go round to the side and try the window of Preuss’s office. I marked it down when we were in there.”

  It turned out that this, too, was secured, but by climbing on Biggles’s shoulders Ginger managed to make an entrance through another small window. He found himself in a lavatory. Leaving Biggles outside he went into the corridor and made his way along to the door that bore the manager’s name, intending to open the window so that Biggles could enter. It was locked, but the door of the adjacent room, which turned out to be a small drawing-office, was open, so after closing the door behind him he crossed the room and unfastened the window, remarking, as Biggles joined him, “Preuss’s office is locked. This is the room next to it. There’s a connecting door.”

  This, too, was locked. With his penknife Biggles ascertained that the key had been left in the lock on the other side, but he was able to get it by the old trick of sliding a sheet of paper under the door and pushing the key out of the lock—again using the blade of his penknife—so that it fell on the paper. The paper was then withdrawn, bringing the key with it. Another moment the door was open, and they had reached their objective— Preuss’s office. After a glance at the window to make sure that the blinds were drawn Biggles switched on the light. He paused to make a general survey of the room, and then walked to an overcoat that hung from a hook on the inside of the door.

  “This is one of the things I expected to find,” he said quietly, as he felt in the side pockets. “It isn’t the sort of garment one would fly in, so I thought Preuss might leave it here!” He withdrew his hand and held it out for Ginger to see. It was moist, and stained—red. “That settles any doubt as to who killed Schneider,” he resumed. “Preuss got rid of the weapon, but until he did he carried it in his pocket. We’ll remember this coat if ever we need evidence.”