Biggles Looks Back Page 6

“We will. Don’t come out. We can find our way. Or do you have to lock the lower door?”

  “No. I only lock the door into the yard when I’m out.”

  “Right. See you tomorrow.”

  Biggles opened the door quietly and stood for a few seconds listening. Hearing no sound he went on down the stairs and waited for Bertie before opening the door at the bottom. “Don’t speak,” he said, before opening it. Having done so he stood for a full minute listening, eyes probing the darkness, before stepping out. The courtyard, as far as could be judged, was deserted.

  He closed the door behind them, went on to the archway and through it into the street, seeing no one on the way. There were a few pedestrians about, none near, so they hurried on to the hotel, reaching the entrance just as the porter was about to lock the doors.

  CHAPTER VI

  A PARTY AND A RECONNAISSANCE

  THE following morning found everything apparently normal. On going out after breakfast to look for a taxi Biggles was soon fairly confident they were not being followed. As he said, not that it would matter if they were, for they were now engaged on legitimate business: the visit to the glass works in the town.

  As this played no vital part in their true mission no time need be wasted describing this in detail. They were received with the greatest cordiality by the Italian proprietors, and in different circumstances would have enjoyed their tour of the works. In the showroom Biggles bought a few examples of coloured glass and made notes of more. Later, in the office, he paid a deposit, and arrangements were made for forwarding the consignment to England.

  Then, being anxious to waste no more time — for to him this was really a waste of valuable time — he would have left. But their hosts would not hear of it, and insisted on taking them out to lunch. As such hospitality could not be declined without discourtesy, and as they had no reasonable excuse to refuse they had to accept.

  This turned out to be a pleasant party although a lengthy one; but in the long run it served a useful purpose, for on Biggles happening to say they would like to see something of the country before returning home, one of the directors at once offered to put a car, with his chauffeur, at their disposal. “You must certainly see some of our superb scenery,” he declared.

  Biggles accepted the offer without hesitation, for not only did it save hiring a car but would give the outing something of an official status should anyone be taking note of their movements.

  “I’m told there is one very fine scenic road; it follows the river from the bridge at the end of the town,” he prompted.

  “The valley is magnificent,” he was assured. “On a fine autumn day like this the colours of the forest trees are at their best.”

  “I always feel that in a car one misses much by travelling too fast,” said Biggles casually. “That’s why I really prefer to walk, when one can stop to admire a good view. But against that, of course, one covers a shorter distance and therefore sees less. May I make a suggestion?”

  “Anything you wish.”

  “If your car would run us a few miles down the valley it could drop us there, leaving us to walk back in our own time, enjoying the scenery in the reverse direction.”

  “But certainly.”

  And so it was arranged; but as a result of all this it was after three o’clock, later than had been intended, when they finally got away. Biggles’s last words, as they shook hands with their hosts, really to provide an excuse for remaining in Rodnitz, was that they would call again for a second look round the showroom before returning home.

  “Jolly good show,” approved Bertie, as they set off in a big limousine with a uniformed chauffeur in front. “Your idea was a brainwave.”

  Biggles smiled. “Always grab your opportunities. It helps to make life easier.”

  The beauty of the landscape after they had crossed the bridge and turned down the river valley had not been exaggerated.

  Beside them, forty or fifty feet below, flowed the river. The road, cut into the shoulder of a steep hill, and protected on the open side by a low wall, followed its winding course. The water, now low after a dry summer, ran fast over a shallow bed of shingle with an occasional rock projecting. Only at the bends did the river run black through apparently deep pools.

  At a distance, beyond it, to form a spectacular valley, towered mountains, with peaks rugged and broken, the lower slopes covered with dense forest. For the most part the trees were deciduous, but there were stands of fir and pine, their dark evergreen foliage creating an atmosphere of mystery.

  Like most rivers that have had to cut a passage through mountain passes, probably in prehistoric times when the snows of the Ice Age were melting, this one, the Voltava, must at one time have carried a much greater volume of water, for the original bed could be seen, considerably wider than the present one. Floods had in fact cut what in Scotland would be called a strath, leaving flat areas more than a quarter of a mile wide and of various lengths. These had been brought under cultivation, and farmers were now harvesting their crops, mostly, it seemed, of sugar-beet, the production of sugar being an important industry in the country.

  There was not much traffic on the road. An odd car, one or two trucks loaded with sugar-beet, and once a motor coach.

  Bertie touched Biggles and looked at one of the wide areas of the old river bed. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Probably,” answered Biggles. “I’ve noticed one or two places where a machine could be put down after the crop has been cleared. It would be a tricky business in the dark unless there was a full moon, or you had someone on the ground to show a light.”

  The subject was not pursued.

  The driver had obviously been given instructions, for he travelled slowly. Once in a while, passing through an unusually attractive piece of scenery, he would point. He did not speak.

  After they had covered something over three miles Biggles began to pay more attention to the right hand side of the road than to the river. The ground rose steeply, always covered with forest. At last he saw what he was looking for, and nudged Bertie to call attention to it. It was a break in the trees, with a stone pillar erect on one side, and another, fallen, on the other. They may once have supported iron gates, but these had gone. Just inside were the ruins of a house, an entrance lodge, now a mere shell across which a tree had fallen. There was no one there. At any rate no one could he seen.

  “That must be it,” murmured Biggles.

  Bertie nodded.

  Biggles allowed the car to go on another half mile or so and then, at a sweeping bend that brought an inspiring piece of scenery into view, he rapped on the glass panel between them and the chauffeur to attract his attention.

  The man knew what to do. He brought the car slowly to a stop, and getting out opened the rear doors.

  “We’ll stay here for a little while and then walk back,” Biggles told him.

  The man said he understood. Biggles gave him a good tip. He got back into his seat, reversed the car and drove off in the direction from which they had come.

  “Good,” said Biggles, seating himself on the low wall overlooking the river and lighting a cigarette. “Now we’re on our own we can do as we like. Things have worked out very nicely.”

  “I must say the scenery is the tops, old boy.”

  Biggles agreed, but added he was not in the mood to admire landscapes.

  “There’s a lad fishing over there,” observed Bertie.

  “I’m watching him.”

  “Don’t trouble. He won’t catch anything.”

  “There must be fish in the river.”

  “No doubt. And if I know anything they’ll stay there. I’ve spent hours watching people fish in the hope that one day I’d see someone pull one out. I never have.”

  Biggles grinned. “The fish must have known you were watching. But never mind that. I have a notion that lad may tell us something. Just watch.”

  Actually, the boy, rod in hand was walk
ing along the far bank beside a long, broad, and from the way the water rippled, shallow stretch of river, where there were not likely to be any fish, or a fish of any size. It was in fact the broadest part of the river in sight, the reason being that for some distance it split into two parts, to pass each side of an island of sand or gravel thrown up in the middle presumably by storm water.

  “Why are we waiting?” Bertie wanted to know. “What do you expect the boy to do?”

  “If as I imagine, he intends to fish the deep pool where the river narrows at the next bend he’ll have to come over to this side — that is, if he can get across.”

  And so it happened. Before reaching the pool the boy turned sharply and walked across the river, first to the island and then on to the road side. At no point did the water come up to his knees. Reaching the pool he began to fish.

  “Capital,” said Biggles. “So it’s possible to wade the river in places, here for instance.”

  Bertie looked surprised. “Are we going to paddle?”

  “Not now. But we’d have to if we wanted to get to the fields which happen to be on the other side. It’s as well to know it can be done. There’s no other possible landing ground near here that I can see.”

  “Ah! I get it.”

  Biggles got off the wall. “Let’s start walking back.”

  “Are you going up that drive we passed?”

  “Of course. That’s why we’re here.”

  “Isn’t it a bit risky?”

  “This is where we have to start taking risks.”

  “If what Erich told us is correct we shall be stopped.”

  “In which case we shall at least have confirmed that the castle is under guard. It will be something to know that definitely.”

  “By getting ourselves arrested.”

  “A couple of stupid tourists merely wandering off the road? We may be ticked off, but I can’t see them going to the trouble of arresting us. If they do we may find ourselves in the castle, and that would suit me. That’s where I’m hoping ultimately to get.”

  “I’ve been thinking. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to report to the nearest British Consul, to let him know we’re in the country?”

  “What good would that do?”

  “Well, if we disappeared, or anything like that, he’d want to know what had become of us — if you see what I mean.”

  “I imagine the nearest British office is in Prague, and we haven’t time to go there. If you’re feeling nervous—”

  “Here, dash it all old boy, you know me better than that,” protested Bertie. “It just seemed to me plain common sense to let someone know we’re here.”

  “You’re probably right, but as we came here with our eyes open I’d prefer we stood on our own feet rather than give other people a lot of trouble.”

  “Fair enough, if that’s how you feel.”

  “Let’s press on.”

  At an easy pace they set off back along the road, remarking on places where the flat bottom of the valley offered possibilities for landing an aircraft. Rounding the first bend, happening to look up on the side they were on Biggles stopped dead, letting out a low whistle. “By gosh! Take a look at that. What a picture,” he said in a voice full of admiration.

  Bertie too, stopped to look. His eyes saucered. “It isn’t true,” he breathed in an awe-stricken whisper.

  Some hundreds of feet above them, standing on an eminence, frowning as it seemed from the edge of a cliff, a huge grey castle stood in a commanding position overlooking the valley.

  “So that’s it,” went on Bertie. “What a smasher. It’s got everything — battlements, turrets, loopholes, the lot. I suppose it is the schloss?”

  “It’s unlikely there would be two castles of that size near each other.”

  “Do you seriously suppose Marie is inside it?”

  “That’s all I want to know. If she isn’t we needn’t waste time on it.”

  “Then all I can say is, anyone locked up in that little pile of stone blocks is going to take a bit of winkling out.”

  “I must admit I didn’t come here prepared for anything quite like that,” confessed Biggles frankly. “I was thinking more on the lines of a flat in the town or maybe a country cottage. Let’s see if we can get a closer look.”

  Bertie spoke moodily. “It strikes me that even if we got inside that lot it might take a week to locate the Sleeping Beauty — even if she’s there.”

  “We might come back here at night. A light showing from a window would tell us of a room being used.”

  “No wonder the Grimm brothers could write fairy tales about dreadful castles, spooky forests, maidens in distress, and what have you.”

  Biggles smiled. “Actually, I believe the Grimms were Germans, but no doubt they saw plenty of this sort of scenery. We’d better remember that apart from Prince Charmings and Sleeping Princesses they also had the low-down on witches, wizards, ogres, giants, dwarfs, and similar undesirable people.”

  “How did they get the gen?”

  “By travelling all over Central Europe collecting the old folk-lore legends mothers used to tell their kids to keep them out of mischief.”

  “Did they really believe these tales?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why of course? Anyone would think you enjoyed them.”

  “I do.”

  “Oh stop kidding.”

  “I’m all for ‘em. Give me a cracking good fairy-tale every time. Open page one and you take off like a rocket. ‘Once upon a time...’ No messing about warming up the engine. No matter what happens you know it’ll all come right at the end. The dirty old witch gets a kick in the teeth and the handsome prince and his girl friend live happily ever after. What more do you want?”

  “That’s hardly true to life.”

  “Spare my days! Who wants to be true to life? Why read about what you can see going on around you any day of the week? You’ve been blinking too much at TV. Thank heavens life isn’t anything like as ugly as some of these morbid script writers would have us believe.”

  “All the same, if, trying to wriggle into that bally castle, we don’t bump into a dragon, I shall be surprised.”

  “Then all we have to do is whistle up our fairy godmother. Don’t be so glum. Go buy yourself a magic wand.”

  Bertie laughed. “Oh come off it.”

  Biggles sighed. “The trouble with the world today is nobody believes in anything any more. Ah well…”

  While this conversation, half humorous half serious, had been going on, they had walked back to the ruins at the once noble entrance to the castle drive. There was no one in sight. No vehicles on the road. They turned in, but waited a few minutes, watching and listening, to make sure they had not been observed, before proceeding up the overgrown track. It could hardly be called a road. The half-expected challenge did not come so they walked on, up steeply sloping ground.

  Almost at once they found themselves in the eerie green twilight that is the atmosphere of the great forests that still cover large areas of Central Europe, notably the Black Forests of Bohemia and adjacent Bavaria. The silence is uncanny. No bird sings. One sees neither fur nor feather; which does not mean there is no wild life. Far from it. The original wild animals of Europe various deer, wild boar, fox and sometimes the bear and the wolf, find sanctuary in the solitudes of what is natural forest of mixed timber, not an artificial plantation. The birds live near cultivated land where food is more plentiful.

  Where no axe has touched these ancient trees they stand as nature intended, with branches intertwined, sometimes leaning one against another for support, some, already fallen, crumbling into the rich black mould of the forest floor, or a carpet of fir needles as the case might be. Roots, gnarled and knotted, writhe out of the ground like snakes in torment. Grey lichen clings to the bark of trunks and branches.

  From the dead and rotten leaves of ages spring monstrous toadstools, scarlet with yellow spot, orange with upturned caps, or slender and white with cu
rling skins. Walking through these dim aisles it becomes easy to see how they gave rise to fantastic stories of unnatural inhabitants, now called fairy-tales.

  Bertie must have noticed this, for speaking in the hushed voice one uses in a church he said: “I must say, old boy, this is just the job for elves, gnomes and hobgoblins.”

  Biggles did not answer. His eyes were on the track ahead, still climbing steeply.

  In this way they went on for some distance before they encountered any opposition. Then it happened suddenly. From behind a tree stepped a grotesque figure of a man, short, wide-shouldered, with legs so bowed that he might have been born riding a horse. A pronounced limp suggested one was shorter than the other. He had a broad flat face, half covered with a tangle of beard, from which projected a nose like the beak of an eagle. He wore a shabby green suit, with brass buttons, that looked as if it might have been some sort of uniform. From the side of a felt hat sprouted a tuft of bright feathers. Black boots reached up to his knees. He carried a carbine and, to complete the picture, at his heels walked a great black hound, making no sound but showing its teeth.

  “Oh I say,” breathed Bertie. “The Wizard of Oz himself.”

  “Wohin gehen sie?”1 inquired the man sternly.

  “We are taking a walk,” answered Biggles, affecting an air of innocence.

  “You might have been shot. If my dog had been loose he would have savaged you. What are you hoping to find?”

  “The castle we could see from the road.”

  The man held out a hand. “Der ausweis.”

  Biggles, having no identity card, offered his passport.

  The man studied the photograph in it, comparing it with Biggles’s face. “So. Englander.”

  “Ja.”

  The man returned the passport and pointed down the track. “Go back. This land is private.”

  “I am sorry,” returned Biggles. “Being strangers we were not to know. Is there any way we can see the castle?”

  “Nein.”

  “Does someone live there?”

  “Nicht mehr.”2 Again the man pointed.