Biggles - Secret Agent Read online

  Ginger said no more, and they set about their toilet. As there was no hot water available, shaving took rather longer than usual, and the clock in the hall had struck seven by the time they were ready to move off. But early as it was, footsteps and the rattle of crockery told them that the hotel staff was already afoot.

  Biggles opened the door and stepped out into the corridor. Ginger followed, and as they stood there an old, cheerful-looking chambermaid came along carrying a pile of dirty linen over her arm.

  ‘Guten morgen,’ Biggles greeted her cheerfully, but his eyes were on one of the sheets which the woman was trailing over her arm. Clearly imprinted on it was a footmark. He made a grimace. ‘What!’ he exclaimed. ‘Do your guests go to bed in their boots?’

  The old woman frowned. ‘That young gad-about does, it seems,’ she declared. ‘Twice this week I’ve had to change her sheets.’ She nodded towards the door of the only other guest in the hotel, which was, of course, that of the girl. ‘I don’t know when she sleeps at all,’ she continued. ‘She goes to bed late and she’s gone off this morning already.’ With a sniff that expressed strong disapproval of such behaviour the woman swept on down the corridor and round the corner. They could hear her heavy footsteps going down the stairs.

  ‘Quick,’ snapped Biggles, and made a dash for the girl’s room, the door of which had been left wide open. ‘Keep cave,’ he said, tersely, and disappeared inside.

  Within two minutes Ginger could hear the chambermaid returning. ‘Cave!’ he hissed, just loud enough for Biggles to hear.

  Biggles rejoined him, and they walked on down the corridor just as the old woman came in sight carrying a supply of clean sheets. The proprietor was sweeping the entrance hall when they reached it, and Biggles asked if it was too early for coffee. On receiving a reply in the negative he sat down at one of the small tables to await its arrival.

  ‘Well, did you learn anything?’ asked Ginger, pulling up a chair.

  ‘A little,’ replied Biggles. ‘Anyway, we’ve laid the ghost that gave you such a fright in the churchyard.’

  ‘You mean — it was the girl?’

  ‘Of course. She used one of the sheets off her bed to play the part — and trod on it, probably when she was running away from us.’

  ‘What was her idea, I wonder?’

  ‘Much the same as ours, I should say.’

  ‘What did you see in her room — anything interesting?’

  ‘Yes. The room had been tidied up, and in the short time at my disposal I hadn’t much time for Sherlock Holmes stuff. The flashlamp was on her bedside table — a natural place for it, I suppose — and a book. The title caught my eye. It was A History of Unterhamstadt from the Earliest Times, a sort of guide book, but a very old one, one that might be difficult to pick up in the ordinary way, but easy enough in a local second-hand bookshop. There was a bookmark in it, so I had a quick look to see what she had been reading. The particular chapter was about the castle, and she had been indiscreet enough to make a pencil mark against a special paragraph. I could well understand it interesting her. I can’t remember the actual words, but it was something to the effect that legend claims that in the bad old days underground passages connected the castle with the hostelry and the monastery of San Stefan, the site of which has been lost.’

  Ginger started. ‘By gosh!’ he exclaimed. ‘I was right about that passage in Number Seventeen. It must go underground to the castle.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I don’t think there is much doubt about it. That trapdoor must open into a passage that goes right through the room below — or maybe there is a concealed closet, or double walls. They were experts at that sort of thing years ago.’

  ‘The girl must have learned of the existence of it from the book.’

  ‘Probably, but I could see nothing in the paragraph to indicate where the passage began. In fact, according to the book, the underground passage story was only a legend. Yet she evidently knew where to look for it. At any rate, she found it. That could hardly have been luck. How did she know the entrance was in number seventeen? That takes a bit of explaining, doesn’t it? As we have already agreed, this young lady knows as much about this place as the proprietor — if not more.’

  ‘The thing is certainly getting into a bit of a tangle.’

  ‘It is sorting itself out fairly well, I think.’

  ‘Where on earth could she have gone so early?’

  ‘Ah! That’s something — ssh! Here comes the coffee.’

  The same waiter who had served them with supper set a tray of coffee and rolls on the table between them, and on these they now focused their attention, although only a few minutes were needed to consume them.

  ‘Well, it is certainly a grand morning,’ murmured Biggles, as they closed the door of the hotel behind them and went off down the road in the direction of the wood in which they had concealed the pigeon basket.

  Overhead the sky was a dome of unbroken blue towards which the wooded hills rose sharply from misty valleys. The air was sweet and fresh, faintly tinctured with the refreshing perfume of pines, while over all hung the pleasing silence of an unspoilt countryside.

  For some time they walked without speaking, Biggles deep in thought, pondering over the problems that confronted them, and Ginger hesitating to interrupt; but reaching a bend Biggles stopped, and after a quick glance up and down the road, entered the dim aisles of the fir forest on their right. ‘I think we can cut through here to reach the place,’ he said, and again they walked on, their feet making no sound on the soft carpet of generations of fir needles. Except for an occasional rabbit which scuttled across their path, or a squirrel that eyed them inquisitively from a tree, the forest appeared to be deserted, although larger tracks, which Biggles said he thought were those of wild boar, were sometimes discernible. From the point where they had entered the forest to the place where they had concealed the pigeon was, they agreed, about two miles, and they had covered half this distance when Biggles said quietly, ‘Has it struck you as odd, that although we continually hear birds we never see one?’

  Ginger looked up sharply, realizing that there was more behind the words than casual observation. ‘Now you mention it. I have noticed it,’ he answered. ‘The birds seem to be calling and answering each other.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Biggles dryly. ‘And although birds of a species have the same note, there is a curious similarity with these. Quite apart from which, although I do not profess to be an ornithologist, I know of no bird that makes such a peculiar whistle.’

  ‘You think they are not birds?’ said Ginger quietly.

  ‘I may be alarming myself unnecessarily, but it is my opinion that we are being followed,’ declared Biggles. ‘Keep walking, and on no account behave as if we suspected anything.’

  ‘Crikey!’ muttered Ginger. ‘Hadn’t we better confirm this before we go anywhere near the pigeon?’

  ‘We most certainly must,’ Biggles told him. ‘Do what I do.’

  For a little while they strolled on, remarking loudly about the trees, and the forest generally, as if they were walking aimlessly. Once Biggles picked up a fir cone and threw it at a grey squirrel, and they both laughed as it bolted higher into the tree. Then, ‘This way,’ said Biggles softly, and they turned down into a small dell-hole, one side of which was fringed with a thick clump of holly. ‘Let’s sit down here,’ he went on. ‘We may see something. Sit still and behave naturally.’ He took out a small sketching block, which he had brought with him to support his claim of being an artist, and began making a sketch of a glade which could be seen beyond the far side of the dell. Almost at once came the whistle on which Biggles had remarked, to be answered by another some distance farther on. Even making allowances for imagination, Ginger felt that there was something unnatural about them.

  Five minutes passed, and then his muscles tensed, and he turned his eyes to the rim of the dell just above them and to their right. Something was coming. Biggles, too, was watching. A moment l
ater a dog appeared on the rim. It was an Alsatian. It pulled up dead when it saw them, gazing down with keen, intelligent eyes. And while it stood watching them in a manner curiously and unpleasantly human, making no attempt to approach nearer, the whistle, now very close, echoed through the quiet aisles of the forest. Instantly the hound turned and disappeared.

  Biggles glanced at Ginger, laid a finger on his lips, and went on sketching. Again for a short time there was silence. Then, not far away, two men carried on a conversation in low tones. Again silence. Presently a twig snapped, and Ginger felt his skin creep, knowing that in the apparently deserted forest men were moving about for a purpose that was not difficult to guess. Biggles was proceeding with his sketch as if he had neither seen nor heard anything. Then a movement caught Ginger’s eyes. Without speaking he touched Biggles on the knee, keeping his eyes fixed on the object. A broad figure in the sinister uniform of a storm-trooper was walking slowly across the glade, looking about him intently as he crossed the open space. Ginger noticed that his shirt was not brown, as he had supposed it to be, but a dark greeny-grey. Somewhere a little distance away another twig cracked. A bird whistled.

  Ginger looked at Biggles, alarm in his eyes. ‘This is a bit trying,’ he breathed. ‘They seem to be all round us.’

  ‘Yes, but I think they’ve lost us, temporarily at any rate,’ returned Biggles. ‘We can only sit still for a bit and hope that they lose us altogether. By hook or crook we have got to get to that pigeon; but if we’re seen with it—’ He broke off and made a grimace.

  After that neither spoke for some time. Twenty minutes, which seemed to Ginger like an hour, passed, during which time there had been no sound beyond an occasional whistle in the far distance.

  ‘I think we might risk getting a bit nearer,’ said Biggles quietly, rising to his feet. ‘In any case, so far there has been nothing definitely suspicious about our actions, so even if we are seen I do not see how we can be accused of anything.’

  ‘You don’t think they were actually looking for us to arrest us?’

  ‘No. I think it is more likely that they received information that we were at the hotel, and decided that they had better keep an eye on us while we were here.’

  They walked on, not directly towards their objective, but on a meandering course which, nevertheless, took them ever nearer to it; and, in this way, without seeing anything more of the storm-troopers, they came to within sight of the edge of the forest, on the side where they had first entered it to conceal their parachutes and the pigeon basket.

  ‘I think we’ve struck the edge a bit too far down. Bear to the right a bit,’ said Biggles softly. His manner was inconsequential, but his eyes were never still for a moment. ‘Yes, that’s the place, just ahead,’ he went on a few minutes later. ‘There’s the holly bush. There is no desperate hurry now we’re so close. I think it might be a good thing if we sat down for a little while — in case we are being watched. Keep your eyes and ears open.’

  ‘We used to play games like this when I was in the scouts,’ muttered Ginger, sitting down on the soft mat of pine needles. ‘I never thought I should be doing it in reality. It’s more nervy work than I thought.’

  Hardly had he spoken the words when, from between the trees some distance beyond the holly bush which concealed the pigeon basket, appeared an Alsatian, either the one they had already seen, or another. Behind it, carrying its lead, came a storm-trooper. When it first appeared the dog’s manner was normal, as if it were merely being taken for a walk.

  But suddenly it stopped, and threw up its head, nostrils twitching. For a moment it remained thus; then, with its muzzle close to the earth it began quartering the ground swiftly. The storm-trooper, seeing the animal’s manner change, also became more active, and urged it on in a low, tense voice.

  Biggles muttered an exclamation of annoyance. ‘It’s got our taint,’ he said. ‘It’s no use running. He’ll see us if we stand up. We shall do better to sit still and see what the fellow has to say.’

  Meanwhile, the storm-trooper had put a whistle into his mouth and sent a fair imitation of the notes of a bird ringing through the forest in a series of short, sharp trills.

  Immediately it was answered from several places.

  ‘My goodness! The forest is full of them,’ grunted Ginger. ‘Look — look!’

  There was no need for Ginger to explain his final ejaculation. The Alsatian had suddenly run straight into the holly bush, to reappear at once with the pigeon basket in its mouth, at the same time worrying it furiously, putting its feet on the wickerwork and tearing at it with its teeth.

  For a brief moment Ginger prayed that the dog might succeed in wrenching off the lid, thus allowing the bird to escape; but he was doomed to disappointment. The stormtrooper, seeing what the animal had found, dashed up and snatched the basket away.

  ‘That’s done it,’ muttered Biggles. ‘We’ve got to get away from here. It will be all up if they find us near that bird.’

  He was already on his feet when the drama took another unexpected turn. Running like a deer out of the heart of the forest, panting with exertion and wide-eyed with alarm, came the girl in brown. She swerved like a Rugby player when she saw the storm-trooper and made off in a fresh direction. But the man had seen her and shouted a peremptory order to her to stop. But she ignored it and sped on, her brown dress twisting and turning through the trees like a woodcock. The storm-trooper snatched out his revolver and fired three times, the crashing reports of the shots shattering the silence like thunderclaps. Another storm-trooper appeared higher up the bank and he, too, fired. Whether or not the shots took effect Ginger did not know, for Biggles had grabbed him by the arm, and with a crisp ‘Come on’, set off at a sprint in the direction opposite to that taken by the girl. As he ran he cut diagonally down the gentle slope that led to the edge of the forest; but he did not emerge into the open; keeping just inside the cover of the trees he ran like a hare parallel with the edge. ‘’Ware rabbit holes,’ he flung back over his shoulder, a necessary warning, for in places the bank was honeycombed with burrows.

  For the best part of a quarter of an hour they ran at racing speed, but then, as there was neither sound nor sign of pursuit, they steadied their pace, and presently slowed down to a fast walk. ‘I don’t think they’re following us,’ panted Biggles. ‘In fact, I don’t think they saw us. That wretched girl showed up at a lucky moment for us, and got all the attention.’

  ‘What swine those storm-troopers must be,’ muttered Ginger disgustedly. ‘They didn’t hesitate to shoot, even at a girl. Did they hit her?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘They’ll credit her with the pigeon affair.’

  ‘Probably. Without wishing her any harm, I hope they do. This business is too serious for gallantry. As far as I’m concerned she’ll have to take her luck.’

  ‘She must have followed us – or was it a fluke that she happened to be in the same part of the forest as ourselves?’

  ‘I think it’s more likely that she deliberately got down early, watched us go out and then followed us. But never mind about that now. We’re well out of it, but it’s a tragedy about the pigeon. That’s our messenger gone west.’

  ‘We look like going west ourselves if we aren’t jolly careful,’ muttered Ginger. ‘They’re watching us more closely than I thought. If they find us again they won’t take their eyes off us after what has happened.’

  ‘Well, it’s something to know that we are being watched,’ opined Biggles. ‘I had a feeling that things were too quiet to be true. Let’s keep going. The farther we get away from here the easier I shall feel.’

  ‘How are we going to get a message home now we’ve lost the pigeon?’

  ‘Algy – I’m afraid it’s the only way.’

  ‘That means he’ll have to land.’

  ‘Yes, it’s unfortunate, but it’s vitally important that the information should be got home. Wait a minute, though, there is just a chance—’ Biggles st
opped, and taking his map from his pocket studied it closely for a minute or two. ‘We daren’t risk sending a message by post from Unterhamstadt,’ he went on thoughtfully. ‘But there is another village about six miles down the valley called Garenwald. We can send a postcard from there to a private emergency address which I know would find Raymond, wording it in such a way that it would convey our meaning without being suspected by the censors at the Lucranian frontier. For instance, if we merely said that the box was empty Raymond would know what we meant. The postcard might get through; after all, there must be hundreds of tourists sending postcards home; in any case, I don’t see that it would do any harm. Furthermore, a visit to Garenwald would give us an alibi if we are questioned when we get back to the hotel as to where we have been.’

  ‘All right. Then let’s do that,’ assented Ginger. ‘I have a nasty feeling that we are skating on pretty thin ice, and it would be a pity if, having got as far as this, we couldn’t let Raymond know about the Professor.’

  ‘That’s how I feel about it,’ agreed Biggles, and without further ado set off at a brisk pace along the edge of the forest towards the village he had named.

  CHAPTER VIII

  Enter Von Stalhein

  The sun was fast falling towards the pine-clad hills to the west, when, with dusty shoes, they trudged back into Unterhamstadt, having carried out their emergency programme of sending home from Garenwald an ordinary picture postcard bearing a message, innocent enough in its context, but significant in its real meaning. They had lunched well at the village restaurant, after which they had strolled about for an hour, staring tourist-fashion at what few features of interest the place had to offer, and generally making themselves conspicuous before starting back, unhurriedly, for their hotel. On the way they had, of course, discussed the situation in its new light. The discovery of the carrier pigeon, the purpose of which would certainly be realized at once by the storm-troopers, had, they agreed, made their task much more hazardous by bringing to the notice of their enemies the fact that a secret agent was in the locality. Indeed, but for the opportune arrival on the scene of the girl in brown, and her incriminating behaviour of resorting to flight even when she was under fire, Biggles was of the opinion that to return to the hotel would have been more than their lives were worth. But in the circumstances he took the view that while they would unquestionably be regarded with suspicion, the hiding of the pigeon would be credited to the girl.