Biggles - Secret Agent Page 9

  In any case, it was now clear that their presence had been well noted by the stormtroopers, or whoever was in charge of the secret police of the district, otherwise they would not have been followed when they set off through the forest earlier in the day.

  Biggles was inclined to think that there was nothing personal about this; he took the view that any stranger arriving at the hotel would, at once be placed under police surveillance; which, as he pointed out to Ginger, was fairly conclusive proof that something unusual was going on in the district. As far as the girl was concerned, her particular mission — if she had one —remained a mystery, although it was now apparent that she was not on the side of the secret police.

  The result of a long debate on the situation was a decision by Biggles to take the risk of returning to the hotel; and the chief factors that guided him were, in the first place, the increased suspicion that would undoubtedly fall on them if they failed to return, which might end in a hue and cry, and secondly, the necessity of remaining in the district in order to keep in touch with Algy and the aeroplane in which lay their only hope of escape from the country when their work was finished. As to what would happen when they walked into the hotel, Biggles had an open mind, for he realized that much depended on whether or not the girl had been hit by the shots fired at her, or captured. Had she been captured she would certainly be forced to speak, in which case she would at once disclaim all knowledge of the pigeon, and at the same time probably reveal all she knew about the suspicious behaviour of the two Englishmen, such as their visit to the Jew’s house and their nocturnal excursion.

  Biggles eyed the hotel dubiously as they approached it. ‘Well, we shall soon know how we stand,’ he murmured, half humorously. ‘Behave naturally when we go in, as if nothing unusual had happened. If anyone asks questions we shall just look blank and say that we have walked to Garenwald and back.’

  There was no one in the entrance hall when they went in. All was quiet. Biggles glanced through the glass panel of the adjacent dining-room door as they passed it. The dining-room, too, was empty. ‘Good! It rather looks as if it’s all quiet on the western front,’ he murmured, as he took their key from the rack and passed on up the stairs.

  They reached their room without seeing anyone, and as Biggles closed the door behind them Ginger sank on his bed with a deep breath of relief. ‘Phew! that’s better,’ he exclaimed, relaxing. ‘I don’t mind admitting that as you pushed open the front door I had a very nasty moment. There is something about those storm-troopers that gives me the willies — I think it must be the uniform.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘I was prepared for anything myself,’ he confessed. ‘The nice tranquil atmosphere was a bit too suggestive of a storm about to break. Even now I am not altogether convinced that things are as calm as appearances would suggest, but we can only go on playing the part of two innocent tourists. I should like to know what happened to that girl, though. If she got back to the hotel — and I don’t see where else she could go —she must be in her room. I noticed that her key was missing from the rack, although it doesn’t necessarily follow that she is in the hotel; she might have taken it with her. Well, we’ll have a wash, I think, and then go down for a drink while we are waiting for the dinner gong. After that we’ll have a conference. I don’t think it’s much use forming a definite plan until we are satisfied that things here are really as quiet as they seem to be.’

  ‘What about Algy, if he comes over?’ asked Ginger quickly.

  ‘Well, as you know, the arrangement was that he was to come over as often as weather permitted, but if he got no signal from us he was to go straight back. Actually, once every two or three days would probably have been sufficient, but, naturally, he rather feels that he has been left out of things, so he might as well come over. It gives him something to do, apart from which I suppose he is anxious about us — and when one is worried it’s beastly having nothing to do. It looks like being a fine night, so no doubt he will come over, but if we are being watched, and I am pretty sure we are, it would be folly to risk spoiling our line of communication for no particular reason. It would be much better to keep clear of the machine until an emergency arises. He’ll come over, but getting no signal he will tootle off back again.’

  They both washed, and Ginger was drying his hands on the towel, humming quietly to himself as he did so, when, happening to glance through the window down into the courtyard, he stopped dead. The tune died away on his lips. ‘Biggles; he said, in a low, tense voice, ‘come over here.’

  Biggles, sensing danger, was at his side in an instant, eyes probing the twilit courtyard.

  ‘Over there on the right, by the garage,’ muttered Ginger. ‘Isn’t that a storm-trooper standing close against the wall — under the steps that lead up to that loft?’

  ‘By thunder! You’re right. It is.’ Biggles’s voice was hard. ‘There’s another along there by the tool shed — two, in fact. It begins to look as if they waited for us to come in before closing the ring on us. Stay where you are. Keep away from the window,’ he concluded crisply.

  Ginger, still watching the man by the garage, heard Biggles go out and close the door quietly behind him.

  In two minutes Biggles was back. ‘They’re all round the hotel,’ he said calmly. ‘There’s one under the tree at the back; I saw him from the window at the end of the corridor. There are several in the street near the front door. I’m afraid we’ve walked into a trap.’

  ‘So what?’

  Biggles sat on the edge of Ginger’s bed and lit a cigarette. ‘As you rightly say – so what?’ he murmured. ‘Frankly, I don’t see that we can do a thing except stay where we are. It’s obvious that we cannot get out of the hotel without being seen, so to do that would only expedite trouble – if it’s coming.’

  ‘Then it looks as if they’ve got us caged,’ muttered Ginger bitterly.

  ‘I should be a liar if I denied that,’ agreed Biggles.

  ‘What are we going to do? Try to shoot our way out?’ suggested Ginger.

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘We might as well commit suicide where we are,’ he said sarcastically. ‘We couldn’t get through that ring; there are too many of them. Even if we did, we shouldn’t get a mile before we were captured, certainly not out of the country. We might last the night, but by tomorrow there would be a thousand storm-troopers round the whole district. I’m sorry if I seem depressing, but we must face facts. If we stay where we are there is just a chance—’

  ‘I hate the idea of just sitting here waiting for them to come in and arrest us,’ declared Ginger impatiently.

  ‘No more than I do. But force majeure won’t help us now. Indeed, to attempt it would only supply the evidence they need to hang us. Bluff is more likely to get us — hark!’

  Ginger stiffened as footsteps came down the corridor outside — swift, nervous footsteps.

  One could almost sense the agitation of the person who made them. A key jangled in a door. Ginger looked at Biggles questioningly.

  ‘That sounds like the girl — bolting to her room,’ whispered Biggles. ‘She, too, has evidently seen the gentry outside.’

  ‘This is awful, sitting here doing nothing.’

  ‘Very well. Suppose we take the bull by the horns and stroll downstairs?’ said Biggles, with a curious smile. ‘No doubt they will come up here and fetch us as soon as they are ready, so we shall lose nothing by going down. Put your passport in your pocket.’ And with that he went to the door and opened it.

  The corridor was empty. All was silent.

  ‘Let’s go down,’ said Biggles, closing the door behind Ginger. He put the key in his pocket and walked unconcernedly down the stairs.

  The lamp had been lighted in the entrance hall, but the room was empty. Not even the proprietor was at his desk. Biggles walked over to one of the small tables at the far end, and, sitting down, rang the bell. He caught Ginger’s eye and winked significantly as he inclined his head slightly towards the window that overlooked the
street. It was nearly dark outside, but two vague forms could just be seen.

  The proprietor appeared. His manner was nervous, almost to the point of agitation. He looked at Biggles inquiringly.

  ‘A glass of beer and a lemonade,’ ordered Biggles.

  The proprietor nodded. ‘Ja,’ he said. ‘You will take them in your room?’

  ‘No, we’ll have them here,’ Biggles told him.

  The man hesitated. He glanced apprehensively towards the door, and then started visibly as a powerful car came slowly to a standstill outside with a faint squeak of brakes.

  ‘Is there any difficulty about having a drink before dinner?’ asked Biggles evenly.

  ‘Nein – nein.’ The proprietor, now pale in his embarrassment, after another furtive glance towards the door, hurried from the room.

  ‘I wish somebody would throw a bomb, or do something,’ growled Ginger. ‘This sitting here doing nothing is like waiting for a parachute to open.’

  ‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ Biggles told him smoothly. ‘Just keep calm and let things take their time. There will be plenty of action presently, if I know anything about it – ah! This is where the play begins, I fancy.’

  Biggles’s eyes were on the front door. Ginger, following them, saw that it was slowly opening. Suddenly it was pushed wide open, and a grey-shirted storm-trooper entered the hall. He glanced around swiftly, allowed his eyes to rest for a moment on Biggles and Ginger, and then said something in a low voice to somebody behind him. Three more troopers followed him into the room. The last one closed the door behind him. The first, who appeared to be the leader, spoke again, quietly, and then, his black field boots squeaking, strode over to the key rack. It seemed that one glance told him what he wanted to know. He gave an order and walked briskly towards the staircase. The other three followed him in single file.

  As the four men disappeared from sight Ginger turned startled eyes to Biggles. ‘What the deuce—?’

  There was a queer expression on Biggles’s face. ‘Sit tight,’ he said, through his teeth. ‘I don’t think they’re here for us, after all.’

  ‘You mean — the girl?’

  Biggles nodded.

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But the girl?’

  ‘That’s her affair. We’ve enough troubles of our own without indulging in any fancy knight-errantry at this stage.’

  The sound of insistent knocking now came from upstairs. There was a crash, followed by a sharp cry of fear, cut short by what was unmistakably the noise of a struggle. A moment later the sinister sounds approached the head of the stairs. A treble voice began crying out, shrilly.

  ‘Sit quite still and appear to take no notice,’ ordered Biggles firmly.

  Ginger leaned back in his chair, but his eyes were on the stairs. And as he watched a strange procession came into view — four storm-troopers, holding between them the girl in brown, who struggled violently and kept up what were obviously alternate cries of appeal and abuse.

  As the party reached the foot of the stairs the girl’s eyes fell on the other two guests, still sitting at their table. ‘Spies! Spies!’ she screamed in English, struggling with such violence that she almost broke free. And in the struggle an extraordinary thing happened.

  Her blonde hair suddenly came away and fell to the ground, disclosing a dark, close-cropped head. Curiously enough, this appeared to cause no surprise to the stormtroopers, for one of them, with a grim smile, snatched it up before taking a fresh hold on the prisoner.

  ‘Swine — swine — murderers!’ screamed the prisoner, in German. ‘You murdered my father. I know — I know! You killed him. Cowards—’ The prisoner was bundled through the door. It was slammed, but the cries could still be heard outside.

  Biggles had not moved a muscle. ‘Not a pretty scene,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Still, we have learned something from it. So it wasn’t a girl, after all — but our guess was not far wrong.’

  ‘It is Beklinder’s son.’

  ‘Ssh! That’s how I read it. The story begins to unfold. What a pity we did not know before — but there, it’s no use thinking about that now.’

  Outside the cries had ended abruptly. The hotel proprietor came into the room with the drinks which Biggles had ordered on a tray. ‘There has been a little trouble,’ he said, setting the tray down shakily, ‘but it is over now.’

  Biggles made a deprecatory gesture with his hand. ‘These things will happen,’ he said casually.

  ‘Ja, they will happen,’ agreed the proprietor, obviously relieved at Biggles’s attitude, and, with yet another glance at the door, hurried away.

  Biggles had picked up his glass, and was in the act of raising it to his lips, when the front door opened again, and a man in a dark uniform entered. He was obviously of superior rank. From where he was sitting Ginger could not see his face, but he saw Biggles stiffen.

  The man strode straight to the reception desk and struck the bell.

  The hotel proprietor almost fell into the room, bowing and scraping as he came when he saw his visitor. His agitation now was almost ludicrous.

  The new-comer asked a question, sharply. There was a ring of authority in his voice.

  The proprietor answered, and although he spoke in German Ginger caught two words which gave him a fair idea of what the question had been. The two words were ‘Bigglesworth’ and ‘Hebblethwaite’, from which he assumed that the newcomer had asked for the names of the other guests in the hotel.

  The proprietor’s reply had a curious effect on the newcomer. He swung round on his heels and raised a monocle to his right eye.

  Ginger recognized him instantly and went cold all over. It was Erich von Stalhein, one-time German Intelligence agent on the Imperial Staff, now chief of the Lucranian Secret Police, officially known as the Grospu.

  For perhaps half a minute von Stalhein stood stock still, regarding the two Englishmen with an expression which changed rapidly from incredulity to something like amused reproach. ‘Well, well, well, my dear Major Bigglesworth — and, yes, it is our young friend with the difficult name,’ he said cheerfully, in faultless English. ‘Tch-tch-tch. Believe me, I had no idea that you had honoured us with a visit.’

  ‘I can well believe that,’ said Biggles smiling. ‘Won’t you sit down and have a drink?’

  ‘Still as courteous as ever — yet there are people who say that the English are a rude race,’ murmured von Stalhein, advancing towards them.

  Biggles pulled up another chair. ‘What can I order for you?’ he said evenly.

  ‘Perhaps — yes — a cognac.’

  ‘A cognac,’ Biggles called to the proprietor, who hastened to obey the order.

  Ginger looked with fascinated interest at the man whom he knew was their deadliest enemy. His hair was slightly greyer at the temples, otherwise he was unchanged since he had last seen him. The same slim figure; the same keen, alert, handsome face; the same cold eyes; immaculate, the same half-foppish manner; the same hard, grimly humorous expression.

  The proprietor brought the brandy and placed it on the table. His eyes were round with wonder, and it seemed to Ginger that he regarded them with a new respect.

  Von Stalhein raised his brandy glass; his eyes, like bluey-grey steel, gleamed coldly just above the brim. He murmured the German national toast ‘Prost!’

  Biggles picked up his half empty glass. ‘Prost!’ he echoed seriously.

  ‘And you have been here — how long?’ asked von Stalhein, replacing his glass on the table.

  ‘We arrived last night,’ Biggles told him.

  ‘Just a friendly visit to see this beautiful country?’

  ‘Of course — what else?’

  ‘Of course — of course,’ almost crooned von Stalhein, but there was an undertone of subtle sarcasm in the way he said the words. ‘But for mere chance, an extraordinary coincidence, I should have been here last night to welcome you,’ he went on suavely. ‘I am staying not far away, s
o naturally I take a great interest in all our visitors — particularly English people, for whom, as you know, I have a great regard. Notice of all new arrivals is sent straight up to me, but yesterday morning I had to go at a moment’s notice to Prenzel, so I was unaware that you were here. As a matter of detail, I have only just returned. It happened that I had to call in here on my way home, to attend to — well, no doubt you saw what happened here just now. An unfortunate business.’

  ‘Very unfortunate for the girl — or rather, boy,’ observed Biggles dryly.

  ‘A boy masquerading as a girl,’ declared von Stalhein. Ginger nearly gasped aloud as he continued, with surprising frankness, ‘You know, we had an unfortunate accident here a short time ago. Perhaps you remember it. One of the people of this country, but long resident in England, came here on a visit — you may recall the affair, for I believe it was noted in your newspapers.’

  Biggles wrinkled his forehead. ‘I seem to remember something about it,’ he said. ‘What was the name?’

  ‘Beklinder — Professor Beklinder,’ prompted von Stalhein smoothly.

  ‘Ah, yes. That was it,’ nodded Biggles. ‘I remember now.’

  ‘He was driving his own car; approaching the village he collided with a lorry and was killed. He had a son in the country, and unfortunately the shock affected his brain, so it became necessary to keep him under observation in a nursing home. Due to the carelessness of his — er—’

  ‘Keepers,’ suggested Biggles.