Biggles Defies the Swastika Page 9

  ‘When he finds you’re not at Boda he may be able to grab a machine and fly here.’

  Biggles snorted. ‘Suffering crocodiles! Is he daft enough to think that the Boche leave their machines lying about for anybody to pick up?’

  ‘You seem to have managed it.’

  ‘That’s different. I’m an officer in the German Air Force. If that isn’t enough I’m also a member of the Gestapo, with a special pass, signed by the chief, in my pocket. It wasn’t hard for me to move about, although it was a bit risky because von Stalhein is in Norway looking for me. By a bit of bad luck it was learned that I was in Norway.’

  Biggles gave a brief account of his adventures. ‘So you see,’ he concluded, ‘it was a lot easier for me to get a machine than it will be for Algy. If he’s in Boda, then I reckon he’s stuck there.’

  Ginger stared moodily at the sombre surface of the fiord. ‘In that case the question is, what are we going to do about it?’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘The most important thing of all is to get this information about Stavanger back to Colonel Raymond,’ he decided. ‘We can’t allow personal matters to interfere with our Service jobs. You’d better take this information back. Raymond will be expecting it.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I shall have to stay here to see if Algy turns up. If he does, we’ll both be here when you return, so you’ll be able to pick us both up. You can leave the food here with me. What’s the time?’ Biggles looked at his watch. ‘It’s nearly midnight—let’s see—it’s nearly four hundred and fifty miles across the ditch—call it three hours. If you spend an hour with Raymond—no, I’m afraid you couldn’t get back here before daylight.’

  ‘What’s the matter with coming back after daylight?’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘Too risky. There are too many eyes along the coast right now. It would be much safer to slip in after dark. You could cut your engine well out to sea and glide in.’

  ‘But that would mean you’d be here all day to-morrow.’

  ‘That can’t be prevented.’

  ‘What about Algy?—I’m worried about him.’

  ‘Let’s leave it like this,’ suggested Biggles. ‘You get the information home—I’ve got it written out. You can also tell the Colonel what I’ve told you. I’ll wait here for Algy; otherwise, if he came back and found no one here, he’d wonder what had happened. When you come back bring a spare parachute. If Algy hasn’t turned up then you’ll have to fly me over to Boda. I’ll drop off and look for him. You could then fly back here and wait.’

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Ginger, ‘but I’m bound to say it sounds a sticky business to me,’ he added glumly.

  ‘All war is sticky business,’ Biggles reminded him. ‘Get off now and concentrate on getting home. That should give you plenty to think about without worrying about me.’

  Ginger cast off the mooring rope that held his machine close against the rocks and climbed into the cockpit. Biggles, putting his hands on a float, pushed the machine clear. For a few moments a brooding hush reigned, a hush broken only by the gentle lap of the dark water. Then the engine shattered the silence. The aircraft surged down the fiord and disappeared into the gloom.

  Biggles put the food behind a rock and settled down to wait. From far away came the deep rumble of guns, but in the little fiord all was quiet. Nothing moved.

  Chapter 9

  Back at Boda

  Algy did not come.

  All through the long night hours Biggles waited, listening, hoping, for he had no wish to return to Boda. Several times he sat up, alert, as he heard the purr of aircraft. But they were only patrols—British or German, he knew not which—exploring the starlit heavens. Each time the sound died away he sank back again to wait. There was nothing he could do.

  Dawn came, and with it still more aircraft, always flying very high. Only one, a German reconnaissance plane, came low over the silent fiord. Biggles took cover, and presently, apparently satisfied that the fiord was deserted, the German passed on. Occasionally Biggles ate a little of the food from the bag, but he ate mechanically and without relish, for he was too concerned with the state of affairs. The day wore on. The sun went down. Purple twilight, ever darkening, hung for a little while over the silent waters, and then gave way to night. Stars appeared, twinkling. Biggles munched a biscuit thoughtfully.

  It was about half-past nine that he heard the sound for which he had been waiting, the musical hum of a gliding plane, and presently he saw its dark silhouette dropping slowly towards the water. There was a surging splash as it struck the surface and forged on towards the promontory formed by the landslide. Slowly it came to rest, and Ginger’s head appeared. He gave a low whistle.

  Biggles answered and, reaching out, caught a float to steady the machine.

  ‘Everything all right?’ inquired Ginger.

  ‘Yes, nothing’s happened here.’

  ‘Did Algy come?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it looks as if he’s in a jam.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. How did you get on? Any trouble?’

  ‘Nothing to speak of. I ran into a Hun over the North Sea, but I managed to lose him. I saw Raymond and told him how things stood here. He was in favour of your flying straight back home.’

  ‘But what about Algy?’

  ‘He said he’d try to arrange for one of his agents in the country to pick him up and get him across the frontier into Sweden.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘That won’t do. Raymond ought to know we don’t work like that. While Algy’s inside the country I’m not going to leave it.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I think Raymond knew you’d take that attitude, and merely made his suggestion to let you know that if you wanted to come home he wouldn’t object. What are you going to do?’

  ‘It’s no use my sitting here any longer. I doubt if Algy will come now. I shall have to go to Boda to fetch him. You’ve got a brolly*1?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you can take me over to Boda right away.’

  Ginger, who by this time had come ashore, looked glum. ‘I don’t like it,’ he muttered. ‘It would be safer for you to go and sit on the edge of a volcano than go to Boda. What are you going to say when they ask you why you pinched that Messerschmitt?’

  ‘They don’t know definitely that it was me.’

  ‘They’ll assume it was, I bet. They are certain to ask you about it.’

  ‘I shall have the answers ready.’

  ‘What about von Stalhein? I know you last saw him at Stavanger, but he may have gone back to Boda.’

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘That’s a risk I shall have to take. I’ll keep my eyes open.’

  ‘You haven’t forgotten that von Stalhein knows Algy? If he spotted him and has had him arrested, he’ll be waiting for you to arrive. He knows by now that if he finds one of us it’s only a question of time before the others turn up. I —’

  ‘It’s no use raising objections,’ broke in Biggles impatiently. ‘Whether he’s got Algy or not, I’m going over to look for him. I’ve still got my Gestapo pass. After I drop off you come back here and wait; but if anyone spots you you’d better see about saving yourself.’

  Ginger nodded.

  ‘Then let’s get away.’

  Biggles donned the parachute, adjusted the harness, and took his place in the spare seat.

  ‘You know better than I do where the aerodrome is, so keep me on my course if I look like going astray,’ said Ginger as he got into the cockpit. ‘I expect we shall get a good plastering from flak*2.’

  ‘Head out to sea first and get plenty of height,’ advised Biggles. ‘Switch off your engine when I tell you, and glide.’

  ‘Will the aerodrome be blacked out?’

  ‘I expect so, but I know too well where it is to have any difficulty in finding it. Go ahead.’

  In a few minutes they were in the air, standing out to sea, climbing steadily for height. Not until they were at fi
fteen thousand feet did Ginger turn and head back towards the questing searchlight beams that marked the positions of enemy forces. These positions were avoided as far as possible, but more than once a beam leapt up and passed close enough to the machine to reflect on it a ghostly radiance. On such occasions Ginger throttled back and employed such ruses as Biggles had taught him.

  ‘You’re getting a little too far north,’ Biggles said once, and that was the only remark he made until they were nearing their objective, when he gave more detailed instructions. They were now at twenty thousand feet.

  ‘Hold her as she is and you’ll pass right over the aerodrome,’ he said finally. ‘As soon as you feel me go off get back to the fiord. After that you’ll have to use your discretion. Well, here we go.’

  ‘S’long chief,’ called Ginger huskily.

  ‘S’long, laddie.’ The machine rocked as Biggles dived overboard.

  Ginger instinctively looked down, but he could see nothing except the inevitable searchlight beams that were still seeking him. It was with a heavy heart that he turned back towards the coast.

  Biggles was still falling through the war-stricken sky. He had deliberately delayed pulling the ripcord for several seconds, but when he did so, and the fabric ballooned out above him, he gazed down at the darkened earth beneath. He could see the aerodrome now, and was satisfied that his jump had been well timed; he would touch down not more than a few hundred yards to the east of it.

  He fell when he landed, but he was on his feet in a moment: He could still hear the drone of Ginger’s machine fading away to the west, otherwise all was silent. Working quickly, he folded the parachute into a ball and looked round for a place to hide it. There appeared to be only one, and that was a ditch. There was water in the bottom of it, and into this he thrust the parachute and trod on it. This done, he made his way towards the aerodrome, aware that he was taking the most appalling risk he had ever willingly undertaken, a risk compared with which his original task was as nothing. If von Stalhein had returned to Boda, then he was virtually committing suicide.

  Nobody challenged him as he walked towards his quarters, for this, he decided, might be the safest place for him until he had made certain inquiries that he had in mind, inquiries concerning Algy and von Stalhein. Near the officers’ mess he met a German whom he knew slightly, and he was about to accost him when Kristen appeared. Kristen stopped dead when he saw Biggles.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ he demanded in an amazed voice.

  ‘What do you mean—where have I come from?’ returned Biggles.

  ‘Where were you all day yesterday?’

  ‘I’ve been doing a job for the Gestapo—I thought I told you that?’

  ‘Yes, you did, but—well, I thought—people have been looking for you.’

  ‘People? For me? Why?’ Biggles feigned bland surprise.

  ‘But wasn’t it you who took the machine from here, the Messerschmitt, and made off with it?’

  ‘Machine? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Somebody took a Messerschmitt from here without permission, and as you couldn’t be found it was thought that you had taken it. A fellow named von Stalhein was here looking for you. The word came that the missing machine had landed at Stavanger, so he went on there.’

  ‘Then I’d better have a word with him—that is, if he is back here,’ said Biggles calmly. ‘D’you happen to know if he came back?’

  ‘He may have done, but I haven’t seen him.’

  ‘Then I’ll ring up my chief in Oslo and find out.’

  Biggles moved on towards the orderly room, but stopped suddenly. ‘By the way, what is this rumour I hear about an English spy being captured here?’

  Kristen shook his head. ‘I haven’t heard anything about it. What did you hear?’

  ‘Only that a strange Englishman had been found prowling about the aerodrome.’

  ‘Well, I’ve heard nothing of it.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Evidently it was only a rumour—see you later.’ He walked on, well satisfied with his inquiries.

  While it was by no means certain, he thought, it rather looked as if von Stalhein had not come back to Boda; and it was hardly likely that Algy had been captured without Kristen hearing something about it. It might be assumed, then, that Algy was still at large, and since his mission was to find Biggles, it was reasonable to suppose that he would be near the aerodrome—if not actually on it. But where? Where could he be?

  Biggles tried to put himself in Algy’s place, asking himself how he would have acted had the position been reversed. The most reasonable supposition, he concluded, was that Algy would not actually be on the aerodrome, where he would be open to question, but was more likely to be hiding near the boundary, watching and waiting for a chance to speak to him. In the circumstances Biggles thought he might take a walk round the aerodrome boundary, whistling a tune known to both of them; then, if Algy were near, he would reveal himself. But there was something he would have to do first, and that was to endeavour to allay suspicions concerning himself. The best way of doing that might be to ring up the Hotel Port and speak to von Hymann. He could tell him that he had been looking for von Stalhein.

  With this object in view he made his way to the squadron office where, finding the adjutant*3 in charge, he asked permission to use the telephone for the purpose of getting into touch with von Hymann at the Hotel Port. Permission was given, but not until he had been subjected to a further difficult cross-examination, for it seemed that the adjutant was also under the impression that it was he who had taken the Messerchmitt. However, Biggles satisfied him by referring vaguely to his Gestapo duties, and put the call through to von Hymann.

  It was answered by von Stalhein. He announced his name.

  Even before his crisp ‘Hello’ had faded from the wire Biggles knew that he had made a blunder. Not so much a blunder, perhaps, as an error of judgement. He felt that he should have thought of the possibility of von Stalhein answering the telephone, since, after the bombing of Stavanger, Oslo was the most likely place for him to go to; and in Oslo he would certainly make for Gestapo head-quarters.

  Biggles realized this now, but up to that moment the possibility had not dawned on him. However, he did not lose his head. He could not afford to do so, for the adjutant was watching him curiously. And for this same reason he dare not dissemble by giving a fictitious name. All he dare do was alter his tone of voice, for unless he did so von Stalhein would recognize it at once. He might do so, anyway.

  ‘This is number 2001,’ said Biggles; ‘I wish to speak to Oberleutnant von Hymann.’

  ‘Von Hymann is not here. 1 am answering for him,’ returned von Stalhein curtly. ‘What did you say your number was?’

  ‘2001.’

  There was a brief pause. Then, ‘What is your name?’ asked von Stalhein.

  ‘My orders were to use a number only, sir.’

  ‘I am now asking you for your name. What is it?’

  ‘Hendrik—Leutnant Hendrik.’ Biggles could almost see von Stalhein’s face at the other end of the line.

  There was another short pause. ‘What game d’you think you’re playing? You know I’ve been looking for you?’

  ‘So I understand, sir, but it seems that we have just missed each other. I was given a job to do by Oberleutnant von Hymann.’

  ‘Where are you speaking from now?’

  ‘From Boda.’

  Another pause. ‘Indeed! Well, I want to see you, to get details of your adventure in Narvik.’

  ‘You mean about the English spy, Bigglesworth?’

  ‘Yes.’ Von Stalhein’s voice was little more than a whisper.

  ‘Would you like me to proceed further with the —’

  ‘No,’ interrupted von Stalhein sharply. ‘Remain where you are.’

  ‘I’ll come to Oslo and report to you if you wish,’ offered Biggles, to gain time.

  ‘No, I’d rather come out to Boda. On no account leave the aerodrome until I a
rrive.’

  ‘Can I expect you—to-night?’

  There was yet another pause. ‘No, I’m too busy here to leave just now. I’ll be along in the morning,’ said von Stalhein casually.

  ‘Then I’ll wait for you here. Good-night, sir.’

  Biggles hung up, thinking fast. He knew that both he and von Stalhein had been bluffing. No doubt the German had been as taken aback by the call as he had been to hear him answer it. Both had fenced—neither of them could very well do anything else.

  ‘I gather you’re not very popular at the moment,’ said the German.

  Biggles grimaced. ‘It isn’t my fault. I wasn’t attached to the Gestapo from choice. I’m a pilot. Frankly, the sooner I’ve finished with this Gestapo business and get on regular flying work the better I shall be pleased.’

  The adjutant seemed inclined to be sympathetic. Like most German soldiers he had no love for the Gestapo. ‘I’ll see what I can do about it,’ he promised. ‘Meanwhile, don’t leave the aerodrome.’

  ‘Of course not,’ agreed Biggles, and went out.

  But he did not go far. He had a suspicion. Whether von Stalhein had recognized his voice or not he did not know, but in any case he would be very, very anxious to see this elusive Norwegian named Hendrik—too anxious to wait until the morning. Biggles knew von Stalhein too well to suppose that he would delay his visit for several hours—time for him to get away. No! It was quite possible that von Stalhein had said that he would not be along that night in order to lull him into a false sense of security. It was far more likely that he would start for Boda forthwith in a fast car.

  A minute later Biggles heard the sound he expected to hear. It was the shrill jangle of the telephone. Standing close to the door he thought straining his ears he could hear the adjutant’s end of the conversation.

  ‘You mean Hendrik, sir?’ he was saying. ‘Yes, he’s still on the aerodrome.’

  Biggles smiled grimly.

  ‘Did you say arrest him?’ continued the adjutant in a surprised voice. ‘Of course, sir, if you say so. What is the charge? Leave it until you come—very well, sir. I’ll have Hendrik watched, and if he attempts to leave the aerodrome I’ll have him arrested immediately. You’ll be along in—half an hour. Very good, sir.’ There was a clang as the adjutant hung up the receiver.