by W E Johns
This at once altered Ginger’s plan. He had intended to explore the ground floor for the kitchen, and with everyone upstairs he had imagined that this would be no difficult matter; but if people were still downstairs it would be extremely risky. The kitchen of course would be at the back of the house, but he had avoided making an entry from the rear on account of the dog. Now he hardly knew what to do for the best, but after giving the matter some thought he decided first of all to take a peep through the window in order to see who it was with whom he had to deal, and with this object in view he moved on down the wall towards it.
As he drew nearer to it the sound of voices increased in volume.
Then words reached his ears that stunned him into immobility, for they were spoken in English. This, he told himself, was past belief He expected the conversation would be in Russian. He would not have been surprised had it been in German, or Finnish, or any Scandinavian tongue; but English! Who in the name of heaven could be talking English in such a place? Surely he had been mistaken — his ears had deceived him; but then he distinctly heard a man say, ‘Very good.’ And at the sound of that voice his lips turned dry. He crept on and looked through the window.
In his life Ginger had had many shocks, but never one such as he now received. His nerves all seemed to tighten like elastic, causing the sensation known as pins and needles to prickle his skin. For this is what he saw.
There were five people in the room, seated round a large table on which still rested the remains of a substantial meal. Three of the men were Russian officers; another was von Stalhein, although Ginger was not particularly surprised at that, for the German had doubtless been with the Russians who had circumnavigated the lake while they had been rowing across it, and had later gone on towards the frontier. This house had apparently been his objective. It was the presence of the fifth man that numbed Ginger with shock.
He knew him only slightly, but he had seen him many times; in fact the man had more than once endeavoured to engage him in conversation, but he was a type that repelled rather than attracted him, and the acquaintanceship had never ripened. He was, in fact, a member of the International Squadron fighting for Finland, a Swede named Olsen who had lived most of his life in Canada — at least, that was what he had said; and this was to some extent borne out by the fact that the only language he spoke was English, and that with a Western accent. Presumably it was for this reason that English was the language employed in the present conversation with von Stalhein — with whom, incidentally, he seemed quite at home.
Ginger listened horrified as he heard the alleged Swede describing in detail the Finnish plans for defence, leaving no doubt whatever that his real business in the Finnish Air Force was that of a spy, acting on behalf of either Germany or Russia. He spoke volubly, while von Stalhein, nodding occasionally, made notes on a sheet of paper. The Russians seemed content to listen. Ginger could hear everything that passed.
When Olsen had finished von Stalhein took several envelopes from his pocket. ‘Take these with you when you go back,’ he said. ‘Deliver them in the usual way. I should like them delivered tomorrow.’
The spy smiled as he took the letters. ‘No difficulty about that,’ he said.
‘You came over in the usual way I suppose?’ queried von Stalhein.
‘Sure. I’d rather fly than walk. I always leave my crate at the same place — the valley just east of the frontier — and then walk across. By the way, what’s going on? The frontier is stiff with troops. If I hadn’t known the password I should have been in a mess.’
Von Stalhein sipped his wine, fitted a cigarette into a long holder, and lit it before he replied. ‘I’ve had some trouble,’ he said curtly, ‘with a fellow named Bigglesworth — you may know him. He’s in the International Squadron.’
Olsen started. ‘Sure I know the skunk. Because he shot down a few of your crack fliers in the last war he acts like he’s running the show.’
Von Stalhein smiled faintly. ‘He’s a British agent.’
‘What!’ Olsen half rose to his feet. ‘Him and them three pals of his always fly as a team. Now you mention it, I ain’t seen them for the last day or two. What have they been up to?’
‘I wish I had a team like it,’ confessed von Stalhein frankly. ‘They’ve been over here and they’ve got away with some important documents. I have good reason to believe that they’re still in Russia, trying to work their way home on foot, having crashed their machines. Hence the troops on the frontier. I’m hoping to catch them when they try to cross.’
Olsen emptied his wineglass. ‘Say, what d’you know about that!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why didn’t you grab him before?’
Again a suspicion of a smile crossed the German’s austere face. ‘Have you ever tried to grab a live eel with your bare hands?’
‘Aw shucks! He can’t be that clever.’
Von Stalhein leaned forward in his chair. ‘Would you like to have a shot at catching him?’
Olsen winked. ‘Why not? What’s it worth if I do it?’
The German’s manner became crisp. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ he said. ‘As I told you, I’m trying to catch Bigglesworth and his friends myself, and it’s probable that I shall; but should he slip through my fingers — and he’s got a trick of doing that — he’ll make straight for Oskar to hand the papers over to his employers. Bring those papers back to me and I’ll pay you a thousand pounds. I’ll pay you another thousand for Bigglesworth, dead or alive, and five hundred for each of the others.’
The spy grinned delightedly. ‘That sure sounds like easy money to me,’ he declared. ‘Next time I come over they’ll be with me — dead or alive. Come to think of it, though, they’d make rather a heavy load for a single-seater. Would the heads be enough?’
Von Stalhein frowned. He looked disgusted. ‘Olsen, I fancy you are living about four centuries too late.’
‘War’s war, ain’t it? I ain’t squeamish.’
‘So I observe,’ returned von Stalhein drily. ‘Very well, we’ll dispense with the bodies. I’ll pay for the heads. But be careful you aren’t suspected.’
‘Me? Suspected? Why, the Finns reckon I’m as good a Swede as ever came out of Sweden.’
Von Stalhein made some notes and handed the paper to one of the Russian officers, with whom he conversed for some minutes in his own language. Then they all finished their wine, got up, pushed their chairs back, and filed out of the room. One of the Russians was the last to leave. He closed the door behind him.
Ginger had had time to recover from his first shock, but as a result of the conversation he had just heard he still felt a trifle dazed. Dazed is perhaps not quite the right word. His brain was racing so fast that he wanted to do several things at once. He wanted to rush into the house and shoot the treacherous spy before he could do further damage; he wanted to rush back to Biggles and acquaint him with the horrid facts; he wanted to tear back to Finland and warn the people there that their plans were known to the enemy; and he wanted to fulfil the original object of his expedition, which was to get some food, plenty of which remained on the table within a few feet of him. The temptation to get some of it was too great to be resisted; he felt that it would make such a difference to them if he could get even a little food, and he made up his mind to try.
With this object in view he attempted to open the window. It was fastened. For a moment he was dismayed, but only for a moment. The panes were small and lead-framed, and the lead being of great age, it had weathered to the thinness of paper. He found a loose pane near the inside catch and prized away the lead until he could remove the glass intact. Having disposed of this, he put a hand through the aperture thus made and slipped the catch. In a minute the window was open and he was inside. Leaving the window open and the curtains drawn ready for a quick evacuation should it become necessary, he went straight to the table, for nothing else interested him. Half a roast chicken looked tempting, as did the carcass of a goose. He gathered together several large pieces o
f bread, and was making ready to depart when he saw a dish in which still remained a number of baked potatoes. The question was, how to carry them? A napkin answered it. He opened it out flat, and was about to empty the dish into it when a sound from the direction of the window brought him round with a jerk. A hairy face above a Russian uniform grinned at him. A bandolier crossed the man’s chest, and a rifle hung by its sling from his shoulder. Obviously he was a sentry. To Ginger’s consternation, he crawled clumsily over the windowsill and stood just inside, still grinning amiably and pointing at the table.
At first Ginger could not get the hang of such peculiar behaviour. Then, suddenly, he understood. The fellow took him for one of the servants, and supposed that he was clearing the table. The question was how to get rid of him. On the table stood several long-necked wine bottles. Ginger tried two or three in quick succession, but they were all empty; then he found one that was still half full. He held it up to the man, at the same time raising his eyebrows questioningly above a rather nervous smile.
The man said something — what it was Ginger had no idea — and held out his hand for the bottle. Ginger crossed the room swiftly and gave it to him, and then tapped him on the shoulder with a gesture which he hoped would convey the impression that his instant departure would be appreciated. The man understood. Ile stuffed the bottle inside the breast of his greatcoat, said something, and went off — still grinning Ginger’s relief was such that he nearly collapsed, but he had no intention of leaving the food. He crept back to the table and gathered it up. The bread he stuffed into his pockets.
Nor did he leave the potatoes. He emptied the lot into the napkin, caught up the corners, and with the skeleton of the goose under his arm, the chicken in one hand and the napkin in the other, he returned swiftly to the window. He was only just in time, for footsteps could be heard approaching.
He was outside and in the act of closing the window when the door opened and a servant came into the room. However, the man appeared to see nothing unusual, for he started collecting the dishes. Ginger paid no further attention to the window. Picking up his loot, he took one quick look round for the sentry, and not seeing him, stepped stealthily into the cover of the trees, like a fox departing from a plundered farmyard.
Now that he had reached comparative safety his reaction following the last few hectic minutes was so intense that his legs nearly gave way under him, and he had to rest for a moment to recover his composure; then, happy in the knowledge of the success of his mission, and the tremendous information he had to impart, he sped on. He fairly staggered to the place where the others were waiting.
‘Sweet spirit of Icarus! What’s he got?’ gasped Algy.
Ginger thrust the goose carcass into his hands. ‘Hold that,’ he panted. He held out the chicken to Biggles. ‘Lay hold,’ he implored him. ‘Let’s get away from here. I’ve got news for you that will make you jump.’
‘You’ve got some grub, and that’s enough to make me break any jumping record, without anything else,’ declared Algy emphatically.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ said Ginger in a voice vibrant with emotion.
‘What is it – is von Stalhein in there?’ guessed Biggles shrewdly.
‘You bet your life he is, and that’s not half of it,’ panted Ginger. ‘Here we are, this will do.’ He led the way into a small gully between some rocks. ‘Now get an earful of this,’ he continued tersely, and forthwith in as few words as possible related what had transpired at the house.
‘Good work, laddie,’ said Biggles when he had finished. ‘It seems that von Stalhein is a bigger skunk than I thought, to put a price on our heads; but as for that foul traitor, Olsen, hanging would be too good for him. There are moments when I regret that torture has gone out of fashion, and this is one of them. Once or twice we’ve had to sail near the wind in this spy business ourselves, but we don’t stoop to murder. Nor do we line our pockets with dirty money. We’d better not stop to eat here. We’ve got to get Olsen. He knows the password, and if for no other reason we’ve got to intercept him. If we know what it is—’
‘You don’t suppose he’ll tell you, do you ?’ broke in Algy.
‘Won’t he!’ The others had never heard Biggles’s voice so hard. ‘By the time I’ve finished with that skunk he’ll be ready to tell anything, I’ll warrant,’ he continued. ‘There must be a path running westwards from the house, leading to the frontier –unless Olsen walked across country, which doesn’t seem feasible. There’s bound to be a drive of some sort leading to a house of this size, and since it isn’t on this side it must be on the other. If we strike straight across the rear of the building we should come to it. Let’s go.’
Biggles set off, still carrying the chicken; the others followed close behind. Over rocks, through bushes, between trees where it was nearly pitch dark, and even across a watercourse, they pushed on until at length, as Biggles had surmised, they struck a track which clearly led to the house. They came upon it at a distance of rather less than a quarter of a mile from the building itself, and Biggles reconnoitred in both directions before he stepped on to it.
‘All clear,’ he said. ‘This must be it. The track should run straight from the house to the frontier, and unless I’m mistaken Olsen will walk down it on his way back. We’ll wait for him here; we shan’t find anything better suited to our purpose.’
At this point the track, which had a terrible surface but was wide enough for a wheeled vehicle, ran through a shallow gully, with tall trees on either side.
‘We can wait, listen, and eat at the same time,’ said Biggles, mustering the food.
Algy clicked his tongue when he saw the bread and potatoes. ‘This exceeds my wildest hopes,’ he announced in a voice heavy with satisfaction.
‘I should think it jolly well does,’ returned Biggles. ‘I thought we should do well if we got a few raw potatoes, but roast chicken, roast goose, potatoes, and bread — Ginger, you’re a wizard.’ With scant ceremony Biggles divided the food, tearing the remains of the two birds apart with his hands. Real hunger makes short work of conventional politeness. ‘No more talking,’ warned Biggles. ‘We’ve got to listen. Eat fast in case he comes.’
‘You’re telling me,’ grunted Algy, tearing at a goose leg with his teeth.
For ten minutes nothing could be heard but the steady munch of jaws, and by the end of that time every scrap of Ginger’s haul, with the exception of a few bones, had disappeared.
Algy wiped his fingers on his trousers. ‘By James! That’s better,’ he breathed.
The others smiled but said nothing. They found comfortable positions just inside the trees. Biggles took out his gun, and Algy, with the rifle across his knees, sat down to wait.
CHAPTER XVI
A Desperate Flight
For the remainder of the night the comrades kept their lonely vigil, and it was not until the eastern sky was turning grey that they heard someone coming from the direction of the house. A stone rattled; footsteps crunched on the rough gravel, and presently Olsen could be seen, a leather flying jacket over his arm and cap and goggles swinging in his left hand, coming down the track.
‘Good, he’s alone,’ whispered Biggles. ‘Don’t move until I give the word.’
Not until the spy drew level did Biggles stir. Then he got up, and with his hands in his pockets strolled out on to the track.
‘Hullo, Olsen,’ he said casually; ‘what are you doing here?’
Olsen sprang back as if he had been struck. For a moment he looked confused, but then, with what must have been a tremendous effort, he recovered himself. But his face had turned pale, and his eyes flashed round as if seeking to ascertain whether Biggles was alone.
‘Why — I — er — I had a forced landing,’ he stammered.
‘In that case, aren’t you taking a bit of a risk, strolling about like this in a hostile country as if the place belonged to you?’
‘What are you doing here, if it comes to that?’ asked Olsen belligerently.
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‘Oh, I had a bit of business to transact.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yes, that is so — but not your sort of business.’
Olsen’s right hand was creeping towards his pocket.
‘I shouldn’t try that if I were you,’ resumed Biggles quietly. ‘Right now there’s a rifle pointing straight at you, and I don’t think it would require much excuse to make Algy Lacey pull the trigger.’ Biggles’s voice hardened. ‘It’s no use, Olsen. We know your business.’
Olsen blustered. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You know what we’re talking about. You were a trifle premature selling our heads to von Stalhein. I’m thinking of sending yours to him instead. Hand over those letters.’
‘Letters — what letters?’
Biggles drew his pistol, and without turning addressed the others. ‘You can come out,’ he ordered. ‘Algy, take that gun out of Olsen’s pocket — and the letters. Put your hands up, Olsen — and keep them up. I’m giving you better treatment than you deserve, so don’t try any funny stuff. It wouldn’t take much to make me change my mind.’
Olsen, as white as death, his nostrils distended and the corners of his mouth dragged down with rage and fear, slowly raised his hands. Algy took a revolver from his side pocket, and the letters. The revolver he passed to Ginger.
‘Olsen,’ continued Biggles, ‘there are moments when I am tempted to commit murder, and this is one of them, but against my inclination I’m going to take you back to Finland for a fair trial. We’ve got to get through the Russian lines. You know the password. What is it?’