Biggles - Secret Agent

by W E Johns

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I: An Alarming Proposition

  CHAPTER II: Ways and Means

  CHAPTER III: A Drop in the Dark

  CHAPTER IV: The Jew of Unterhamstadt

  CHAPTER V: Under the Castle Walls

  CHAPTER VI: What Happened at the Vault

  CHAPTER VII: Strange Birds in the Forest

  CHAPTER VIII: Enter Von Stalhein

  CHAPTER IX: A Grim Discovery

  CHAPTER X: Von Stalhein Plays a Trump Card

  CHAPTER XI: Desperate Measures

  CHAPTER XII: Forestalled

  CHAPTER XIII: Ginger Goes Back

  CHAPTER XIV: Biggles Goes to Prenzel

  CHAPTER XV: Reunion

  CHAPTER I

  An Alarming Proposition

  The Honourable Algernon Lacey rose slowly from the easy chair in which he had been reclining, yawned, and took up a position on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, hands thrust deep into the pockets of a well-worn pair of grey flannel trousers. A frown lined his forehead as he turned his eyes to where Ginger was lounging in another chair with every indication of bored impatience. ‘Where the deuce is Biggles?’ he inquired in a manner which suggested that he did not expect an answer. There was more than a suspicion of irritation in his tone of voice.

  ‘If you say that again I shall throw something at you,’ answered Ginger coldly. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘He said that he would be back for lunch. He was emphatic about it.’

  ‘He promised me that he would come to the flicks this afternoon — the new flying film at the Plaza. It’s now after three o’clock. He isn’t given to saying what he doesn’t mean, from which we can assume, I think, that he has run into somebody or something important.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Algy moodily. ‘I hope he hasn’t run into a bus, or anything like that.’

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me; the traffic is getting awful,’ murmured Ginger in a resigned voice. ‘I’m about sick of London. What did they say at the Aero Club when you rang up?’

  ‘They said he’d been in, got his letters, and gone out again.’

  ‘He didn’t stay there for lunch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh, well, it’s no use fretting. Flicks are out of the question, anyway. He’ll be along presently, I expect.’

  Ginger’s expectation materialized about a quarter of an hour later, when the door opened and Biggles walked in. He tossed his hat carelessly on a side table and, sinking into an easy chair, regarded Ginger gravely. ‘Sorry about the flicks, Ginger,’ he said in an expressionless voice. ‘I couldn’t get back.’

  ‘That’s all right, Biggles,’ returned Ginger casually, but with a sidelong glance at Algy. ‘We waited lunch for you until two o’clock. I suppose you’ve had some?’

  Biggles pulled himself together. He looked up and smiled. ‘Yes, thanks; I had an excellent lunch.’

  ‘What did you have?’

  Biggles ran his fingers through his fair hair. A puzzled expression crept over his face. ‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘Dashed if I remember.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  Biggles smiled again. His hazel eyes twinkled. ‘As a matter of fact I had lunch in a private room in Whitehall — in an annexe of the Home Office, to be precise.’

  Ginger nodded slowly, and flashed another glance at Algy. He looked back at Biggles. ‘I get it,’ he said knowingly. ‘I don’t bet, but I’d risk a small wager that Colonel Raymond was there.’

  ‘You win,’ smiled Biggles.

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Sir Munstead Norton.’

  ‘Sir who—? Who the dickens is he?’

  ‘Permanent Assistant to the Home Secretary.’

  Algy whistled softly. ‘So that’s it, is it?’ he murmured. ‘Now we know why you were looking worried when you came in. What did they want?’

  Biggles took a cigarette from his case, lit it, and flicked the dead match into the grate before he replied. ‘They wanted me to do a job for them,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Not being altogether a fool — I hope — I had already gathered that,’ muttered Algy with asperity. ‘It’s the only time Raymond stands any of us lunch.’

  ‘Come now, he’s a busy man,’ protested Biggles. ‘To be Assistant Commissioner of Police, Special Intelligence Branch, is no blind nut.’

  ‘The point is, have you taken the job on?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘No — not yet.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Biggles drew at his cigarette and exhaled the smoke slowly. ‘Because,’ he answered, slowly and distinctly, ‘it is not a job to be lightly undertaken.’

  ‘Is that why you looked fed up when you came in?’

  ‘Not altogether. I may as well be frank. I am worried about you two. We’ve always been in on these jobs together, and I know it’s no use trying to keep you out. But this time it — well — it alarms me.’

  ‘From which I gather that it involves a certain amount of danger,’ put in Algy suavely.

  Biggles looked him in the eyes. ‘If I merely said yes to that I should be guilty of understatement,’ he said simply. ‘Suicidal would probably be a better word.’

  Algy frowned. ‘Good heavens! That sounds pretty grim.’

  ‘Grim it is!’

  ‘Suppose you tell us about it?’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘That is my intention,’ replied Biggles, knocking the ash off his cigarette onto the floor and putting his foot on it. ‘I’ve only been giving myself a minute or two to settle down, to get the thing into some sort of order in my mind. I have permission to take you into my confidence, but — it’s hardly necessary for me to say this, but I was asked to do so — what is said between these four walls this afternoon must never be repeated outside them. From that you will judge the matter to be of considerable importance. It is. The issue involves no less than the safety of the nation.’

  ‘My word!’ muttered Ginger.

  Algy said nothing, but a grimace expressed his thoughts.

  When Biggles continued his voice had dropped to little more than a whisper. ‘Does the name Beklinder mean anything to you?’ he asked. ‘Professor Max Beklinder?’

  Algy thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I seem to recall the name vaguely, but I don’t know in what connection.’

  ‘I remember the name,’ murmured Ginger, wrinkling his forehead. ‘Isn’t he an inventor of some sort?’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Professor Beklinder was the name of the man who invented Linderite, which is an explosive just about three times as powerful as anything previously discovered. That was only one of his inventions.’

  ‘Queer name; what nationality is he?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Lucranian by birth, British by naturalization,’ answered Biggles.

  ‘Where the deuce is Lucrania?’

  ‘You might well ask. I didn’t know myself when the name cropped up. Apparently it is one of those little principalities, like Monaco and Liechtenstein, that linger on in Europe, officially independent and self-governing but in fact controlled by a powerful neighbour under whose military and economic protection they are allowed to survive. Lucrania is quite a small place, and is now almost entirely embraced by the new German frontiers. There are narrow corridors into France and Switzerland. The language spoken is German. The country comprises a central plain surrounded almost entirely by mountains forming the natural frontiers by virtue of which it has managed to retain its so-called independence. So much for the country in which Professor Beklinder was born. Twenty years ago he was practising — successfully, I understand — as a doctor; but he got mixed up in a political intrigue and had to flee for his life. He came here, leaving his wife �
�� who subsequently disappeared — behind. I mention the wife for reasons which will presently become apparent.’ Biggles lit another cigarette before he continued.

  ‘I was saying,’ he went on, ‘that Beklinder, like most political refugees, came to England, where he soon settled down and made a name for himself as a research chemist, specializing in high-combustion explosives. Linderite put him at the top of the tree with our people, at whose invitation, about two years ago, he turned his abilities to the production of poison gas. Not a very pleasant occupation, you may say, but while other nations devote time and money to chemical warfare we must do the same. Beklinder apparently worked hard at his new job, so hard that he came near to having a breakdown. By this time, however, he had got on the track of a poison gas so deadly that he declared that the nation which alone possessed the formula could make itself master of the world — by the destruction or terrorization of the others. How far that is true, or an exaggeration, I am not in a position to judge; it is sufficient for me that our experts believe it. Very well. Encouraged by the departmental experts of this country he went on with his work. The secret was practically within his grasp when his health broke down. It became necessary for him to rest. And this is where the trouble started.

  ‘I must now go back a bit to refer to an incident which may, or may not, have a bearing on what was to follow. About a year ago the Professor, possibly because he was run down, had a fit — a belated fit you will think — of remorse over the unfortunate wife whom he had, by force of circumstances beyond his control, left in Lucrania. He asked the British Intelligence people to try to locate her, or ascertain her fate; and although they were only too willing to oblige, they failed to discover anything, which was in due course reported to the Professor, who made no complaint, and appeared to dismiss the matter from his mind. But the fact that he made such an inquiry has now become significant.

  The Professor rested, and quickly recovered his health. He was almost fit enough to resume work when he suggested to the government that a fortnight on the Riviera was all that was needed to put him on his feet again Naturally, our people would have preferred that he completed his formula; but he was, after all, a private individual, and it was not within their rights to refuse. To make a long story short, he went. That was nearly three months ago. He took his own car, a Morris Ten, across the Channel, with the avowed intention of following the Route Nationale – the main highway – down to the Mediterranean. I say “avowed” intention because it now transpires that he did nothing of the sort – although how far this was due to the Professor himself we have no means of knowing. A Scotland Yard man had been detailed to watch him – for his own protection, of course – but he lost him in Paris. The story now becomes extremely interesting.

  ‘Three days after Beklinder disappeared in Paris a story reached England through the usual news agencies that a motorcar accident had occurred at a village named Unterhamstadt, in Lucrania. A small car bearing a British registration plate had been involved in a collision with a lorry. The driver of the car had been killed on the spot. His papers revealed that he was a British subject named—’

  ‘Max Beklinder,’ murmured Algy.

  ‘Exactly,’ continued Biggles. ‘This unfortunate man, the agencies reported, had been buried in the village churchyard. That was all. No more, no less. But you can imagine the effect of it on our people. The Home Office, the Foreign Office, the Poison Gas Experimental Station, and the Intelligence Service were thrown into a panic. It is easy to see how they were fixed. The story came through the British press in a perfectly normal manner. Max Beklinder might have been a Mr Brown, or a Mr Smith. To follow the story up too closely might have set the Lucranian government wondering what all the fuss was about – if, of course, they didn’t already know the true facts of the case. That was the thing that turned our fellows’ hair grey overnight. The Lucranian Intelligence people might know who Max Beklinder was, and what he was doing in England. On the other hand, they might not, considering that the man had been in England for nearly twenty years. Naturally, all his work had been carried on in secret, but spies have a way of ferreting out these things. In short, the government went into what we should call a flat spin. Was the thing an accident — or was it not? What was the Professor doing in Lucrania, anyway? Had he gone there of his own free will, or had he been taken there by force? These were some of the questions with which our people were faced, and the answers weren’t easy to find. Then somebody remembered the business about his wife, and a motive for his presence in Lucrania was discovered — but it didn’t help much. The situation as it stood was bad enough, but worse was to come.

  ‘About seven weeks ago, three weeks after the alleged accident, out of the blue came a piece of news that rocked Whitehall to its foundations. A British secret agent in Prenzel, the capital of Lucrania, reported that at a certain place and time he had seen Professor Beklinder driving in a motor-car with the Chief of the Lucranian Secret Police. Just reflect on that for a moment, and see what it meant — if the report was correct. Beklinder dead was bad enough, but alive in the hands of a potential enemy power was worse — a lot worse. The accident business began to look very fishy. And things began to look fishy for this country, for if Lucranian agents had got hold of poor old Beklinder it would only be a question of time before they forced him to divulge what he had been doing, and disclose the formula for the poison gas. The upshot of this news was to put the government into about the worst jam of its career. And that is how things stand now. The trouble is, it has been impossible to get confirmation of the British agent’s report. The fellow is in London now. He admits that he doesn’t know Beklinder very well, but he thought it was him. It was only a passing glance. It might have been him. But the bare possibility of it is enough to keep our people awake at nights. It comes to this. If the man in the car was Beklinder, then the accident business was all a frame-up, and there wouldn’t have been any frame-up unless the Lucranian agents had known what the Professor was doing in England. And if they did know, with the Professor in their hands the formula is as good as theirs. When they get it – if they get it – it is good-bye to the British Empire. And after hearing that you won’t wonder any longer why I looked worried when I came in just now.’

  ‘But do you mean that they want you to go and investigate this?’ asked Ginger incredulously.

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘But in heaven’s name, why you?’ cried Algy. ‘Surely they have got plenty of people of their own, capable—’

  Biggles held up his hand. ‘Just a minute,’ he said quietly. ‘Our Intelligence people aren’t fools. They had a man planted in the country within twenty-four hours of the information being received, with instructions to report progress every three days. Not a word has been heard of him since he crossed the frontier. A week ago they sent another man – one of the best they have, with similar instructions. He went forewarned, but that did not save him. He’s gone.’

  ‘Where were these men actually making for?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Unterhamstadt – but it’s unlikely that they got as far as that. Our people are of opinion that they were caught on the frontier.’

  ‘Is there any reason to suppose that they wouldn’t catch us on the frontier?’ inquired Algy.

  Biggles looked up. ‘Yes,’ he said softly.

  ‘Why?

  ‘Because we shouldn’t go in that way.’

  ‘Ah! I see,’ murmured Algy. ‘I begin to understand why they sent for you. They suggested that you avoided frontiers by the expedient of flying over them?’

  ‘Precisely,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Our Intelligence people have established that frontier control has been so tightened up that it would be impossible for a mouse to get through without being marked down. A stranger entering the country is watched from the moment he puts foot past the Customs House.’

  ‘Which suggests that Lucrania has something valuable to guard.’

  ‘Our people haven’t overlooked that. It all goes t
o confirm that the alleged accident to Beklinder was a plot to cover what really happened.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Sir Munstead Norton, advised by Colonel Raymond and Intelligence experts, is of the opinion that the only way a man could get into the country is by flying in. Regular air transport is no use, of course; airports are watched as closely as stations on the frontier. Oh, I can see plainly enough why they got hold of me — I was just leaving the club — and asked me to go to Unterhamstadt.’

  ‘Why there, particularly?’

  ‘Because it’s the only loose end in this very tangled ball of string.’

  ‘What exactly do they hope you will achieve when you get there?’

  ‘Find out, first of all, whether the Professor is alive or dead. That, clearly, is the crux of the situation. If he is really dead, then that’s the end of it.’

  ‘And just how would you propose to establish that?’ asked Ginger slowly, his eyes on Biggles’s face.

  Biggles rose from his chair and paced slowly up and down the hearthrug. He stopped abruptly. ‘It would be futile to tour the country on the off-chance of seeing the Professor. If he is, in fact, dead, it would be running an appalling risk unnecessarily.’

  ‘Yes, but is there a way of ascertaining definitely whether he is alive or dead?’ insisted Algy. ‘I can’t think of a way.’

  ‘There is only one way – one way of making quite sure,’ said Biggles in a curious voice.

  Ginger nodded. ‘I get it,’ he said.

  Biggles regarded him steadily. His face was set in hard lines. ‘Where would you start?’ he asked shortly, almost harshly.

  Ginger faltered. ‘In the – the – churchyard,’ he stammered.

  Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘That’s it,’ he murmured.

  ‘You mean – you’d go to look for the tombstone?’ put in Algy.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘It would hardly do to trust to a tombstone,’ he said slowly. ‘In fact, there’s almost certain to be a tombstone. A grave will be there, whether it contains the Professor’s body or not; I don’t think we need have any doubt about that. Even if the alleged accident was a fake, Beklinder’s death was officially reported to the press, so the Lucranian agents would hardly overlook the necessity for providing such an elementary piece of evidence as a grave. Frankly, I have an open mind as to what it may contain—’