Biggles - Secret Agent

by W E Johns

  ‘Good enough. Then that settles that. You’d better make yourselves familiar with this.’

  Biggles took a photograph from his breast pocket and laid it on the table. ‘That is a portrait of Professor Beklinder,’ he said. ‘It’s an interesting face; with that high forehead and long hair. He looks more like a musician than a chemist, doesn’t he? Get his face fixed in your memory, because we cannot take the photograph with us. I’ll let Raymond know we’re going.’ Biggles reached for the telephone.

  CHAPTER III

  A Drop In The Dark

  ‘Well, well, what do you think of it?’ It was Algy who spoke, addressing Biggles, who, hands in his pockets, was gazing reflectively at a few wisps of filmy cloud that appeared to be drawn slowly across a starlit sky by an unseen hand.

  ‘I think it’s all right,’ returned Biggles after a moment’s hesitation. The weather report is good, anyway. If we don’t go tonight it will mean waiting another week. I think we’ll get along. Are you feeling all right, Ginger?’

  ‘As right as rain,’ answered Ginger carelessly.

  ‘All right, then; let’s go,’ murmured Biggles, and turning, walked towards where the black silhouette of a hangar rose sharp and clear against the sky.

  Ten days had elapsed since their momentous decision to enter Lucrania in an endeavour to ascertain the truth concerning Professor Beklinder’s mysterious disappearance. They had been busy days, for there was much to arrange, and Biggles had been meticulous in his preparations. The others had never seen him pay so much attention to even the minutest details. ‘We can’t afford to take one single risk that can be reduced or discounted by ourselves before we start,’ was all he had said when Algy had once questioned his care over a matter of such triviality that it hardly seemed worth troubling about.

  There had been no difficulty in getting the machine they required, a Wessex ‘Student’. The government had merely commandeered a new one that had just been built to the order of a private individual. What the owner thought of this they did not know, for they had heard no more about it. A special branch of the Foreign Office had attended to its own part of the proceedings, the preparation of papers, passports, and permission to use an aerodrome in France from which operations could be conducted without fear of awkward questions being asked by the local authorities. It was only a small place, no more than an emergency landing-ground for east-bound air liners, but it suited their purpose well enough. Here they had arrived two days previously, and after making final arrangements they had nothing more to do than wait, with some anxiety on account of the weather, the time for departure. Now the hour had arrived. The weather was fair. It might have been better, but it could have been much worse.

  Just before they reached the hangar Biggles stopped and turned to Algy. ‘There’s just one other thing,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I haven’t mentioned it before, and – well, perhaps there’s really no need to mention it now. Maybe I’m a bit keyed up. It’s about that ground engineer here – Brogart.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Nothing really tangible – but—’

  ‘I thought he was a nice chap.’

  ‘He may be. But be careful. I wouldn’t trust him too far. Perhaps he’s just one of those cheerful busybodies who is a nosey-parker without knowing it, or without meaning any harm, but it has struck me that he is very interested in us. I am going on what I know of the French temperament. Mechanics, particularly French mechanics, don’t stick around on their jobs when they are off duty and when there is an estaminet handy. I know Brogart is a cheerful fellow, very willing and obliging and all that, but I’ve noticed that he’s always about when we are. Once I caught him looking through the side window of our machine. I admit that may have been natural curiosity because the door was locked. He may be all that he pretends to be. On the other hand, he may not. We don’t know, and we’re not likely to find out. He may be an interested — er — spectator, acting on behalf of the French government. He might even be a British agent. He might be anything. But my advice to you is to keep your eyes open and your mouths shut. If he turns up here tonight — seven o’clock on a Saturday night, when his pals are sipping vermouth in the local pub — I shall say that he is unusually industrious.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on him, but I think you’re unduly suspicious,’ opined Algy.

  ‘It’s better to be suspicious now than sorry later,’ returned Biggles curtly. ‘Ginger, walk down to the end of the shed and watch the road while Algy and I get the machine out.’

  ‘O.K.’ Ginger walked briskly away on his errand.

  Between them, Biggles and Algy folded back the hangar doors and pulled the ‘Student’ out into the open. They had just closed the doors when Ginger hurried up.

  ‘There’s somebody coming,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I think it’s Brogart.’

  Biggles muttered something under his breath. ‘All right. We can’t put the machine back. Confound the fellow.’

  A moment later the French mechanic came round the corner of the hangar. He stopped abruptly when he saw the machine, and the motionless figures awaiting him. Then he came on again.

  ‘Bon soir, messieurs,’ he cried cheerfully. ‘You make the night flight — yes?’

  `Yes, we’re going to visit some friends,’ growled Biggles.

  ‘Ah, you go to Paris — my lovely Paris? Its cafés! And the girls! Ha!’

  ‘Perhaps,’ returned Biggles coldly.

  The Frenchman was not abashed by Biggles’s manner. ‘I thought I could help to make the start. Voilà!’

  ‘Why? What made you think we were likely to fly tonight?’ inquired Biggles evenly.

  The mechanic hesitated for an almost imperceptible fraction of a second. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I see you come this way, so I say, voilà, they will fly. That is the good sense, yes?’

  ‘Your sense is so good that it almost amounts to telepathy,’ murmured Biggles.

  ‘Telepathy? What is zis?’

  ‘Never mind. It’s all right, Brogart. We shan’t need any help. We’ll see you later.’

  The Frenchman lit a cigarette. ‘Bien,’ he exclaimed, flicking the dead match aside. ‘You are mechanics as well as pilots? Bon. Zat is good. You send for me if something is wanted. I tink I will take a cognac with my leetle girl at the Cochon Rouge. Au revoir, messieurs.’ The mechanic bowed, raised his beret, and humming softly to himself, walked away in the direction from which he had come.

  As he rounded the corner of the hangar Biggles caught Ginger by the arm. ‘After him,’ he breathed. ‘Watch where he goes — but don’t let him see you. Don’t leave the aerodrome.’

  Algy looked at Biggles. ‘Well?’ he grunted.

  ‘Let’s get started up. We can’t waste any more time.’

  ‘Can he possibly know what we’re doing?’

  ‘Of course not. There isn’t the remotest chance of that. But all the same I’d bet my life he knows that we’re up to something unusual, and he would like to know what it is. Whether that’s for his own private information, or for somebody else who is interested, we don’t know and we’re not likely to. You’ll have to be careful with that fellow, Algy,’ Biggles concluded, as he unlocked the door of the machine, and after a quick look round to see that all their equipment was inside, turned again to wait for Ginger.

  He returned in about five minutes. ‘He’s gone,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty sure. I watched him walk down the road. He was still walking when I last saw him, although he looked back once or twice as if he thought he might be followed.’

  ‘Good! Then let’s get away,’ announced Biggles. ‘Be careful how you get into that parachute, Ginger.’

  In a few minutes they were ready, for they had discussed this moment so often that they were all word-perfect in the parts they were to play. They took their places, Algy at the joystick, Biggles beside him with a map on his knees, and Ginger in the tiny cabin behind.

  Algy rea
ched for the self-starter, and the engine caught immediately, for it had been tuned up to as near perfection as it is possible for a piece of machinery to be. For five minutes they sat still, nobody speaking, while the engine ticked over with the precision of a well-oiled sewing-machine as it warmed up.

  ‘All right,’ said Biggles at last. ‘Let her go.’

  Instantly the ‘Student’ began to move forward. Algy took it well out into the aerodrome before turning into the slight breeze; he regarded the skyline intently for a moment; then the engine roared as he slid the throttle open and the ‘Student’ sped across the darkened aerodrome towards the distant boundary. For a few seconds the machine quivered as its wheels raced over the rough turf; then the vibration ceased abruptly and it climbed steeply into the night sky. For a thousand feet Algy held the machine straight; then, still climbing, he turned slowly until the ‘Student’ was on its compass course for their destination.

  For half an hour nobody spoke. There was nothing to say, for every possible contingency had been discussed on the ground. They had climbed to 18,000 feet and were still climbing.

  Ginger stared out of the window; not that there was much to see, for the earth was no more than a vague black shadow at the bottom of an immense void, dotted with innumerable pinpoints of light, sometimes in clusters and sometimes isolated, marking the position of villages and lonely dwellings. Above and around the stars shone hard and clear from a cloudless sky.

  Algy looked from the watch on his instrument board to Biggles’s face. His eyes held a question.

  Biggles nodded. ‘Better ease her,’ he said. ‘We’re nearing the frontier.’

  As if in answer the noise of the engine faded to a soft purr. The nose of the machine tilted down.

  ‘You’re sure we’re all right?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Yes, I’m watching it. See the river ahead? Turn right and follow it when you get to it.’

  Algy nodded, throttled right back and began a long steady glide.

  Another quarter of an hour passed. The ‘Student’, moving at little more than stalling speed through a lonely world of its own, was down to 14,000 feet and still losing height slowly.

  Biggles stared long and intently at the ground. ‘I can see the village,’ he said. ‘At least, I think those are the lights, over on the right. Come round to the left a little, to bring us over the plain.’ Then, as the nose of the machine crept round, ‘Hold her,’ he called. ‘You’ll do. Keep her there. Are you ready, Ginger?’

  ‘Ay, ay, sir.’

  ‘Right! Give me five seconds to get clear after I jump.’ Biggles picked up a large bundle from the floor of the cabin, opened the door and crept carefully out on to the port wing.

  The bundle disappeared into the void. Three seconds later he followed it, the machine rocking as he slid off the trailing edge of the wing. He disappeared from sight instantly.

  Ginger, who was already on his feet, immediately crept out on to the wing. ‘I’d as soon be kicked in the teeth as jump into that hole,’ he growled into Algy’s ear as he passed him.

  Closing the door behind him, he gripped the rip ring firmly in his right hand and took a deep breath. Then he launched himself into the void.

  There was no sensation of falling, although the wind was bitterly cold as it beat against his face. One — two — three, he counted and tugged at the ring. An instant later the jerk of his harness told him that the parachute had opened; looking up he could see it billowing above him like a great black cloud. He looked around. There was no sign of Biggles; the sky was so clear that he thought he ought to be able to see him, although he knew well enough how difficult it is to see a moving body in the air when it is dark.

  Everything was still — silent. The silence was uncanny. He could not even hear the still-gliding ‘Student’, now on its way back to France. A horrible feeling began to creep over him that he was not falling at all, but was suspended in space from some invisible object. He whistled, hoping that Biggles might hear, but there was no reply. He looked down. For the most part the earth was wrapped in profound gloom, but the tiny cluster of lights that marked the village of Unterhamstadt gleamed more brightly.

  Presently he could see vaguely the shape of the hills surrounding them. On the crest of one there appeared to be a clearing, grey in the dim light. He remembered the castle of which Biggles had spoken and stared at it with interest. He was about to turn his eyes away when a light flashed from the edge of the pile. So quickly did it appear and disappear that he found himself wondering if he had really seen a light. He recalled what Biggles had said about the place being a ruin. However, he dismissed the matter from his mind, for he knew he must be nearing the ground and gave his entire attention to the business of landing; for when one is falling at several feet a second it is an easy matter to sprain an ankle; and such a mishap in the circumstances would be in the nature of a disaster.

  The end came suddenly. The ground seemed to rush up to meet him, and he was thankful to see that he was clear of obstructions. He braced himself for the shock of landing; hardly had he done so than he was on the ground, with the soft silk burying him under its voluminous folds.

  He rolled clear, slipped off his harness and looked around anxiously. Seeing nothing, he whistled softly, and drew a deep breath of relief when it was answered from a short distance away. Satisfied that everything so far had gone according to plan he began rolling up his parachute; by the time he had finished Biggles was standing beside him, half buried under his burden of parachute, rucksack, pigeon basket, and digging implements, also with their parachute attached.

  ‘Everything all right?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Yes, we don’t seem to have broken anything,’ Ginger told him.

  ‘Good! Then let’s get rid of this junk. There’s the wood, over there. The village is on the other side of the hill.’

  Ginger gathered the unwieldy bundle of his parachute under his arm and set off at Biggles’s side across the open ground towards the place where they had decided to conceal their questionable burdens.

  They moved quickly but quietly, although there appeared to be nothing to fear. Not a sound broke the silence. Five minutes’ sharp walking brought them to the edge of the wood. It was pitch dark under the pines, but Biggles groped his way inside. Then he took out his flashlamp, and finding a comparatively level spot, dropped his burden. ‘It feels like sandy soil under foot,’ he said quietly. ‘I hoped it would be. It will be easy to dig,’ he went on, cutting the digging utensils clear of their parachute, and setting about the task of making a hole large enough to bury them in.

  Even though the ground was soft it took them the best part of half an hour to finish the job to their satisfaction. The digging tools, a spade and a small military entrenching tool with a pick at one end, were laid on the top of the pile, and the last covering of earth was put on by hand, the whole site of the excavation finally being carefully smoothed over and strewn with pine needles. It took Biggles a few minutes to find a satisfactory place to hide the pigeon basket, for this, of course, could not be buried. In the end he decided to put it under a thick holly bush, and cover it lightly with leaves.

  ‘Thank goodness that’s done,’ he murmured as he rejoined Ginger. ‘Now for the village. We’ve a good two miles to go, I reckon. We had better get on the road; we can reach it by keeping to the edge of the wood. Incidentally, we had better mark this spot down from the outside; we should look a pair of fools if we couldn’t find the place again.’

  Ginger agreed, so after memorizing the place as well as they could in the starlight, they set off along the edge of the wood towards the road. As they walked Biggles submitted Ginger to a sort of catechism of questions, questions such as how long they had been in the country, where they had come from, their last place of call, their business, when they were returning, and the like, for it was part of their programme that their stories should coincide should they ever be questioned separately.

  ‘We might have brought a couple of goo
d ash walking-sticks with us,’ remarked Biggles as they neared the village. ‘Most hikers carry sticks. As a matter of fact, I did think of it before we started, but we were already so cluttered up that I didn’t like adding any more to our kit. No matter; we shall probably be able to buy a couple here. This looks like the beginning of the village, and where our troubles begin — if we are going to have any. It may all turn out to be a lot easier than we think. Anyway, whatever happens, we can console ourselves that we have left as little as possible to chance.’

  By this time they had reached the village, which, in the wan light of a newly risen moon, they saw was little more than a single street of old houses, most of them half-timbered, with overhanging eaves and numerous gables, in typical central-European medieval style. Some of the timbering was quaint in design, some almost fantastic; and as many of the houses had either been built out of true, or had warped under the heavy hand of time, the effect was what Ginger described, aptly, as Christmas-cardish.

  ‘I should say that in the ordinary way this is a nice old place,’ murmured Biggles appreciatively. ‘It’s got a pleasant old-world air — the real thing, not imitation, as one so often sees at home. Things have probably changed very little here during the past five hundred years. I’ve seen villages in Bavaria and Bohemia very much like it. Left alone, there’s nothing wrong with the people, but with the political stew Europe is in they are probably getting a bit sullen, although they have to take care not to show it. However, we shall see. I — hold hard a minute.’

  Biggles had caught Ginger by the arm and drawn him back into the black shadow of a dilapidated barn. ‘Take a look at that,’ he whispered, indicating a low-fronted tumble-down house that stood by itself on the opposite side of the road. Several windows had been broken.

  ‘What do you mean — the broken windows?’ asked Ginger quietly.