Biggles - Secret Agent

by W E Johns

  ‘Partly, but look what is written on the door.’

  Peering forward, Ginger could just make out the word ‘Jude’ crudely chalked across the entrance. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked.

  ‘The owner of the place is a Jew. Apparently this is one of the places under the influence of anti-Jewish propaganda. He’s evidently a tradesman. That’s his name over the door. What is it — Simon Kretzner? Beerdigungs-Institut. By Jove! He’s the local undertaker. I wonder how much he knows about this business —or if he knows anything. I wonder if we could find out.’

  ‘How could we do that?’

  ‘There’s only one way, and that is by asking. It’s risky, but if it came off it might save us a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Is there anybody there? I don’t see a light.’

  ‘That looks like a workshop in front. There might be a light at the back. Let’s go and look.’

  After a quick glance up and down the road to make sure there was nobody about, they crossed it, and lifting aside a broken wicket gate that gave access to a narrow path, they walked quietly to the end of the house and looked round.

  The reflection of a feeble orange light glowed on an overgrown tangle of bushes that had encroached far into what had once been a kitchen garden. But even as they looked the light went out, leaving the bushes to the bluey-grey moonlight.

  ‘He heard us. We’ve scared him,’ whispered Ginger.

  ‘Then he must have pretty sharp ears — unless he was on the watch,’ muttered Biggles. ‘I’m going to knock on the front door. Behave naturally if he answers it. I’ll do the talking.’

  Retracing their steps down the path to the front door, Biggles rapped sharply on it with his knuckles.

  CHAPTER IV

  The Jew Of Unterhamstadt

  Possibly on account of the fact that the house was in darkness, or because of its forlorn appearance, the knock had an eerie, almost sinister sound, altogether unlike the announcement of the arrival of an expected guest. It seemed to break sharply into an attentive silence, as if it were awaited, yet feared. As the sound died away to a hush more profound on account of its having been broken, the two airmen listened intently for a reply. But they listened in vain. All remained as silent as the grave.

  ‘I have a feeling that there’s something wrong about this place,’ muttered Ginger, glancing around apprehensively.

  ‘Nonsense,’ retorted Biggles impatiently. ‘Why should there be? You’re getting nervous. Somebody is at home; we know that because we saw the light. Evidently they think we’re footpads.’ He knocked again, more loudly this time.

  The knock was answered instantly by a faint cry from within, a curious whimpering sound that might have been made by an animal.

  ‘That’s got somebody on the move, anyway,’ murmured Biggles, as there came a soft shuffling noise from behind the door, which, after a rattling of chains and scraping of bolts, was opened a few inches. Who had opened it was not evident, however, for the room beyond was in darkness.

  ‘Guten Abend,’ said Biggles, in a cheerful tone, calculated to allay suspicion if in fact it existed. Continuing in the same language he went on, ‘We are Englishmen and strangers to this place. Is this the village of Unterhamstadt?’

  For a brief moment there was no reply; only a long indrawn breath, almost a shudder, as of infinite relief. ‘Ja, ja, mein Herren,’ came a thin, quavering voice. The door started to close again, but Biggles put his foot against it. ‘Have you any walking-sticks for sale?’ he inquired.

  The voice replied in the negative.

  ‘May we come in and rest for a minute or two?’ persisted Biggles. ‘We have come far, and would like to ask some questions about accommodation in the village.’

  This request did not immediately produce an answer. It was as if the man behind the door suspected that it was only an excuse to gain admittance — as indeed it was.

  ‘You need have no fear of us,’ continued Biggles, in a low voice. ‘We are English travellers — and friends of the Jews.’ Biggles did little more than whisper the last few words.

  The door was opened slowly and the voice invited them to enter.

  With Ginger following, Biggles stepped across the threshold. Standing in utter darkness, they still could not see the man whose privacy they had invaded, and thus they stood while the door was closed, shutting out even the feeble moonlight. Ginger was conscious of a pricking sensation down the spine as there came again the curious shuffling sound, accompanied by a low muttering. He started violently as, with a scratching noise, amplified no doubt by the darkness, a match flared up disclosing the scene, and, for the first time, their host, who was in the act of lighting a cheap tallow candle from the match which he had struck.

  Ginger regarded with a mixture of disgust and sympathy an old man whose back was bent by years, by labour, or by suffering, or, perhaps, by a combination of all three. His hair, had it been clean, would have been white; long and tangled, it hung far down over the back of his collarless neck, and down his cheeks until it became part of the unkempt beard that concealed the lower part of his face. His old-fashioned jacket and shapeless trousers, once black, were green with age, and dirty beyond description, as were his hands and that part of his face which was not covered with hair. His movements were slow and uncertain; indeed, his fingers trembled to such an extent that it was only with difficulty that he brought the wick of the candle and the flame of the match together.

  Biggles caught Ginger’s eyes. ‘Observe what persecution and the fear of death does to a man in time,’ he said softly, in English. ‘Poor devil. He is just an animated piece of terror.’ Then, more loudly, he went on in German, ‘Do not worry about us, Father. You have nothing to fear.’

  ‘I have no money here — none,’ said the old Jew, in a dull, heavy voice, raising his hands, palms outwards in a characteristic gesture of hopelessness, and regarding his visitors with anxiety and suspicion.

  Biggles smiled reassuringly. ‘We have more than we need,’ he said gently. ‘We may even have some to spare,’ he added significantly.

  The old man’s deep-set eyes regarded Biggles broodingly. ‘So,’ he breathed. ‘It would be better for me — and for you — if we did not talk here. Follow me.’ Turning, he led the way into a small room at the rear. It was filthy beyond description. A heavy foetid smell hung on the air, and judging from the heaped-up rags on a couch that occupied one side of the room, it was plain that the old man lived in it.

  Indicating a wooden bench, he invited his visitors to be seated; then, after standing the candle on a table littered with dirty crocks, he himself sank down on the rag-covered bed.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked nervously, looking from one to the other. ‘You were not wise to come here.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘I am a Jew.’

  ‘Do they treat Jews so badly?’

  ‘You have seen,’ said the old man simply.

  ‘Why do you stay here and suffer?’

  ‘How can I go? I have no money — none.’ The old man’s eyes darted from door to window, and back again to his visitors. ‘They have had it all,’ he said softly, but there was a world of hate behind his tremulous voice.

  ‘Have you anywhere to go — if you had money?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘I have a married daughter in Switzerland. Fortunately she left before the trouble began.’

  ‘And if you had — shall we say — two thousand marks, you could join her — yes?’

  Surprise joined the smouldering fear in the old man’s eyes. ‘Where is there so much money?’ he scoffed.

  ‘I can give you that — and more — if you can furnish me with the information I seek,’ said Biggles deliberately, his eyes squarely meeting those of the Jew.

  Again there was a short silence. Again the old man’s eyes flashed from door to window, almost, it seemed, from very habit. ‘What is it you want to know?’ he asked at last.

  Biggles had gone too far now to dissemb
le. He decided there and then to take the downright course. ‘Not long ago a learned doctor was injured here in a motor-car accident, so that he died,’ he murmured, quietly but distinctly. And even as he spoke he saw the old man’s flabby muscles stiffen.

  The Jew crouched back, an arm over his face as if he feared a blow. ‘No!’ he gasped. ‘No – not that!’ His tongue licked his lips as again his eyes darted from door to window. ‘No!’ he panted, his voice breaking into a whimper.

  Biggles’s face hardened. His manner became cold and direct. ‘Listen, old man,’ he said in a terse whisper, ‘I will pay you to tell me what you know.’

  ‘I know nothing.’

  Biggles took out his wallet and slowly counted out twenty-five hundred-mark notes. ‘Will those restore your memory?’ he asked grimly. ‘With those, tomorrow you could leave this place for ever. Now tell me. Did you bury the doctor’s body?’

  The Jew stared at the notes as if they fascinated him. ‘No,’ he insisted.

  ‘But you are the undertaker here.’

  ‘Yes, but it was not I. It was—’ The man broke off abruptly, as if he realized that he was saying too much.

  ‘Who was it?’ Biggles’s voice was as cold and hard as cracking ice.

  ‘My son. He, too, is of my trade. His workshop is nearer the middle of the village.’

  ‘Is he there now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  ‘They took him away — afterwards.’

  ‘I see,’ said Biggles slowly. ‘Did you see him — afterwards?’

  ‘No’

  ‘Don’t lie.’

  The old man quivered. ‘I do not — lie.’

  ‘Then if you did not see him how did you know about this?’ asked Biggles sharply.

  ‘He told his wife that night. The next day they took him away. She told me,’ gasped the old man, his eyes on Biggles’s face. It was as if Biggles was dragging the information out of him against his will.

  ‘That night? What night?’ demanded Biggles.

  The Jew shook with terror. His eyes were never still, and the trembling of his hands was such that he had to grip the bed to steady them.

  Biggles began picking up the notes. ‘I am wasting my time,’ he said grimly. ‘Will you tell me what I want to know or shall I pursue my inquiries elsewhere?’

  The funeral director’s agitation was pitiful to behold. ‘I will tell you,’ he gasped at last, holding out his hand for the notes.

  But Biggles withdrew them. ‘Tell me first and they shall be yours,’ he promised.

  The old man moistened his lips with his tongue. ‘I will tell you everything,’ he said desperately. He was nearly inarticulate with terror, and Ginger marvelled that a man could be reduced to such a lamentable condition.

  ‘After the accident the man was brought here, to the Kleishausen, which is the big hotel—’

  ‘Where did the accident happen?’ interrupted Biggles.

  ‘Ah! That I do not know.’

  ‘Very well, go on.’

  ‘It was this way. My son was just sitting down to his supper when two storm-troopers came into his house and told him that he was wanted for work in the hotel. My son thought it was for carpenter’s work, and said that he would go tomorrow; but they said that would not do; a man had been killed and a coffin was wanted at once. So my son took his rule to measure the body, and went to the hotel. The body was in a great bedroom, which has the number seventeen, and he was surprised at this, for he could not think why they should take a dead man into the best room. This, you understand, is what he told Greta, his wife, when he returned home.’

  ‘Did he see the body?’

  ‘Yes – and no. A doctor whom he did not know was there, with the body on the bed, but it was so wrapped up in bandages that he could not see the face. There was blood on the bandages, and on the bedclothes, but when he asked about this the doctor bade him sternly to take the measurements and ask no questions. So he took the measurements and departed, with instructions to work all night and make the coffin. Which he did. Just before noon the next day it was finished, and he, helped by the storm-troopers, took it across. He did not come back; not that day, nor the next; nor has his unhappy wife seen him since.’

  ‘You mean – he disappeared?’

  ‘That is what I mean.’

  ‘But did not his wife make inquiries?’

  ‘Yes. She was told that he had gone away, but would return later. If she asked questions she would never see him again. The head of the storm-troopers also asked her if her husband had spoken about what he had seen the night before, and she, fearing for herself, and him, said “No, nothing”. They told her threateningly to speak to no one about what had happened. Nor has she, except to me, to whom she came in her grief.’

  ‘But what of the funeral? Did she not see it?’

  ‘No. It was all done very quietly and secretly, at the break of dawn.’

  ‘How do you know that it was at dawn, if it was so secret?’ demanded Biggles instantly.

  ‘Because my daughter-in-law, hearing a noise, went to the window of her room and saw the coffin brought out — the hotel being in view of her house. So she sent Joachim, her little boy, to see if he could see his father. From the woods he saw the funeral, but he did not see his father. There were only the storm-troopers there, and they put the coffin in the vault on the western side, near the tower.’

  Biggles started. ‘In the what?’

  ‘The vault.’

  Biggles was silent for a moment. ‘Then it was not an ordinary grave?’ he said slowly.

  ‘No. The church is very old, and there are vaults, although it is long since they were used.’

  ‘How are the entrances to these vaults sealed?’

  ‘I do not know that. It is not my church. Only once was I there, many years ago; but if I remember, the vaults are behind slabs of stone. That is the truth, and that is all I know. And now spare an old man’s anguish and be gone, for if anyone should find you here it would be very bad for both of us.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we will go. We shall forget we ever saw you, and you will forget that you have seen us.’ As he spoke he handed the money to the old Jew, who seized the notes eagerly and thrust them far down inside his ragged shirt.

  He had not yet withdrawn his hand, and Biggles was in the act of rising to leave the room, when a sound broke the temporary silence. It was so slight that in the ordinary way it would not have been noticed; nor would it have been audible had the conversation persisted. It was merely the slight creak of a door.

  Biggles turned like lightning. The door was open perhaps an inch. Yet it had, he knew, been closed and latched after they had entered. The old man had seen to that.

  The Jew’s terror was pitiful to behold. A faint moan broke from his ashen lips, and he nearly collapsed. His eyes, saucer-wide with fear, stared at the door. His lips moved noiselessly.

  Biggles’s mouth set in a hard line. He motioned Ginger to remain still. ‘Thank you very much, Father,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘I think we shall be able to find our way now.’ But as he spoke he tiptoed towards the door with cat-like tread. Reaching it, with a swift movement he jerked it wide open.

  A girl, young, good-looking, dressed in a neat brown tweed costume, stood on the threshold.

  Ginger stared unbelievingly at the pale face, surmounted by golden hair. Whatever he had expected, it was certainly not this.

  Biggles, too, stared. But his hand went slowly to his head, and he raised his cap with a little bow. ‘Good evening, Fraulein,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Have you, like us, lost your way?’

  The girl did not answer immediately. She seemed as taken aback to see Biggles as he was to see her. ‘Yes — yes, yes,’ she stammered at last.

  ‘Then you had better ask the old man your way,’ continued Biggles evenly, trusting that the Jew had recovered himself sufficiently to be ab
le to speak. ‘He has been kind enough to tell us what we wanted to know. We are just going.’ Then, turning, ‘Good-night,’ he called over his shoulder to the old man, and beckoning to Ginger, made ready to depart.

  The girl stepped aside to allow them to pass.

  Biggles whistled softly as he walked down the path towards the gate, and so out on to the road. Not until he had taken some fifty paces did he speak. ‘Well, laddie,’ he said, ‘that little interlude has given us something to think about.’

  ‘What was that girl after?’

  ‘Heaven alone knows. She was just about the last sort of person I should expect there.’

  ‘She was listening.’

  ‘Yes, I think she was. A funny business.’

  ‘What was the old man talking about all that time? I wish to goodness I could speak German.’

  ‘Let’s go to the hotel; then I’ll tell you all about it,’ said Biggles. ‘That looks like it, just ahead on the left. Handsome place, isn’t it?’

  ‘Let’s hope it’s a case of “handsome is as handsome does”,’ murmured Ginger aptly.

  CHAPTER V

  Under the Castle Walls

  As they walked slowly up the deserted village street towards the hotel, Biggles gave Ginger the gist of his conversation with the old Jew; for, as it had been carried on in German, he had not understood a word of it. ‘This business of Beklinder being buried in a vault instead of a grave fairly staggered me for a minute, I can tell you,’ he said. ‘It will alter our plans. It may make the exhumation easier or it may make it harder; that’s something we shan’t know until we see the vault. Still, it’s a very good thing we found out about it, otherwise we should have wasted a lot of time looking for a grave that doesn’t exist, and so possibly have arrived at an incorrect conclusion. We shall have to go and take a look at this vault at the first opportunity — probably tonight, if our room is so situated that we can get out without being seen. But here is the hotel. Let’s go in and get things fixed up. It will be interesting to see what sort of reception we get; we shall soon know whether we are welcome or otherwise.’