Biggles - Secret Agent

by W E Johns

  The hotel was a large, rambling, but rather impressive building, obviously medieval in its inspiration. Surmounted by a tower, the roof was broken by innumerable gables, each complete with diamond-paned windows, and decorated with much ornate timbering, as was, in fact, the whole building, in the style now commonly referred to in England as ‘black and white’. An imposing timber porch, carrying the insignia of several international touring associations, protected the main entrance.

  Biggles opened the door and they went into a long, low-ceilinged reception hall. A log fire smouldered sullenly at one end. As they stood in momentary hesitation, looking for the reception office, a heavily built man, typically German in appearance, arose from behind a counter at which he had been sitting and came towards them. ‘At your service, gentlemen,’ he said in English with a strong foreign accent, at the same time drawing himself up and making a stiff little bow.

  ‘You are a good judge of nationality,’ smiled Biggles.

  ‘I should be a bad judge if I did not recognize English clothes.’ returned the man smoothly.

  Biggles nodded, knowing that what the man had said was true; there was nothing particularly clever in his assumption, after all. ‘Am I speaking to the proprietor?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ answered Biggles. ‘We are on a walking tour, and we should like to stay here for a few days if you can accommodate us.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Two days — three days — perhaps a week. We have no definite plans. If we like it here we may even stay longer. You have some rooms?’

  ‘But certainly. We have few visitors so early in the year. You require two rooms?’

  ‘No,’ replied Biggles quickly. ‘We would prefer a large room with two beds.’ As he spoke an idea came into his mind. ‘The best you have,’ he added.

  ‘Of course — of course,’ agreed the proprietor. ‘I can show you a room of much excellence.’ He walked stiffly to the key-rack that almost covered the wall behind the reception counter and unhooked the one that hung below a disk bearing the figure 18.

  ‘What about number seventeen?’ suggested Biggles casually.

  The man stopped dead in what he was doing. Then he went on again. It was as if the words had for an instant bereft him of the power of movement. There was a curious timbre in his voice when he asked, ‘Why that number?’

  Biggles had his answer ready. ‘Oh, it just happens to be my lucky number, that’s all,’ he answered nonchalantly.

  ‘Number seventeen is not a double room,’ said the man slowly, but with unmistakable deliberation.

  Biggles passed the matter off as if it were of no account. ‘That’s all right,’ he said lightly. ‘Any number will do.’

  ‘You will find that number eighteen is a room most comfortable,’ announced the proprietor, laying the key on the counter; then, taking two forms from a sheaf that stood in a letter-rack, he placed one before each of his visitors. ‘Please to fill in these forms,’ he said. ‘Have you baggage?’

  ‘Only what you can see,’ Biggles told him.

  ‘Then I must ask you to pay a deposit in advance.’

  ‘With pleasure.’ Biggles took a thousand-mark note from his wallet and laid it on the counter. ‘Please tell me when that is exhausted,’ he said.

  The hotel proprietor’s manner changed when he saw the note. It became obsequious. It was obvious that if he had judged his visitor’s nationality correctly, he had been in error over their financial status. ‘Will you please to fill in the forms now,’ he said again. ‘I regret, gentlemen, but this is the regulation, you know. Just at the top part will be sufficient. If you will leave me your passports I can fill in the rest.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘You speak English very well; have you been in England?’ he inquired, as, picking up a pen, he filled in the questions concerning his parents’ nationality, his last stopping-place, and other details which could not be completed from his passport.

  ‘Yes, for five years I was a waiter in London,’ admitted the man.

  Biggles judged him to be about fifty years of age. ‘That was before the War, I suppose?’ he suggested.

  ‘Yes.’ The man’s manner changed again. It became almost curt, suggesting that he was not interested in personalities – at least, those which concerned himself.

  ‘Are there any other English visitors here?’ asked Biggles, as the man picked up the key and invited them to follow him towards a sweeping wooden staircase, black with age, that led upwards from a corner of the entrance hall.

  ‘No,’ was the short response. ‘Mind your head on the beam, if you please.’

  After traversing a long corridor on the first floor he stopped. The number plate attached to the key jangled as the door swung open. He stood aside to allow his visitors to enter.

  ‘Yes, this will do very well,’ agreed Biggles, glancing around appreciatively, for the room was spacious and furnished in excellent, if old-fashioned, style.

  ‘I thought you would like it. You will require dinner – yes? It is rather past the usual hour, but—’

  ‘Yes, we should like something to eat,’ Biggles told him. ‘Shall we say in about ten minutes?’

  ‘Very well. The bell is here by the door. Should you require anything ring once for the waiter and twice for the chambermaid. Will you take breakfast in your room?’

  ‘No, thanks — we shall probably come down for it.’

  The hotel proprietor bowed and withdrew.

  ‘Everything seems all right so far,’ murmured Biggles as soon as he had gone. ‘Frankly, I quite expected to find that we were unwelcome, but I couldn’t detect anything in mine host’s manner to suggest it — although he shied a bit when I mentioned room seventeen. But let’s have a wash and go down for a bite of food; I can do with some.’

  They were not long taking such things as they required, pyjamas and toilet requisites, from their rucksacks, and after a quick wash and brush up they went down to the dining-room, which, in keeping with the rest of the building, they found to be in the nature of a baronial hall. An elderly waiter in a white apron and napkin on his arm came forward to meet them and showed them the table that had been laid for them.

  But Ginger barely noticed these things, for his attention was entirely taken up by the only other person in the room. It was the golden-haired girl in brown whom they had last seen at the Jew’s house. She was just beginning her soup, and it was obvious from her manner that she was a guest at the hotel. For a moment she stared as hard at the newcomers as they at her.

  Ginger looked up and caught Biggles’s eye. There was a curious expression on Biggles’s face. ‘That gives us something else to think about, doesn’t it?’ he murmured dryly.

  ‘She’s having a jolly good look at us,’ said Ginger, in a low voice.

  ‘I’ve noticed it. She’s evidently staying here — alone, too. What was she doing prowling round the Jew’s house, I wonder? I mean, her movements were a good deal more like those of a burglar than ours were. We did at least knock on the door.’

  ‘She behaved like an eavesdropper,’ declared Ginger, as he pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

  ‘She certainly did. I wonder how much she heard of our conversation — not that guessing will help us. We shall have to keep an eye on her. The odd thing is, although I cannot help feeling that it must be pure coincidence, her face seems vaguely familiar.’

  ‘I didn’t like to say so for fear that you would accuse me again of being nervous, but since you mention it I don’t mind admitting that the same thought struck me,’ declared Ginger.

  ‘Hmm,’ mused Biggles, ‘a funny business. But let’s get on and finish the meal. I’d like to have a stroll round outside before turning in — unless you’re too tired.’

  ‘Me tired? Not in the least,’ asserted Ginger. ‘Let us stroll, by all means.’

  They hastened the meal to a conclusion, although they took particular care not to make this obvious, after which they
went back upstairs for their caps. Biggles slipped an electric torch into his pocket at the same time, after which they made their way back to the entrance hall.

  The proprietor was standing at his desk, reading a paper. ‘You are going walking again tonight?’ he asked, in a not unfriendly manner.

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just a stroll round the village to get our bearings before turning in.’ Which, in the circumstances, he thought not unreasonable. And with that they passed on into the street.

  ‘Where are you going — to the churchyard?’ whispered Ginger as soon as they were outside.

  ‘Not yet. Later, perhaps. We shall have to make a pretence of going to bed, so we can’t very well stay out for a couple of hours. That would look a bit too odd.’

  They stood for a moment or two looking about them. The moon was now well up and they could see their surroundings fairly clearly. ‘Let’s have a look in here,’ said Biggles, indicating what no doubt had originally been a coach entrance, but was now the way to the garage.

  There was nobody about, so they strolled slowly round the extensive outbuildings unquestioned. Beyond them there was a wide kitchen garden, walled on one side, with a dilapidated lean-to greenhouse occupying part of its length. The other part was taken up by a shed. Biggles, after an apparently casual but in reality penetrating glance round to make sure that they were not observed, walked slowly towards it. ‘With luck we may find in here something we shall need,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A crow-bar, or a stout piece of timber. I imagine we shall need such an instrument to get into the vault.’

  The shed was not locked, so there was no difficulty about gaining admittance. Biggles’s torch cut a wedge of light into the darkness, and rested, as he had hoped, on an array of gardening tools, old wheel-barrows, a rusty lawn-mower and other garden furniture, none of which looked as if it had been touched for years. Against the wall, amongst a litter of old spades, rakes, hoes, worn-out brooms, and an axe with a cracked shaft, they found what they sought. There were, in fact, several pieces of iron of various lengths which in emergency might have suited their purpose. ‘Good,’ murmured Biggles. ‘Had we not found one in here we should have had to ask the old Jew to help us again, and I’d rather keep away from him.’

  ‘He’d rather we kept out of his way, too,’ murmured Ginger.

  Leaving the tools where they were, they made their way back to the road and walked unconcernedly down the middle of it in the direction opposite the one by which they had entered the village, until at last they came to the point where it disappeared into the forest. Biggles noticed a lane winding uphill on the left-hand side. ‘That, I fancy, leads to the castle,’ he observed.

  ‘That’s the direction, anyway,’ agreed Ginger. ‘By the way, that reminds me, as I was coming down on my brolly I thought I saw a light there.’

  Biggles stopped dead. ‘In the castle?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Ginger hesitated. ‘It’s hard to be certain. I thought I saw a light, but it was gone almost at once.’

  ‘Hmm. That’s queer. My information was that the castle was a ruin. Let’s stroll along a bit; it isn’t far, and if anyone sees us it can hardly be said that we are behaving suspiciously.’

  As Biggles said, their manner was that of casual tourists; at least, in that they made no attempt at concealment. It was dark under the trees, which closed in on the lane on both sides, but sufficient moonlight penetrated for them to advance without using the torch.

  After about a quarter of an hour’s walk the lane steepened; then the forest terminated abruptly and the massive pile of the castle loomed up grotesquely in the moonlight before them. Not a light showed anywhere. A little breeze had got up and moaned dismally through the pines.

  ‘A grim-looking sort of spot,’ murmured Ginger.

  ‘Yes, I should say some dirty work has gone on here in the past,’ agreed Biggles, walking closer to the mighty bastions which girded the castle itself. ‘This is as far as we can get, apparently,’ he continued, when the roadway ended at a broad gateway of heavy, iron-studded timber, which was closed.

  ‘Let’s walk along here for a bit,’ suggested Ginger, indicating a narrow, weed-covered track that skirted the bastion on their right. ‘There seems to be a sort of building on the top of the wall there — stables, or something,’ he went on. ‘There’s a window, too. If one could get up to it it might be possible to get on the wall and drop down on the inside.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s the ideal moment to start exploring the castle,’ murmured Biggles. ‘I doubt whether it is likely to produce anything of interest to us anyway, although we might have a look at it sometime. That window up there is barred, isn’t it?’

  Ginger strained his eyes upwards. ‘I think so,’ he said. ‘By standing on your shoulders I could just about reach it. Lend me the torch and give me a bunk up — I’ll have a look inside.’

  Biggles glanced up and down the path. There was nobody in sight. ‘Right you are,’ he said, handing Ginger the torch and making a ‘back’ for him to mount on.

  Ginger, holding the torch between his teeth, climbed up on his unsteady perch. As Biggles straightened his back and thus brought him nearer to the window he gripped the bottom bars with his left hand to take as much weight as possible off Biggles’s shoulders.

  When his eyes grew level with the opening he took the torch from his teeth and directed a shaft of light inside. For perhaps fifteen seconds he remained thus. Then he flicked out the light and dropped back to the ground. He was slightly breathless.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Biggles tersely, sensing from his manner that he had seen something.

  ‘There’s a car there.’

  ‘A car? What sort of car?’

  Ginger drew a deep breath. ‘It looks to me like a Morris Ten.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘By thunder! That puts a different complexion on things,’ breathed Biggles. ‘Beklinder’s car was a Morris Ten. If that isn’t his then it’s an uncanny coincidence. Was it damaged?’

  ‘Not a mark on it that I could see.’

  Biggles whistled softly. ‘We’ll look a bit closer into this,’ he breathed. But before he could suit the action to the word there came a sound from farther along the path that sent them both with one accord scuttling into the dense shadow of the trees on their right, for at this point the forest approached nearly to the castle walls. It was only a slight noise, but it was significant; the mere rattle of a piece of stone against another. Slight as the sound was they both knew that it could only have been caused by human or animal agency, for stones do not move by themselves.

  Biggles, holding Ginger by the arm so that they would not lose each other in the darkness, backed farther into the trees until there was a good ten yards between them and the path, but in a position from which it could be seen. A few moments later the dark outline of a man appeared round a bend in the moonlit path, and it was clear at once from his dress and manner that he was a guard, or sentry. In breeches, military field boots, and a shirt of dark-coloured material, he wore no jacket, but a leather belt with revolver holster attached gave him the appearance of an irregular soldier. He came slowly on, looking about him in an inconsequential manner, as if he had performed the same duty many times before and did not expect to see anything of interest.

  When he reached the junction of the path and the roadway he stopped and squatted on a large piece of fallen stone.

  ‘I hope he isn’t going to sit there long,’ breathed Biggles in Ginger’s ear. ‘We couldn’t move without him hearing us.’

  The sentry sat long enough to cause them some anxiety, but at the end of about ten minutes he rose, and after looking at his wrist watch walked up to the heavy door upon which he struck a heavy blow, twice repeated.

  Almost at once it was opened, and a second man, dressed in a similar uniform, joined him. Thereupon a conversation was begun, but in tones too low fo
r Biggles to hear what was being said. This went on for several minutes when the distant sound of a Klaxon horn galvanized them to sudden activity; the first man marched up and down in a brisk, soldier-like manner, and the second man threw the gates wide open, keeping them in that position with two heavy stones. A moment later a car could be heard coming up the roadway. Its blinding headlights threw the scene into high relief in a curiously flat manner, so that the picture thus presented was like a piece of stage scenery.

  The car, a large dark limousine, drove straight through the gateway without stopping.

  The gates were then closed, with the two guards on the inside.

  Biggles and Ginger remained still for several minutes, not daring to move; but when the guards did not reappear they began to edge towards the roadway. They did not step out on to it, however, but, keeping parallel with it, began to make their way back towards the village. Not until they were once more in the main street did they breathe freely.

  ‘My goodness! We nearly walked into something that time,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Whatever it is, there is more going on behind those grey walls than appears on the outside. But come on, we must get back to the hotel or the proprietor will wonder what the dickens we are up to. He must know that something is going on at the castle.’

  They hurried back to the hotel, where they found the proprietor sitting at his desk, a newspaper in his hand. He looked up as they entered, glanced at the ornate wooden clock which hung on the wall, folded his newspaper and laid it aside.

  Biggles took the key of their room from its hook. ‘Good-night,’ he said.

  The proprietor inclined his head. ‘Good-night, gentlemen. At what time would you like to be called in the morning?’ he asked suavely.

  ‘Oh, you’d better wait until we ring. We’ll see how we feel,’ returned Biggles, and with a nod passed on to the staircase. Reaching their room, he was putting the key in the lock when a movement made him glance down the corridor. A door was slowly closing. He said nothing, however, until they were inside their room and the door shut. ‘That young lady seems to be extremely interested in our movements,’ he said quietly.