by W E Johns
Then began a period of time which to Biggles’ keyed-up nerves seemed like eternity; but still nothing happened. Where was the man? What was he doing? Was he still in the room? Could it be possible that he had slipped out of the window again without being noticed? No, that was quite impossible. Had he in some way opened the door and gone out into the corridor? Definitely no; in such an aching silence, for any one to attempt to turn the handle, much less the lock, without being heard, was manifestly absurd. What, then, was happening?
Such were Biggles’ thoughts as he stood in his stuffy hiding-place fighting to steady his palpitating heart. Another ten minutes passed slowly and he began to wonder if there had been a man at all. Could the whole thing have been a vision conjured up by his already overtaxed nerves? The tension became electric in its intensity, and he knew he could not stand the strain much longer. Could he rush to the window, throw himself through, and bolt before the man in the room had recovered from the shock of discovering that he was not alone? He thought he could, but it was a desperate expedient that he preferred not to undertake until it became vitally necessary.
Then at last the silence was broken, broken by a sound which, as it reached his ears, seemed to turn his blood to ice. He had heard it many times before, and it never failed to fill him with a vague dread, but in his present position it literally paralysed him. It was the slow dragging gait of a lame man, and it was coming down the corridor. Then it stopped and there was a faint tap, tap, and Biggles knew that von Stalhein was propping his stick against the wall while he felt for his keys. In his agitated imagination he could see him, follow his every action, and the grinding of the key in the lock sounded like the first laborious move of a piece of badly oiled machinery. Slowly the door creaked open on its hinges. There was a sharp click, a blaze of blinding light, and von Stalhein stepped into the room.
At that moment the Arab sprang. Biggles saw him streak across the room with a brown arm upraised, and caught the flash of steel. But if the Arab hoped to catch the German unaware, he was doomed to disappointment.
Never in his life before had Biggles seen anything quite so swift as that which followed. With a lithe movement that would have been miraculous even for an athlete, von Stalhein dived forward with a galvanic jerk; the top part of his body twisted, and the curved blade that was aimed at his throat missed his shoulder by what must have been literally a hair’s breadth. His sticks crashed to the floor. All the force of the Arab’s arm must have been behind the blow, for his lunge carried him beyond the German, who was round in a flash. His hand darted to his hip pocket, but before he could draw the weapon he obviously kept there the Arab was on him again, and he was compelled to use both hands to fight off his attack.
Again the Arab sprang, and as his right arm flashed down von Stalhein caught it with his left, while his right groped through the folds of his flowing burnous for the brown throat. In that position they remained while Biggles could have counted ten, looking for all the world like a piece of magnificent statuary. Neither of them spoke; only the swift intake of breath revealed the quivering energy that was being expended by each of them to hold the other off. Then the tableau snapped into lightning-like activity.
Biggles couldn’t see just what happened. All he knew was that the knife crashed to the floor; at the same moment the Arab tore himself free and flung himself at the window. He went through it like a greyhound, but, even so, the German was faster. His right hand flashed down and came up gripping a squat automatic, and at the precise moment that the Arab disappeared from sight a spurt of yellow flame streaked across the room. Von Stalhein was at the window before the crash of the report had died away; with the agility of an eel he threw his legs across the sill and sprang downward out of sight.
Biggles seized his opportunity; he stepped out of the wardrobe, closed it behind him, darted to the door and sped down the corridor. He hesitated as he reached the main entrance, eyes seeking the sentry, but no one was in sight, so he ran out and took refuge behind the nearest hangar. At that stage he would have asked nothing more than to be allowed to return to his room, but he saw figures hurrying towards the fort from the Mess, so he turned about and ran back as if he had heard the report of the shot and was anxious to know the cause. Doors were banging inside and voices were calling; he paid no attention to them but ran round the side of the building, and then pulled up with a jerk as he almost collided with von Stalhein and the door sentry, who were bending over a recumbent figure on the ground. He saw that it was the Arab.
‘Good gracious, von Stalhein,’ he exclaimed, ‘what’s happened? What was that shot?’
‘Nothing very much,’ replied the German coolly. ‘Fellow tried to knife me, that’s all. One of the sheikhs who was on the raid the other night; the poor fools are blaming me because the thing went wrong. By the way, where have you just sprung from?’
It was on the tip of Biggles’ tongue to say ‘from my room’, but something warned him to be careful. Instead, ‘I was admiring the night from the tarmac,’ he smiled; ‘I can’t sit indoors this weather. Why?’
‘Because I looked into your room just now to have a word with you, and you weren’t there,’ was the casual reply.
Biggles caught his breath as he realized how nearly he had made a blunder. ‘What did you want me for?’ he inquired.
‘Oh, merely a job the Count had in mind, but don’t worry about it now; I’ll see you in the morning. I shall have to stay and see this mess cleared up, confound it.’ Von Stalhein touched the Arab with the toe of his patent leather shoe.
‘All right. Then I think I’ll get to bed,’ returned Biggles, as several officers and mechanics joined the party.
Safely out of sight round the corner of a hangar he mopped his face with a handkerchief. ‘My gosh,’ he muttered, ‘this business is nothing but one shock after another. “Where have you just sprung from?” he asked. I felt like saying, “And where the dickens have you come from?” He couldn’t have been in that machine that took off, after all; I’m beginning to take too much for granted, which doesn’t pay, evidently, at this game. And so he’s got a job for me in the morning, eh? Well, with any luck I shan’t be taking on many more jobs in this part of the world, I hope.’
Chapter 16
Checked
The next morning he was awakened by his batman*1 bringing early morning tea. He got out of bed, lit a cigarette, and sat by the open window while he considered the results of his investigations. How far had he progressed? How much had he learned about El Shereef, the German super-spy? Had he arrived at a stage when, figuratively speaking, he could lay his cards on Major Raymond’s desk and ask to be posted back to his old squadron, leaving the Intelligence people to do the rest? No, he decided regretfully, he had not. He had learned something, enough perhaps to end von Stalhein’s activities, but that was not enough, for while the British Intelligence Staff might agree that he had concluded his task, something inside told him that it was still incomplete; that something more, the unmasking of a deeper plot than either he or British headquarters at first suspected, remained to be done. Just what that was he did not know, but he had a vague suspicion, and at the moment he felt he was standing on the threshold of discoveries that might alter the whole course of the war in that part of the world. Moreover, it was unlikely that another British agent would ever again be in such a sound position to bring about the exposure; so it was up to him to hang on whatever the cost to himself.
That von Stalhein was the super-spy, El Shereef, he no longer doubted, for it was hardly possible that there could be two German spies masquerading as Arabs behind the British lines, and that von Stalhein did adopt Arab disguise was certain; the incident at the oasis was sufficient proof of that. If further proof were needed there was the business of the feigned limp, which he felt was all part of a clever pose to throw possible investigators off the scent. The limp was so pronounced, and he played the part of a lame man to such perfection, that the very act of abandoning it would have been a disg
uise in itself. No one could even think of von Stalhein without the infirmity. For what purpose other than espionage, or disguise, should he pretend to be incapacitated when he was not?
He knew now that von Stalhein was as active as any normal man. The way he had behaved when attacked by the Arab in his room revealed that, for he had dropped his sticks and dashed to the window with a speed that would have done credit to a professional runner. If he were not El Shereef, why the pose? As Erich von Stalhein he made his headquarters at Zabala; at night he changed, and under the pseudonym of El Shereef, worked behind the British lines, coming and going by means of a special detailed aeroplane. And the more Biggles thought about it the more he was convinced that he was right.
‘The pilot flies him over, lands him well behind the lines—at the oasis for instance—and then comes home. Later, at a pre-arranged time and place, he goes over and picks him up,’ he mused. ‘That’s what Mayer was doing the day he picked me up. Mayer landed for von Stalhein, but when he found me there instead he knew he had to bring me back. If only I could catch von Stalhein in the act of landing, there would be an end to it, but I’ll bet he never again uses the place where I was picked up; he’d be too cunning for that; he doesn’t trust me a yard, in spite of the fact that he has no foundation for his suspicions. He must have an instinct for danger like a cat. The only other way to nab him would be to find out the Arab name he adopts when he is over there, hanging about our troops picking up information. The thing I can’t get over is that shadow on the tent, and but for the fact that he must have been somewhere around in order to learn that I was a prisoner, and then effect my rescue, I should feel inclined to think that I’d been mistaken. It’s rather funny he has never mentioned a thing to me, taken credit for getting me out of the mess. No, perhaps it isn’t funny. Oh, dash it, I don’t know . . . unless . . .’
He stared thoughtfully at the desert for some time, drumming on the window-sill with his fingers. ‘Well, I’d better go and see what the Count wants, I suppose,’ he concluded, as he finished his toilet and went down to the Mess to breakfast, after which he walked along to the fort. He found von Stalhein in the headquarters office, but the Count had not yet arrived.
‘Good morning, Brunow,’ greeted the German affably. ‘Quite a good photo—look.’ He passed the last photograph Biggles had taken of Mayer’s burning Halberstadt.
‘Good morning, von Stalhein,’ replied Biggles, taking it and looking at it closely, aware that that the German’s eyes were on him. He finished his scrutiny and passed it back, wondering if von Stalhein had overlooked something in the photograph which he had spotted instantly. The photograph had been taken from a very low altitude and from an oblique angle, which showed not only the charred, smoking wreck but the desert beyond. Across the soft sand where he had landed ran a line of wheel tracks; they began some distance from the crash and ran off the top right-hand corner of the photograph. He looked up to see von Stalhein looking at him; his eyes were smiling mockingly, but there was no smile about his thin lips.
‘I may be mistaken, but I understood you to say that you didn’t land,’ observed the German, in a low careless voice that nevertheless held a hard, steely quality.
Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘No, you were not mistaken,’ he replied; ‘why did you say that?’
‘I was wondering how the wheel marks got there, that’s all.’
Biggles laughed. ‘Oh, those,’ he said. ‘Those were the marks made by my home-made trailer, I expect—have a cigarette?’
He offered his case as if his explanation of such a trivial point was sufficient—as indeed it was.
‘Of course,’ said von Stalhein, slowly—very slowly. ‘Funny, I didn’t think of that.’
‘One cannot always expect to think of everything,’ rejoined Biggles simply. ‘What does the Count want–do you know?’
‘Here he is, so he’ll tell you himself,’ answered von Stalhein shortly.
Biggles sprang to attention. ‘Good morning, sir,’ he said.
‘Good morning, Brunow—morning, Erich. Going to be hot again,’ observed the Count, dropping into his chair behind the desk. And then, glancing up at Biggles, he asked, ‘Has Hauptmann von Stalhein told you what we were discussing last night?’
‘No, sir.’
‘I see.’ The Count unfastened his stiff upright collar. ‘Well, the position is this,’ he went on. ‘As you are no doubt aware, the chief reason why you were sent here was because of your knowledge of the English and their language. It was thought that you might be able to undertake duties that would be impossible for a—one of our own people. You have a British R.F.C. uniform, and we have British aeroplanes, yet neither have been fully exploited. In fact, you are rapidly becoming an ordinary flying officer engaged on routine duties, and in that capacity you have done remarkably well; in fact, if it goes on one of the Staffels will be putting in a request for you to be posted to them. I think it’s time we did something about it, don’t you?’
‘As you wish, sir. I have thought about it myself, but I didn’t mention it because I thought you’d give me orders for special duty when you were ready.’
‘Quite so.’ The Count turned to von Stalhein. ‘We shall make a good German officer of him yet, Erich,’ he observed dryly, in German.
‘Thank you, sir,’ put in Biggles absent-mindedly, in the same language.
‘Ah-ha, so you are progressing with your German, too,’ asserted the Count, raising his eyebrows.
Biggles flushed slightly, for the words had slipped out unthinkingly. ‘I’m doing my best, and what with my book and conversations in the Mess, I am picking it up slowly,’ he explained.
‘Capital. But let us come to this business we are here for,’ continued the Count. He lit a long black cigar and studied the glowing end closely before he went on. ‘Last night I was merely concerned with the idea of sending you over to the British lines for a day or two to pick up any odd scraps of information that might be useful, paying particular regard to the preparations the British are making for the attack we know is soon to be launched near Gaza–at least, everything points to the battle being fought there. Since then, however, a blow has fallen the importance of which cannot be exaggerated. It is, in fact, the most serious set-back we have had for a long time. Fortunately it does not affect us personally, but I hear that General Headquarters in Jerusalem is in a fever about it; if we could recover what we have lost, it would be a feather in our caps.’
‘In your cap, you mean,’ thought Biggles, but he said nothing.
‘Tell me, Brunow’—the Count dropped his voice to little more than a whisper–‘have you ever heard of one who is called El Shereef?’
Had he pulled out a revolver and fired point blank he could hardly have given Biggles a bigger shock. How he kept his face immobile he never knew, for the words set every nerve in his body jangling. He pretended to think for a moment before he replied. ‘I seem to recall it, sir, but in what connexion I cannot think—yes, I have it. You remember the first day I came here I landed at Kantara. I heard some of the officers in the Mess using the name quite a lot, but I didn’t pay much attention to it.’
‘Then I will tell you. El Shereef was a–an agent, a German agent. Not only was he the cleverest agent in Palestine, but in the world.’
‘Was . . . ?’
‘He has been caught at last.’
Biggles felt the room rocking about him, but he continued staring straight at the Count, struggling to prevent his face from betraying what he was thinking. ‘What a pity,’ he said at last. For the life of him he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘Pity! it’s a tragedy–an overwhelming misfortune. He was taken yesterday in a cunningly set trap by Major Sterne, who as you may know is one of the cleverest men on the British side.’
‘By Major Sterne,’ repeated Biggles foolishly.
The Count nodded. ‘So we understand. The British have made no announcement about it—nor do we expect them to—yet. But Genera
l Headquarters, by means known only to themselves, got the news through late last night.’
Von Stalhein was lighting a fresh cigarette as if the matter hardly interested him.
Biggles tried to think, but could not. His mind seemed to have collapsed in complete chaos as all his so-called facts, conjectures, and suppositions crashed to the ground. He could hardly follow what the Count was saying when he continued.
‘Well, there it is. The British will give him a trial—of sorts—of course, but we shall know only one thing more for certain—and that soon—and that is that El Shereef has faced a firing party. If you are to do anything it will have to be done at once.’
‘Do anything, sir,’ ejaculated Biggles. ‘Me! What can I do?’
‘You can get into the British lines. I was hoping that you might try to effect a rescue.’
Biggles nearly laughed aloud, for he felt that he was going insane. Was the Count seriously asking him to rescue El Shereef, when . . . ? The thing was too utterly ridiculous. He saw the Count was waiting for his answer. ‘I’ll do anything I can, sir,’ he offered. ‘If you could give me any further information that might be useful I should be grateful.’
The Count shook his head. ‘All I can tell you is that El Shereef will probably be sent under special escort to British General Headquarters for interrogation.’
‘Then I’d better go over and do what I can,’ said Biggles thoughtfully; and then added in a flash of inspiration, ‘Can you give me any idea of what he looks like, so that I shall be able to recognize him when I see him?’
‘Yes, I can do that,’ agreed the Count. ‘He is, as you no doubt imagine, really a German, although he will of course be dressed as an Arab. He has lived with the Arabs for so long that he is nearly one of them–looks Arab–thinks Arab–speaks Arabic. Tall, brown—really brown, not merely grease paint–drooping black moustache. Dark eyes, and rather a big nose, like the beak of a hawk. Not much of a description, but it’s the best I can give you. If you can get near him, show your ring and he’ll understand. He will still have his hidden about him if the British didn’t take it away when they searched him.’