Biggles - Foreign Legionnaire

by W E Johns

  “Now you listen to me,” said Biggles severely. “I’ve told you to pack up. You’ll do more good, for us as well as yourself, by staying alive.”

  “How?”

  “By coming forward and giving evidence when this bunch is rounded up.”

  “What are you aiming to do next? I mean, where do you go from here?”

  “I wish I knew. We’re air pilots. We’re booked for the gang’s secret squadron. We still don’t know where it is, but we’re being taken there tomorrow morning by a fellow whose number is twenty-nine.”

  “Dark chap with a hard face? Little scar on his cheekbone?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “His name’s Leffers. Used to be in the Luftwaffe. Went to the States after the war, killed a guy and bolted into the Foreign Legion. That’s how they got him into the racket. Deserter. Be careful. He’s bad—and tough.”

  “Have you been to this secret squadron?”

  “No, but I know whereabouts it is because I’ve met most of the fellers who have.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Don’t ask me what country it’s in because I don’t know. I shouldn’t think anyone does. I once heard Janescu say he didn’t know, and he’s got an outfit supposed to be drilling for oil not far away. A chauffeur hears a lot of things, even when it doesn’t look as though he’s listening.”

  “Come to the point. Where is this place?”

  “The actual spot is known as the Valley of the Tartars. It’s near the beginning of the Bashan Pass, where the borders of Iraq, Persia and Turkey meet—not far from the U.S.S.R. Leffers called it Kurdistan. Awful country, no use to anybody. That’s why nobody has ever tried to push out the sheikh, or whatever he is, who claims the district. He’s on the committee’s pay-roll. I know that because I heard Pantenelli tell Janescu he was asking for more money. The landmark is an old castle. Amazing place, I believe, as old as the hills. You can’t see the machines because they’re camouflaged under dust-sheets. Yet according to some fellers the place isn’t hard to find. You simply cross Syria and Iraq by following the oil pipe-line to Kirkuk. Then you turn north on a course for a place called Gelia Dagh. That takes you over it. Are you thinking of going there?”

  “I am.”

  “Then watch yourselves. If that bunch—and they’re mostly deserters from one army or another—get one sniff of what you’re doing you’d be out—just like that. They don’t argue. They shoot. You get like that when you know you’re on the wrong side of the fence. Always on the jump. That gives you an itchy finger. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. What do you reckon I ought to do?”

  “That’s better,” said Biggles approvingly. “Have you any money?”

  “A little.”

  Biggles pulled out his wad and stripped off most of it. “I’ll tell you exactly what I want you to do, and if you’re wise you’ll do it. Alex. is no place for you. Go straight to the airport. You should just be in time to catch the night airmail to London. Go straight to Scotland Yard and ask for Air-Commodore Raymond. Tell him you’ve seen me—the name’s Bigglesworth. Tell him what you’ve told me and say we’ve gone on to the Valley of Tartars. You can also say that Lacey is staying at the Hotel Napoli, next door but one to here. He’ll tell you what to do after that. Is that clear?”

  “Sure.”

  Biggles handed Lindsay his gun. “I’ll let you have this, but don’t use it again unless you have to, in self-defence.”

  “As you say. But if you go to the Valley of Tartars I shan’t reckon on seeing you again. Once you’ve seen their dump you’ll never get out.”

  “But what about the flying? What’s to stop a man taking off and not going back?”

  “To start with they don’t let you fly alone. You always have at least one of the old hands with you until they can trust you—which means until you’ve done some bombing or shooting. They have guns. You don’t. They’ve other ways of keeping tab on you, too.”

  “Well, we’ve managed so far,” said Biggles. “Now you’d better get out of here. We’ll follow later. I want to see if Klutz has anything interesting in his pockets. If....” His voice trailed away at the expression that appeared suddenly on Lindsay’s face. His eyes were on the door.

  Biggles turned, as did Ginger.

  Standing in the doorway, his face pale, his eyes venomous, and his lips compressed to a thin line, was number twenty-nine, Leffers.

  * * *

  1 The Korean War.

  CHAPTER XI

  STILL FARTHER EAST

  LEFFERS’ eyes went to Klutz, lying horribly still on the floor. Then with a sort of slow deliberation, they examined the faces of the others in turn. They came to rest on Lindsay. “So you’ve been talking,” he said, in a dry, brittle voice.

  Lindsay was not intimidated. Indeed the words seemed to make his passion flare up again. “So what?” he spat.

  Ginger was inclined to think that Leffers didn’t notice that Lindsay had a gun in his hand or he wouldn’t have been so foolish as to try to pull his own. Be that as it may. Leffers’ gun was only half out of his pocket when Lindsay’s crashed.

  Only by a slight twitch did Leffers show that he had been hit. His right hand, holding his automatic, dropped an inch at a time. The gun fell with a thud. Then, in a silence that was almost tangible, he sank slowly to the floor, at the finish sliding forward like a swimmer in deep water. With an expression of pained surprise on his face he lay still under a faint reek of blue cordite smoke.

  The silence was broken by Lindsay. There was something unreal, artificial, about his tone of voice. “That’s another,” he said.

  Biggles was angry. “I’ve no time for Leffers but you shouldn’t have done that,” he snapped.

  Lindsay made a gesture of helplessness. “What else was there to do?” he asked, almost plaintively. “Stand still and let him knock us off one at a time?”

  Biggles shrugged. “I suppose you’re right,” he admitted with reluctance. “But don’t stand there,” he went on. “Get out.”

  “What about you? I’m willing to take the rap....”

  “Rap nothing. Get going. I’ve told you what to do. I’ve something to do here before I leave.”

  Lindsay nodded. He thrust the gun in his pocket and walked away down the corridor without a backward glance.

  Ginger looked at Biggles questioningly.

  “I’m going to see what these two have in their pockets.” Biggles told him. “We may never get such another chance. Keep cave.”

  Ginger turned to watch the corridor.

  Biggles was busy behind him for about five minutes. Then he said: “That’s all. Come on.”

  In a silence as profound as when they had entered the building, but now even more menacing, they went down the stairs, out of the door, and crossed the road swiftly.

  “I expect they’ll have gone,” said Biggles as they reached the palms, referring of course to Algy and Bertie.

  They were still there, however, much to Biggles’s satisfaction.

  “We heard shooting and thought we’d better hang on for a bit,” explained Algy. “What was it all about?”

  In as few words as possible Biggles told him what had happened in the hotel, passing on the information Lindsay had given him, including particulars of the location of the secret squadron.

  “Look here, I say old boy,” protested Bertie in a shocked voice. “If you’re going to tootle around leaving a trail of corpses kicking about—”

  “I didn’t make the corpses,” Biggles pointed out with asperity. “That American is fighting mad. I wished him further, I can tell you.”

  “Where’s he gone?”

  “London, I hope. I told him to report to Raymond.”

  “I’d have given him a second gun and told him to carry on,” asserted Algy. “He was doing our job for us. In bumping off two of the leading war-makers he’s thinned the opposition by fifty per cent. I call that pretty good going.”

  “By Jove! And how right you a
re,” put in Bertie. “Absolutely. I’m with you every time. After all, I mean to say, blokes who make war haven’t a grouse if somebody makes war on them. I’m all for those who live by the sword dying by the jolly old sword, and all that sort of thing. Usually it’s the other bloke who gets—”

  “Pipe down,” pleaded Biggles. “This is no time for fatuous arguments.

  What this fellow Lindsay has done is push us out of our billets. He’s worked for the Syndicate so he has only himself to blame for what’s happened. Of course, he doesn’t see it like that. What’s really biting him is remorse, because his brother was killed. So have a lot of other people’s brothers been killed, but they don’t rush about with a gun in each hand. Still, Lindsay has given us a lot of useful information so we shouldn’t complain. I thought this show might finish with some fireworks but I wasn’t prepared for anything like this.”

  “It must have been Lindsay we saw come out just now.”

  “I told him to push off while I had a look to see what Klutz and Leffers had in their pockets.”

  “Find anything?”

  “I don’t really know yet. I’m anxious to have a look at one or two things I brought away. Which brings me to the question, where are we going for the night? I’m not going to walk the streets.”

  “Why not come to our hotel? I’m sure there’s plenty of room.”

  “We’ll try it. There’s going to be a nice how-do-you-do at the Continentale in the morning, when the police hear about what’s inside. But by that time I hope to be away.”

  “You’re really going to this Valley of Tartars place?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you find it?”

  “I’m going to try. From Lindsay’s description it shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s a fair run from here. Speaking from memory it must be between eight hundred and a thousand miles.”

  “What’ll they say when you roll up without Leffers?”

  “I shall tell them the truth—that he was shot in the hotel by a man named Lindsay. They must know all about Lindsay so the story should prove our sincerity.”

  “They’ll ask how you found the place.”

  Biggles smiled faintly. “Obviously, Leffers told me before he died. Incidentally, I could kick myself for not guessing that Leffers was staying at the hotel. He as good as told me so.”

  “I can only hope you get away with it,” returned Algy dubiously.

  “Let’s go over to your place and see if they can fix us up,” said Biggles.

  As Algy had anticipated, there was no difficulty about getting into the Napoli. They did not go to bed, but all forgathering in Algy’s room they spent the rest of the night—or rather, the early hours of the morning—discussing the situation and going through the things Biggles had taken from the pockets of Klutz and Leffers. Both had been careful about what they carried, and the only item of practical use was a flimsy tracing of the route from Egypt to the Valley of Tartars, which presumably Leffers had prepared for his own guidance. A compass course had been jotted on one corner, but the objective had not been named, so the map would have meant nothing to anyone who did not know the facts of the case. Among the things Biggles had brought was Leffers’ badge, in order, as he said, to prevent the police from attaching any significance to it, as they might if other badges were found in the hotel, which was well within the bounds of possibility. They didn’t want the police, who were likely to do more harm than good, barging in at the present stage of things. Still less did he want to be picked up by them if, assuming that the murders were the fruits of gang warfare, they started to round up for questioning everyone wearing an Aladdin Lamp badge.

  At five o’clock, Biggles, who had decided to adhere to Leffers’s time-table, said they had better see about moving off, as at such an early hour it might take them some time to find transport to the airport. The false dawn was just touching the eastern sky with a grey finger.

  There had been no sounds of activity from the direction of the nearby Continentale, and Ginger, taking a cautious peep out of the window, made the surprising discovery that there was neither a policeman nor a police car in sight. This, they all agreed, was curious, the first impression being that the murders had not yet been discovered. But Biggles soon took a different view. He pointed out that there must have been servants in the house, for a man like Klutz was hardly likely to make his own bed and get his own morning coffee. Even if he had arrived late arrangements for this would have been made. It seemed likely, he averred, that the staff, who would be on the top floor, and for that reason had not been awakened by the shooting, were still in bed. Another possibility was, on finding the bodies they had panicked and fled, knowing that police enquiries, which they would find embarrassing, would follow. Not that it mattered, said Biggles, for they themselves had finished with the hotel.

  Soon afterwards, with Ginger, leaving the others to follow—one to the docks and the other to the airport—he set off for the business quarter of the city where he hoped to find a cab. In this he was successful, with the result that they arrived a little before time.

  The Beechcraft Bonanza, wearing civil American registration marks, was standing just outside Number Three hangar just as Leffers had said it would be. Only one official intercepted them, and he, after one glance at their badges, didn’t even speak, but with an almost imperceptible nod continued walking.

  “He’s another one,” muttered Ginger. “This thing begins to look like one of those master-mind organizations that Edgar Wallace used to write about.”

  “That’s exactly what it is,” answered Biggles. “In this case, though, we’re dealing with a racket that thinks in millions, not the comparative chicken-feed to be made out of bank-busting, blackmail, and so on.”

  They found a mechanic leaning against the far side of the aircraft. He looked at them, then beyond them. “Where’s twenty-nine?” he asked.

  “He’s not coming,” replied Biggles. “We’re going on alone.”

  “Not coming,” echoed the man suspiciously. “Why not?”

  “Because he’s dead,” said Biggles shortly.

  “I was talking to him last night.”

  “So was I, but that doesn’t make him alive this morning.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was shot.”

  “That Lindsay again?”

  “Why think that?”

  “I’m told to watch for him. He must have gone nuts. They say it was him who killed Janescu.”

  “You know Lindsay?”

  “Course I know him. He’s been here scores of times.”

  “What matters more, is this machine fuelled up?”

  “You’re all right for everything. I saw to it myself.”

  “In that case we may as well get off,” said Biggles casually.

  “What about the other man?”

  “What other man?”

  “There’s another passenger. She carries four.”

  For a second Biggles was taken aback. “Leffers didn’t say anything to me about another man.”

  “He told me he was taking three new men. Two Englishmen and a German—a man he knew back home. Served under him in the war. He’s going out to take charge.”

  “I thought Klein was in charge.”

  “He was. He isn’t now. They say he got caught in a dust storm and flew into the ground coming in.”

  “So this new man is going to take Klein’s place.”

  “That’s what Leffers said.”

  “What’s his number?”

  “I dunno. Leffers didn’t say. He told me his name. It was von Stalhein—or something like that.”

  Not a muscle of Biggles’s face moved. “Well, he isn’t here so we’ll get off.”

  “Six was the time.” The man looked at the control tower clock. “It ain’t quite six yet.”

  “It’s near enough. He isn’t coming or he’d be here by now.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “I’ll tell you, but keep it
to yourself. The police are likely to be here any minute to check on passengers leaving.”

  “Why?”

  “Klutz was shot last night—same time as Leffers.” The man looked shocked.

  “Where was this?”

  “At the Continentale. The police are bound to watch every exit from the city and I’d rather not answer questions. You’d better get out of their way, too.”

  “I’d say so. Okay.”

  Biggles climbed into the aircraft. Ginger followed, trying to pretend—not very successfully—that there was no hurry. Actually, there was every reason to hurry, and he knew it; for during the last part of Biggles’s conversation with the mechanic he had seen a Rolls draw up at the tarmac. Three men got out. Two he did not know, but there was no mistaking the lean military figure of the other, who walked with a slight limp. It was their old arch enemy, Erich von Stalhein, one time of the Wilhelmstrasse1 but more recently employed by operators of the Cold War behind the Iron Curtain.2

  “Get cracking,” Ginger told Biggles urgently. “Look who’s here.”

  “I saw,” murmured Biggles evenly. “The pace is getting a bit warm, isn’t it.”

  “It’s getting too hot,” declared Ginger. “And it’ll be hotter still if von Stalhein learns who’s in this kite.”

  “There’s only one thing on my mind,” said Biggles, as, getting the okay from the control tower, he eased the throttle open.

  “You mean, when von Stalhein arrives to take over.”

  “By then, with any luck, we should be on our way home. No. I’m thinking of radio. If Alexandria is in touch with the Valley of Tartars on a private wavelength we may find things a bit difficult. That’s the first thing we must find out when we get there.”

  “I should say,” said Ginger, speaking very deliberately, “if that turns out to be the case we shan’t have to trouble to find out. We shall be told—with nice new nickel bullets.”

  Biggles grinned. “Made by the War Syndicate.”

  “We should have brought our guns.”

  “We couldn’t have got into the Legion with guns in our pockets. I told you that at the start.”