Biggles Takes a Hand

by W E Johns

  The Antonstrasse, as Biggles had told him, was in a residential district off the main road; and so he found it, wearing the air of quiet dignity associated with buildings of the previous century. The houses occupied one side of the street only, the other being girt by iron railings beyond which a double row of trees made a barrier between the street he was in and a busy thoroughfare.

  As the taxi drew up outside Number seventy-one he noticed, and took a second look at, a car, a large black saloon, parked a little farther along in the shade of the trees. A man wearing a chauffeur’s cap lounged behind the wheel reading a newspaper, apparently waiting for his employer.

  Paying no further attention to it Ginger, thinking he might be some time, discharged his cab, assuming he would have no difficulty in getting another on the main road at the conclusion of his visit. This done he went up the steps to the door and rang the bell.

  After a short delay it was opened by an elderly, nervous-looking woman, who from the way she was dressed was apparently a servant whom he had interrupted in some household task.

  “Was wollen sie?” (What do you want?) she asked suspiciously.

  Ginger put on his brightest smile and answered: “Ist Professor Lowenhardt zu Hause?” (Is Professor Lowenhardt at home?).

  “Nein,” returned the woman curtly, and stepped back as if to close the door.

  This put Ginger in a quandary. The situation, he perceived, presented a difficulty for which he was not prepared. The trouble was, he spoke only a little German, enough to get about but not enough to engage in an argument; and the woman, as he quickly confirmed, spoke no English. It had been supposed, of course, that as the Professor spoke English a knowledge of German would not be necessary. Ginger suspected that once the woman had closed the door in his face it would be hard to induce her to open it again.

  He could think of only one thing to do. He had Anna’s brooch ready. He took it from his pocket and held it forward.

  The woman’s eyes opened wide. The colour, what little there was, drained from her face. After a swift but furtive glance up and down the street, by an almost imperceptible inclination of her head she invited Ginger to enter. He did so. She closed the door behind him.

  To relate in detail the laborious conversation that followed would be tedious and take up a great deal of space. The first point Ginger had to make was that Anna was in England, safe, with friends. He, an English police officer, had come from London to let Professor Lowenhardt know that in case he was worried.

  When she had grasped this the woman took Ginger into a sitting-room where, lying conspicuously on a table, was a letter addressed to the Professor. It bore an English postage stamp and had not been opened, from which Ginger could only conclude, to his disappointment, that the woman had told the truth and the Professor was really not at home. He began to fear he had made a fruitless journey.

  The conversation, if such it could be called, continued with the help of actions and gestures. Ginger gathered the Professor was unlikely to return home so it was no use waiting for him. He had gone away. It was some time before the woman would admit that she knew where he had gone, and Ginger got another jolt when she finally stated he had gone to London. Why? To look for Anna. When? That very morning, on the first plane. He had said nothing about coming back.

  Although he had not expected this Ginger realized there was no reason to be surprised. The Professor, when he had received Anna’s message, had behaved as would most fathers in the same circumstances. He had given the woman no address where he might be found, probably because he himself did not know.

  Ginger decided the only thing he could do was let Biggles know what had happened as quickly as possible. He looked at his watch and saw it was past noon. The Berlin plane would already have landed at London Airport, or would have landed before Biggles could get there. But perhaps that didn’t matter. Biggles would, he thought, have learned from Anna where the Roths were staying and catch the Professor there. What he did not know, of course, was that Biggles had been to the house to discover that it had changed hands and the Roths were not there.

  There was one thing that worried him. He kept looking at the letter, addressed to the Professor, on the table. It had not come from Anna, that was certain. The handwriting was that of a man, anyway. What news did the letter hold ? It might be vital, yet inevitably it would now be some time before the Professor could receive it, unless... If the woman would let him have it he could take it home with him and perhaps deliver it the same day—if not to the Professor, to Anna.

  “How long has that letter been here?” he asked.

  He learned that it had only just arrived, a few minutes before he himself had called.

  Ginger, like most people, was reluctant to touch someone else’s mail, but here the circumstances were exceptional and he resolved to take the letter if the woman would let him have it. There could, of course, be no question of taking it by force or intimidation.

  It took some time, and all his powers of persuasion, to get her to agree. Indeed, he felt she was right in refusing and he was embarrassed by having to ask. It was only the urgency, and the danger in which Anna and her friends stood, that prompted him to persist. Without Anna’s brooch it is unlikely that he would have succeeded, but at the finish, on his promise to deliver the letter to Anna, if not the Professor, the same evening, he had his way. He put the envelope in his breast pocket.

  That was all. There was nothing more he could do in Berlin, so he left the house, and working out how he would word a signal to Biggles walked towards the end of the street where a turn would take him to the main road and, he hoped, a taxi. Actually, he was in some doubt as to whether it was worth while sending a cable or radiogram, because if he was lucky enough to get a seat on a plane leaving shortly he might be home before the message was delivered.

  As he turned the corner at the end of the street he instinctively, or from force of habit, glanced behind him, and experienced a twinge of uneasiness when he saw that the parked car, which was still in the same place when he had left the house, was now moving, cruising slowly in the same direction he had taken.

  This made him think. Could it be that the driver had been watching the Lowenhardts’ residence? He remembered seeing it carried an aerial—not that there was anything remarkable in that. But, naturally, he was in a state to be suspicious of anything and everything, and did not relish the thought that the man in the car might already be in touch with other enemy agents.

  These vague suspicions were soon to become intensified. On reaching the main road he looked up and down for a taxi, but none was in sight. The car that had been in the Antonstrasse rounded the corner, and coming on slowly pulled up at the curb where he stood waiting. The chauffeur, a middle-aged man, with a genial smile got out and asked if he could be of assistance. He spoke in German.

  Ginger’s answer was that he did not speak German.

  The man repeated his question in perfect English, although with an accent.

  “What gave you the idea I was English?” challenged Ginger.

  “One can tell an Englishman anywhere.”

  “In that case why did you speak to me in German when you speak English so well?” returned Ginger coolly. Without waiting for an answer he went on, with a note of finality in his voice to end the argument: “Thank you, but I don’t need help.”

  But the man was not to be put off. “Having nothing to do I thought I might give you a lift somewhere. Where are you going? I may be going the same way.”

  “I wouldn’t think of troubling you,” parried Ginger coldly, his eyes still alert for a taxi. Still none was in sight, but he was now braced for trouble, and thought it might be coming in the shape of two men striding purposefully along the pavement towards him, or the the car. He did not wait to see, but turning walked away.

  He was sure he would be followed, but he did not look back for a minute or two; when he did so it was to see if there was a taxi coming from that direction. The two men he had noticed were
getting into the car. So that was it, he thought grimly. There was no longer any doubt about it. The Lowenhardts’ house was under surveillance, and he, having been to it, was a marked man. Which all went to show how desperate the Roths’ enemies were to track them down.

  He walked on, his brain racing, uncomfortably sure that when he reached the airport his trackers would be behind him. If he took a taxi no doubt the driver would be questioned after he had dismissed it. He decided, for the time being, to stay where there were people about.

  A few minutes later, still wondering what to do for the best—for he was anxious to get to the airport with all possible speed—he saw an opportunity and snatched at it. Again looking round he saw a British Army jeep overtaking him. An N.C.O. was at the wheel with an officer, a lieutenant, beside him. He had seen other British service vehicles, as was to be expected since he was in the British Zone, but then they had meant nothing to him.

  He stepped into the road, held up a hand, and when the jeep came to a skidding stop he spoke swiftly, at the same time holding out his police card for the officer to see. “I’m on a spot. I’ve got to get back to London with an important document but I’m being shadowed by enemy agents, three of them, in a black saloon car. It’s just behind you.”

  “That’s right, sir,” confirmed the sergeant, looking at his reflector.

  “Where do you want to go ?” asked the officer.

  “To the airport. I haven’t been able to get a taxi. If I get one now it will be followed—and there could be an accident.”

  “Get in,” said the lieutenant, laconically.

  Ginger got in, and the jeep shot forward at a rate which nearly threw him on the floor.

  Nothing more was said. The driver seemed to enjoy the drive that followed. He did not go to the airport, as Ginger had hoped he would, but after twisting and turning at high speed through several side streets pulled up outside a military post, clearly marked as such. The lieutenant said “Wait,” and jumping down went inside. He was soon out again but did not get in the jeep. Instead, he simply said to the sergeant: “Take this gentleman to the airport,” and would have left it at that had not Ginger called him back.

  “Just a minute,” said Ginger. “Could you send a signal for me in case I don’t get an opportunity?”

  “Where to?”

  “Scotland Yard.”

  “Write it and I’ll see what I can do. As it’s more or less official I might be able to get it through.”

  “Thanks. A lot may hang on it.”

  Taking out his notebook and addressing the message to Biggles at Scotland Yard he wrote: Returning next plane. Our man left for England this morning. Important you meet me London Airport. He tore out the page and handed it to the lieutenant who, with a wave, said “Right. Good luck.”

  That was all. While waiting, Ginger had kept an eye open for the black saloon, but he saw nothing of it. Riding in a service vehicle he did not expect any trouble on the drive to the airport, but what would happen when he got there was a matter for conjecture.

  Arrived at the aerodrome he thanked the driver warmly, gave him a good tip “to have a drink on the house” and hurried on to see about a seat, watching all the time for possible followers. His luck held. A B.E.A. Viscount was due to leave in ten minutes and he was able to get a place on it. He still kept watch, and as soon as his flight number was called he went along to take his seat. It turned out to be near the tail, which suited him, because it enabled him to see the other passengers as they passed down the central gangway to places in front of him.

  He saw no one he recognized, but at the last moment a man got in to take the seat next to him on the other side of the gangway. After a sidelong glance, as was natural, Ginger paid no further attention to him. He was a stranger so he could only hope he was a normal passenger. He had never been close enough to the men who had followed him near the Antonstrasse for identification. His clothes had a German cut about them but there was nothing unusual in that. Air travel is cosmopolitan. The newspaper he took from his pocket was German.

  The aircraft took off, so that settled all questions and doubts until it landed at its destination. To Ginger’s relief the man in the near-by seat made no attempt to get into conversation with him; at all events, until they had crossed the English coast, when, with a friendly smile, he remarked: “A pleasant voyage, yes?”

  “Very comfortable,” agreed Ginger, a trifle curtly, to discourage further comment.

  In this he was not successful, for the man went on: “Have you made arrangements for transport when we land? I could give you a lift...”

  “Thanks, but I have a car meeting me,” broke in Ginger, feeling he was being rude, for the offer sounded innocent enough and could have been genuine. His suspicions might be groundless but he was taking no chances. He only hoped that Biggles had received his message and was at the airport to meet him. That would iron out any trouble or interference with him should it arise.

  He was not thinking so much of his personal safety as the letter he carried in his pocket. It seemed impossible that the Roths’ enemies could know anything about that. But was it impossible? He thought it over. The woman had said the letter had only just arrived. The house was being watched. The events following his departure left that in no doubt. The man sitting in the car must have seen the postman call at the house so he would know a letter had been delivered. Would someone, after he had gone, have the audacity to go to the house with the object of securing it? If that had happened what would the woman say? What could she say? If the postman had been seen to call it would be futile to say there was no letter. If, under threats, she admitted that a letter addressed to Professor Lowenhardt had been handed in, but was no longer there, it could only mean that he, Ginger, had taken it with him. As far as he knew he was the only person who had been to the house. Looked at like that it seemed there was a chance the enemy knew he had the letter on him. Was that what they were after? They were certainly after something, and it could hardly be him, personally, for how could they know who and what he was?

  So ran Ginger’s thoughts as, in twilight, with the lights coming on over the country, the air liner made its approach to the landing. He wished he had put the letter on some part of his person more difficult to get at than a pocket; but it was no use thinking about that now. With a man who might be an enemy agent sitting so close he dare not move it.

  The aircraft touched down and ran to a stop. He got out as quickly as possible and, overtaking some of the passengers who were before him, walked briskly to the Customs hall. He felt, rather than saw, someone walking close behind him, and without looking was sure it was his travelling companion.

  He hoped to see Biggles waiting in Customs, but a glance was enough to show he was not there. Being known to the Customs officers he was quickly passed through, and again he hurried on to the public hall having decided that if Biggles was not there he would make a run for a taxi. A glance over his shoulder revealed his travelling companion not far behind and walking at a pace calculated to overtake him. That finally settled any doubts about his purpose. Normal passengers did not walk like that.

  His nerves received a jolt when he saw, standing directly in front of him, Karkoff’s two assistants, Rallensky and Molsk. Was this pure chance? Where they there as part of a regular routine or had they been warned from Berlin to meet the plane? Had the man behind him made a signal to them? He didn’t know, but the way all three closed on him was significant. In another moment he was pushing them aside to prevent himself from being jostled.

  “What’s going on?” said a voice sharply, and Biggles thrust his way into the group in no uncertain manner. For two or three seconds he glared at the aggressors. Then as a uniformed attendant moved towards them he said quietly to Ginger: “Come on.”

  “By gosh! Am I glad to see you?” breathed Ginger fervently, as they walked away. “I’ve been tailed ever since I left the Lowenhardts’ place.”

  “That doesn’t greatly surprise me.” />
  “I gather you got my signal. I expected to find you in Customs.”

  By this time they were getting into the car. “I spotted Molsk and Rallensky outside so I stood back to see who they were waiting for,” explained Biggles. “I didn’t imagine it would be you. They had a nerve, tackling you in the main hall. Were they after something?”

  “I have a letter in my pocket addressed to Lowenhardt. The woman at the house let me take it, and I’m afraid the people after me must have worked that out.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “How would I know? It hadn’t been opened. The woman in charge of the house told me it arrived just after Lowenhardt had left for England. It bore an English stamp, so thinking it might be important, perhaps having some bearing on the case, I decided to bring it with me if the woman would let me have it. I had a job to persuade her to part with it. In the end Anna’s brooch did the trick. Without that I wouldn’t have got into the house. I’ll hand the letter to Professor Lowenhardt as soon as I see him.”

  “You’ll be lucky to do that,” said Biggles dryly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We haven’t seen him and we haven’t a clue as to where to look for him. He must have arrived in London before we got your signal.”

  “I thought that might happen, but I imagined you’d catch him when he arrived at the house where the Roths are staying. I was sure Anna would give you the address of the place in Hampstead.”

  “She did, and a fat lot of good that did us,” returned Biggles bitterly. “I went along only to discover that the house had been put up for sale six months ago, and nobody knew where Anna’s friend, with whom the Roths were to stay, had gone. That knocked all our ideas flat. The man himself, a naturalized German dentist named Jacobs, had lost his wife, fallen sick and retired. Of course, Anna’s father can’t know that any more than Anna herself did. As soon as I got your signal I sent Algy along to the house to watch for him to arrive and put him wise. He may have gone there, but if so Algy was too late to intercept him. That’s how things stand at present.”