by W E Johns
CHAPTER 4
CROSS-EXAMINED
BIGGLES FOUND VON Leffers in his office. He was not alone. Two other men were there. One was the man whose motor-cycle he had got; the other was an elderly, hard-faced civilian whose pugnacious jaw, gimlet eyes, and arrogant bearing bespoke an official of importance. His grey hair had been cropped so short that he appeared to be completely bald. Biggles guessed to what department he belonged before he was introduced.
Baron von Leffers stared at Biggles stonily. ‘Leutnant Hendrik, this is Oberleutnant1 Ernst von Hymann,’ he said curtly, waving a hand towards the stranger. ‘He is a senior officer of the Gestapo. He wishes to speak to you. You have kept him waiting.’
‘I’m very sorry, sir, but I didn’t know he was here,’ returned Biggles contritely.
To his infinite relief the Commandant did not ask where he had been. He left it to the Gestapo officer to continue the conversation.
Von Hymann invited Biggles to be seated, and then stood up, legs apart, to face him squarely. In some strange way he reminded Biggles of a mangy bulldog. When he spoke his voice was brittle.
‘Leutnant Hendrik,’ he began, ‘earlier today when you were interviewed by the Commandant of this aerodrome you gave him certain particulars of your flying career. Among other things you said that you had been a pilot in America, and more lately in Canada. Is that correct?’
‘Quite correct, sir.’
‘As you may have heard,’ continued von Hymann, ‘we make a point of checking up on every statement made by aliens. You, as a Norwegian, come into that category.’
‘But—’
‘We shall get on faster if you leave me to ask the questions.’
Biggles bowed.
‘You further stated that when you were in Canada you were employed as an air pilot.’
‘Correct.’
‘And you were once employed by a firm called Arctic Airways located at Fort Beaver?’
‘Quite right’.2
Von Hymann crouched like a wild beast about to spring.
‘We have been unable to confirm that you ever had any connexion with Arctic Airways.’
Biggles remained calm. ‘To whom did you go for your information?’
‘Our agents in Canada have been through the official records. We also have newspaper reports of the scandal in which the company was involved.’
‘You mean the stealing of the Moose Creek gold?’
Von Hymann relaxed slightly. ‘Well, you do at least know something about it,’ he conceded. ‘Yes, that was what I meant.’
Biggles had, of course, flown for Arctic Airways, so he knew all about the incident, as well as the company’s affairs. But it had been under his own name, so he could understand why the German agents in Canada had failed to find any particulars of a pilot named Hendrik. However, since he, Biggles, knew all about the company, and all that he had said concerning it was true, he was not unduly alarmed by the cross-examination to which he was being subjected. But then he did not know what it was leading up to.
Von Hymann continued. ‘In the reports concerning Arctic Airways we can find no record of a pilot by the name of Hendrik.’
‘That’s quite likely,’ remarked Biggles coolly. ‘It is unlikely that any record would be kept. Pilots were always coming and going. I imagine that the only ones whose names were noted in the files were those mentioned in the newspapers in connexion with the gold robbery.’
‘Can you name the pilots chiefly concerned?’
The atmosphere in the room was now tense, and Biggles perceived what was coming. He had just been asked a leading question, for if it were true that he had flown for Arctic Airways he would – or should – be able to name the pilots.
‘Certainly,’ he replied easily. ‘Arctic Airways was run by a fellow named Wilkinson, an Englishman who established a base aerodrome at Fort Beaver. The trouble started when a fellow named McBain tried to grab the aerodrome, bringing with him two pilots and two German transport planes. His pilots were both ex-crooks. One was named Sarton and the other Feroni.’
Von Hymann nodded. ‘What about Wilkinson’s pilots?’
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘There was a chap named Graves – he was killed, I remember. Then there was Lacey, and – oh yes, a lad named Hebblethwaite – or some such name.’
‘Anybody else?’
Biggles saw the trap clearly now, but his expression did not change.
‘Yes, there was another fellow – a fellow with a curious name – Tigglesworth – or was it Nigglesworth?’
‘Was it Bigglesworth?’
Biggles started. ‘That’s right – funny name.’
‘You must have seen something of him?’
Biggles’s pulses were beginning to beat faster. He didn’t like the trend of the conversation, but he still hoped there was nothing serious behind it. One slip, though, and he was lost. An expression of anxiety on his face would be noted at once by the cold eyes that were fixed on his in unwavering intensity.
‘Oh, yes, I often saw Bigglesworth,’ he admitted.
‘Would you know him again if you saw him?’
‘I should think so. Of course, this Arctic Airways business happened some time ago, but if he hasn’t grown a beard or anything like that, I think I should know him at once.’
‘Could you describe him?’
‘More or less. He was a slim fellow with fair hair – rather sharp features. As a matter of fact, he was about my build.’
Von Hyman glanced at a paper that he held in his hand. ‘He must have been very much like you.’
Biggles smiled. ‘Nobody has ever mistaken me for him,’ he observed lightly. ‘Why all this about Bigglesworth – do you know him?’
Von Hymann ignored the question. Instead, he asked another.
‘Do you know what became of him subsequently?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘How should I? I believe he went back to England, but I wouldn’t swear to it.’
The German’s manner became grim. ‘I’ll tell you what he did. He returned to England and set up as a freelance pilot, and while he did a certain amount of casual work, in reality he was the British Intelligence Service’s chief flying agent.’
Biggles made a grimace. ‘I shouldn’t have thought that was much in his line – he always struck me as being a nervous sort of fellow.’
‘It seems that it was very much in his line. Not long ago he was in Finland. We now have reason to believe that he has transferred his unwelcome attentions to Norway.’
‘You mean – he is actually in Norway?’
‘This morning he was seen in Oslo by one of our agents.’
‘Why didn’t you pick him up?’
‘Unfortunately the agent lost him in the crowd – the fool.’
Biggles nodded. ‘Pity. But what has all this got to do with me?’ he asked.
‘I will tell you. The man who saw Bigglesworth has dashed back to Berlin to get further particulars about him from Hauptmann von Stalhein,3 who has had more to do with him than anyone else. In the meantime, he is the only man on my staff who could recognize Bigglesworth if he saw him, so I want you to go into Oslo and see if you can find him. We’ve rounded up a lot of suspects; if he isn’t among them you had better search the hotels and the streets until you find him.’
‘I don’t care much for this sort of thing. I really wanted to do some flying,’ protested Biggles as cautiously as he dared.
‘There will be time for that later. At the moment you are under my orders. Go to Oslo at once. You can stay at an hotel. If you see Bigglesworth, don’t let him out of your sight. Call the first soldiers you see and have him arrested. You had better take that armlet off and put it in your pocket for the time being, so as not to attract attention to yourself.’
‘Very well, sir. But if I don’t wear an armlet will the soldiers accept my orders? Isn’t there a risk of my being taken into custody myself?’
‘I was prepared for that.’ Von Hymann took a small, s
quare card from his pocket. It was printed in red and black, and bore the number 2001. ‘That is a pass, signed by myself,’ continued the German. ‘It will take you anywhere without question. While you are working for me you will not use your name; use your official number.’
Biggles noted the number and put the Gestapo pass in his pocket. ‘Suppose I want to get into touch with you, sir?’
‘My headquarters are at the Hotel Port, on the waterfront.’
‘If I don’t find Bigglesworth at once, how long do you want me to go on looking for him?’
‘Until you hear from me again.’
‘Very good, sir. I’ll attend to it, but – if I may be allowed to say so – I hope you won’t keep me on the job too long. As a pilot, naturally, I’m anxious to get into the air, in which respect I should be useful, for I know the country pretty well. Moreover, as you know, I have had experience of flying over similar country and in similar weather conditions in northern Canada.’
‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ returned von Hymann crisply. He turned to the Commandant. ‘Have you any questions for Hendrik?’
‘No.’
‘That’s all then.’
Biggles risked a last question, for the information would be valuable to him if he could get it. ‘What is the name of your man who knows Bigglesworth?’ he inquired. ‘I ask because it might be a good thing if we met some time, and compared notes.’
‘Brandt.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Biggles saluted and departed.
As he closed the door behind him he drew a deep breath and moistened his lips with his tongue, for they had gone dry during the strain of the interview. For a moment he stood still, getting his nerves under control. They had not failed him during the difficult cross-examination, but the inevitable reaction, now that the immediate danger had passed, left him slightly weak. At the same time he endeavoured to adjust his ideas to meet the new situation.
‘Suffering rattlesnakes! Where am I getting to?’ he murmured, a ghost of a smile softening his face. ‘First I’m sworn in the German Air Force; now, of all things, I’m a full-blown Gestapo agent. I’ve done some strange jobs in my life, but this is the first time I’ve had to look for myself.’ Then his face hardened again, for he realized that that might well be a more difficult, and more dangerous, task than it sounded.
He went to the dining-room and had a quiet bite of supper. Then he found Kristen, with whom he was anxious to keep in touch, for he made a point of neglecting nothing and nobody who might be of service to him. Without divulging his mission he told Kristen that he had got to go into Oslo on temporary duty, and would probably stay at the Hotel Kapital. Kristen was curious, but knowing who von Hymann was, asked no questions concerning Biggles’ task.
‘How are you going to get to Oslo?’ he inquired.
‘I’ve got a motor-bike; I will use that,’ returned Biggles.
An hour later he was in Oslo, parking the motor-cycle in the hotel garage. The manager was still there, and recognized him. He said that the room Biggles had previously used was still available, and as this suited Biggles he decided to take it. At the foot of the stairs he was stopped by two men who stepped out of the shadows.
‘Who are you?’ asked one of them curtly.
Biggles showed his Gestapo pass, and the power of it was instantly apparent, for not only did the two men withdraw hastily, but they apologized for troubling him – a rare concession for Nazis.
Biggles continued on up the stairs, deep in thought. He was most worried by the knowledge that in the same city as himself there had been a man who knew him by sight. True, from what von Hymann had said, the man was now in Germany. But how long would it be before he returned? Obviously, not long. Moreover, he had gone to see von Stalhein, Biggles’ arch-enemy, the man of all men whom he had the greatest cause to fear. The report that he, Biggles, was in Norway would probably be quite sufficient to bring von Stalhein to Oslo at top speed. In an aeroplane he could make the journey in two or three hours. He might even now be on his way to Norway. Indeed, for all Biggles knew, he might already be in Oslo; it all depended on how long Brandt had been gone, and the precise hour of his departure was something Biggles did not know. He knew the man’s name, and that was something; but he didn’t even know him by sight.
Worn out by the day’s exertions and anxieties, Biggles flung himself on his bed just as he was to rest. He wanted to sleep, but his racing brain made it impossible. From far to the north came the low roar of bursting bombs; he could feel the thud and vibrations of the explosions; and as the window-panes rattled his face hardened with anger.
‘Well, I’m here, and if I can put a spoke in the wheel of the savages who drop bombs on helpless civilians I certainly will,’ he mused grimly.
The suspense of not knowing what was happening, or if Brandt had returned, became intolerable, and, unable to rest, he got up and looked at his watch. It was not yet eleven o’clock. Perhaps he would sleep better if . . .
In a moment he had made up his mind. He would find out if Brandt had returned. If he had, then he would be in a better position to know how to act. On the other hand, if Brandt was still in Germany, then he could at least reckon on a few hours’ grace. How could he obtain the information? Obviously, there was only one way, one place, and that was at Gestapo headquarters at the Hotel Port. By going there he might be putting his head into a noose, but anything was better than this gnawing anxiety, which would certainly impair his usefulness to Colonel Raymond.
He put on his hat and went out. The same two men were in the hall, but they only nodded to him. There were few people in the streets, and no taxis, so he had to walk to his objective – not that that mattered, for it was only a short distance away. German troops were everywhere, particularly near the waterfront, where stores and guns were being unloaded. Biggles surveyed them with eyes trained by long experience; he noted particularly the number of guns and their calibres, the types of vehicles, and the quantities of other stores. He was stopped twice by plain-clothes men and questioned, from which he was able to gather an idea of the precautions being taken to prevent useful information from reaching the Norwegian troops, who – so he learned from snatches of conversation between passers-by – were putting up a spirited resistance farther north. However, in each case the production of his Gestapo pass acted like magic, and he went on to the Hotel Port.
Two storm-troopers were on duty outside the main entrance. They stopped him, of course, and asked his business.
Biggles smiled and showed his ever-ready pass. ‘Perhaps you can help me, and save me worrying people while they are busy – as I see they are,’ he said. ‘Do either of you know Herr Brandt by sight?’
One of the men said he did.
‘Is he back yet, do you know?’
‘Yes,’ answered the man unhesitatingly. ‘He came in about half an hour ago. He came by plane – there it is.’ He pointed to a civil flying-boat that rested on the placid water, slightly apart from a number of military marine craft.
‘Was he alone?’ queried Biggles.
‘No, there was another man with him.’
‘You don’t know his name?’
‘No.’
‘Was he by any chance a thin man, with sharp features, wearing a monocle?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ agreed the man.
‘I see,’ said Biggles casually.
‘You can go in if you want to speak to them,’ invited the trooper.
Brandt and von Stalhein were the very last two people on earth Biggles wanted to see at that moment, but he did not say so.
‘They’re probably tired after their journey,’ he remarked, yawning. ‘I’m tired myself. I’ll call again in the morning. Phew! What a day it’s been.’
The storm-trooper grinned. ‘You’re right there.’
‘What’s happening, d’you know?’
‘They say we’ve got most of the country except Narvik. There’s a rumour that British troops are being landed there.’
> This was welcome information, and Biggles made a note of it. He chatted for a few minutes, learning where the Norwegians were resisting the German advance, and picking up scraps of news about the German forces, concerning which the two storm-troopers were quite ready to boast.
All the while he was talking he was standing in a position from which he could see through the glass-panelled doors into the vestibule beyond. And it was a good thing that he did so, for, suddenly, from the foot of the stairs, appeared two men. One he did not know, but the other was his old enemy, Erich von Stalhein of the German Secret Service. Both were dressed as if they were going out.
Biggles tarried no longer. ‘Well, I’ll get along and see about some sleep,’ he announced. ‘It looks as if we shall have a busy day again tomorrow. Good-night.’
He walked away, but turning into a lane between two warehouses, watched the door of the hotel. He had not long to wait. A few minutes later von Stalhein and the other man – who he presumed was Brandt – came out, and walked briskly along the waterfront. From his retreat Biggles watched them pass within ten yards of him. They were talking animatedly, but in tones too low for him to catch what they said. As soon as they had got some distance ahead he followed them.
At first he was glad that they took a direction which suited him, for it was the direction of his own hotel. It did not occur to him that they were actually going to the hotel until, from the opposite pavement, they walked straight across to the entrance and disappeared through the swing doors.
Now Biggles, having stayed in it, knew the hotel well. He knew all the entrances – there were three, including a luggage entrance. Walking past the front door he saw the two Germans in the hall talking to the hotel manager, so hastening his steps, he hurried to a side entrance which he knew also led to the hall. But he did not go right in, for he wanted to know what the Germans were saying. He opened the door quietly and took a few paces along a corridor until he could hear their voices.
The trend of the conversation was much what he expected. Brandt was describing ‘Bigglesworth’, and asking the hotel manager if he knew anything of him. The manager replied, of course, in the negative. He declared that the only person in the hotel who fitted the description was a Norwegian named Hendrik, who, at the moment, was out. On receipt of this information the two Germans announced that they would wait for him to come back, and made themselves comfortable on a settee.