by John Pearson
‘It’s all right Father,’ Algy said. ‘You can count on us. Cable Professor Krahenbiehl we’ll pick him up tomorrow evening.’
‘You must be off your rocker, Algernon, dear chap,’ Biggles exclaimed angrily.
The two of them were seated by the fire in Biggles’ ‘den’, having just consumed the cutlets and rice pudding Mrs Symes had cooked for them.
‘You know quite well how risky it will be. Flights into Germany are rigidly controlled, and if anything goes wrong we could end up with the Supersnipe impounded by the Allies. I’m totally against it.’
Algy looked surprised to hear his cousin talk like this.
‘Old scout,’ he said, ‘are you feeling all right? I mean, it’s not like you to go worrying your head about controls. Besides, what can go wrong? The Supersnipe’s in perfect nick, thanks to the splendid Smyth, and we agreed that what we wanted was adventure. Why all the fuss?’
Biggles had no reply to this, and shrugged his shoulders.
‘O.K.,’ he said. ‘If you’ll drive me down to Brooklands after breakfast, I’ll nip across to Frankfurt and pick up the blighter and his orchids by early afternoon. Please tell Mrs Symes that I’ll be late for supper.’
Algy flushed at this.
‘Now not so fast. Who said that you were going? It was my idea — or at any rate, my father’s — and I wouldn’t dream of letting you have all the fun.’
‘And I,’ retorted Biggles, ‘am your superior officer. As such it’s my decision who should go.’
‘Sounds like stalemate,’ said Algy with a grin. ‘Only one thing for it. We must toss for it — the winner goes.’
Biggles nodded, and producing a half-crown, spun it expertly and slapped it on his hand.
‘Heads!’ shouted Algy.
And heads it was.
Biggles and Algy were at Brooklands early, and despite his cousin’s cheerfulness, Biggles hated to see him go.
‘No need at all to worry, dear old chap!’ shouted Algy above the roar of the Supersnipe’s great engine. ‘I’ll be home in time for supper, never fear.’
He raised a gloved hand, gunned the engine, and as Smyth pulled back the chocks from the aircraft’s wheels, the Supersnipe went sailing off into the morning sky.
Biggles spent a singularly useless day, pottering around the airport, lunching at the club-house, and then driving off for tea with Smyth in Weybridge — anything to pass the time. The shadows on the airport lengthened, and the landing lights went on.
‘Captain Lacey will be back any minute now sir, I suppose,’ said Smyth.
But he wasn’t.
Biggles stayed on at Brooklands all that night and by breakfast-time, with Algy missing still, he decided something must be done. But what? It was difficult to know exactly what to do that wouldn’t cause more trouble than it solved, for as Biggles had already pointed out, they had no authority to fly to Germany, and if he sounded the alarm and Algy had simply been delayed en route, there would be hell to pay.
On the other hand, if he had crashed, search parties should be looking for him. Biggles pondered deeply over breakfast and finally decided there was one man in England who could be relied upon to help him. Ten minutes later he was hurling the Bentley up the London Road in search of him.
‘Ah, Bigglesworth!’ said Colonel Raymond, as Biggles entered the large airy room with its view across the Thames, from which the Colonel ran the Criminal Intelligence Department of New Scotland Yard. ‘An unexpected pleasure! What are you up to now that you’ve left 266? I heard something about you and old Lord Lacey’s heir setting up together. Charter flights or something of the sort. Any truth in it?’
Biggles smiled modestly.
‘Well, sir, we’re a little more ambitious than the usual charter firm. Algy and I are really after something that peacetime life appears to lack.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Colonel Raymond, screwing his monocle in place, and fixing Biggles with his eagle eye.
‘Excitement, sir!’
‘Good God, man!’ said the Colonel. ‘I’d have thought that both of you had had enough of that to last a lifetime.’
‘It becomes something of a habit,’ replied Biggles.
‘I suppose it does,’ said Colonel Raymond, pensively. ‘I’m not certain that I couldn’t use you in my line of business. We’ll have to see, but in the meantime what can I do for you today? I can’t believe you’ve driven here at this unearthly hour simply for old time’s sake.’
‘Well, no sir. Since you mention it, I have a little problem and I wanted your advice. It’s about Algy ...’
In a few well-chosen words, Biggles proceeded to outline the strange story of Professor Krahenbiehl and Algy’s flight to Frankfurt, and as he did so, Colonel Raymond’s face looked grim.
‘Well,’ he growled when Biggles finished. ‘I would award your cousin high marks for daring — but none at all for common sense. If you’d only come to me originally, I might have given you a little help — and good advice. Serious business, you know, making an unauthorised flight into ex-enemy territory like this. Most probably he’s been arrested and at this very moment is cooling his heels inside a German gaol. And quite right too. Daft young idiot!’
Biggles began to feel his anger rise at hearing Algy thus described, fair though he knew the Colonel’s words to be.
‘But all the same sir, we can’t leave him to the gentle mercy of the Huns. He’s an Englishman, and also he’s my partner and my friend. Besides, we don’t know for certain that he is in prison. He may have crashed — or anything.’
The Colonel’s face relaxed at this, and he nodded sympathetically.
‘You’ve a point there, Bigglesworth. First we must ascertain our facts.’ He glanced swiftly at his wristlet watch. ‘You know the Blazers’ Club in St James’s? Meet me there for luncheon at twelve-thirty sharp. By then I hope to have the information that we need, and possibly the two of us can work out an appropriate campaign.’
Biggles had often heard of the Blazers’ Club, that holy of holies of the Secret Service world, but he had never been beyond its eighteenth-century portals. Discreetly tucked away in a small street between St James’s and Green Park, its elegant exterior had scarcely changed from the days when it had been the town house of some long-dead nobleman. Even its subfusc interior — old panelling, dim portraits, solid hide armchairs — gave little hint that here the casual visitor was entering the most exclusive club in London, and for that matter, in the Empire.
Early though Biggles was, the Colonel was already waiting for him in the vestibule. His visage was distinctly stern.
‘Well, sir?’ asked Biggles, ready for the worst.
‘Not here, Bigglesworth. Let us both wait until we’re seated at the luncheon table. No point in muddying the gastric juices with premature bad news. Here at Blazers’ we pride ourselves on having one of the six best chefs in Europe and we owe it to him to do justice to his art.’
Eager though Biggles was for news of Algy, he could do nothing but possess himself in patience, and it was not until the potted shrimps were on the table, and the Colonel had satisfied himself that the legendary Club claret was at the proper temperature, that Biggles blurted out the question that he had to ask.
‘What news of Algy?’
The Colonel shook his head and sniffed the claret for the umpteenth time.
‘None,’ he said briskly.
‘None?’ repeated Biggles. ‘But there must be something, sir. Some news from Frankfurt, or the report of a crash in Switzerland.’
‘I said none, and I mean none,’ barked the Colonel. ‘I’ve made the most thorough inquiries across Europe, and I’ve drawn a blank. Your friend has vanished into the thinnest of thin air. I’m sorry Bigglesworth, but there it is.’
Biggles felt his heart begin to pound.
‘Poor old chap,’ he said. ‘I blame myself. I should have stopped him going. It’s entirely my fault. So there’s nothing to be done but wait?’
‘I
didn’t say that,’ Raymond replied quickly. ‘I drew a blank about your friend, but in the process of inquiry I discovered several most disturbing facts.’
‘Such as?’
‘That Lacey landed at Frankfurt entirely as planned just after two o’clock yesterday afternoon. He refuelled, and took off again some twenty minutes later with a passenger he evidently felt was your Professor Krahenbiehl.’
‘And wasn’t it?’
Raymond shook his head.
‘One of my men, acting on my orders, went to the Professor’s house. Professor Krahenbiehl was there — in perfect health, and total ignorance of his so-called flight to Switzerland.’
‘Ignorance?’ said Biggles. ‘That’s impossible! I saw the letter that he wrote to Algy’s father.’
‘Plainly a forgery. It wouldn’t have been too difficult to do. You told me that Lord Lacey hadn’t seen Krahenbiehl since well before the war. It wouldn’t have needed much ingenuity to fake his writing, and it would seem a reasonable deduction that this was done by whoever was aboard the plane.’
‘But why should anybody bother?’ Biggles asked.
‘Good question,’ said the Colonel. ‘Whoever it was was obviously desperate to get out of Germany and would take almost any risk to achieve his aim. What does that suggest?’
‘A war criminal?’ said Biggles.
Raymond nodded. ‘Or possibly a spy. And there is something else we know about him.’
‘Yes?’
‘He was acquainted with your family and knew enough about you and Lacey to be certain one of you would take the risk you did. Any idea who it could be?’
‘None,’ said Biggles. ‘Absolutely none.’
‘Well, we must try and think, for more than Lacey’s safety is at stake. If I’m right — and I’m pretty sure I am — this could be far bigger than either of us dreamt.’
For once in his life, Biggles felt completely at a loss, but at least he now possessed the full support of Colonel Raymond, and through him, of the British Secret Service, as the Colonel was convinced of the importance of the case. But although the search for Algy and the Supersnipe had spread, and every British agent in the field was contacted for urgent information, none was forthcoming. Two days passed — anxious days during which Biggles stayed in London, and had several conferences with Colonel Raymond. The two men racked their brains to discover the identity of Algy’s passenger, but neither made much progress. Then came the news that Biggles had been dreading all along. Colonel Raymond telephoned to say that the burned-out wreckage of an unknown aeroplane had been spotted on a mountainside near Freiburg, some forty miles on the German side of the frontier with Switzerland.
‘Any sign of survivors?’ Biggles asked, trying to disguise the dread he felt.
‘No reports of any,’ said the Colonel gruffly, ‘and by the sound of things it seems unlikely. But it appears pretty clear that it’s your aircraft. I’m sorry, Bigglesworth. We’ll talk tomorrow when more definite news arrives.’
Biggles felt broken by the news. To think that after all the dangers he had faced in battle, Algy had had to go like this — in a stupid crash against a mountain in bad weather. But that was how it often was. Drysdale, the toughest flier they had had in 266, had been knocked over by a bicycle and killed. Duclos, the legendary Belgian ace, died when he fell off a tram in Paris. At least Algy had gone as he would have wished — at the controls of an aeroplane with all his faculties intact. But what would happen now? Biggles didn’t care to think about the future without Algy. Certainly he hadn’t the heart to continue Biggles and Co. without him — or to go on flying for that matter.
Oppressed by these gloomy thoughts, he sat drinking in his den till long past midnight, knowing that if he went to bed he would never sleep. It was nearly one, and he had all but killed his bottle of Johnnie Walker when he was roused from his reverie by the shrilling of the telephone in the hall. He let it ring for several minutes, cursing whoever was calling him at that time of night and hoping he would go away. But the ringing persisted, and finally he lumbered to his feet, and took the call.
‘Major Bigglesworth? The Continental operator here. I have a call for you from Germany.’
‘From where?’ said Biggles. But before the operator could reply a distant voice had broken in. It was so faint that he could barely hear, but there was no mistaking its identity. It was Algy.
‘Algy, old chap!’ bawled Biggles. ‘Suffering cats, where arc you? I thought you’d had it.’
From the disjointed words that crackled through the telephone, Biggles had difficulty making sense of Algy’s story.
‘Sorry, Biggles ... crashed ... unhurt ... being held at Freiburg.’
‘Where?’ Biggles shouted.
‘Freiburg... I’m held hostage ... can’t say who ... either they get an aeroplane to fly them on to Zurich, or I’ve had it ... Freiburg, Biggles. Don’t let me down ... they mean business.’
Before Biggles could say another word, the telephone went dead.
‘All of my chaps have drawn a blank, I’m afraid, Bigglesworth,’ said Colonel Raymond next morning. ‘We’ve been in touch with the police in Freiburg, but with Lacey’s life at stake, I had to tell them to go easy. Not that they’ve any news either.’
The Colonel scratched his head.
‘Dashed if I know what the next move is, Bigglesworth. I suppose we sit and wait for Lacey’s captors to make a fresh demand.’
Biggles looked grim, and shook his head.
‘I don’t like the idea of that at all. Think of old Algy, stuck there with some flaming lunatic and thinking each moment is his last. Besides, sir, he appealed to me for help, and I’m his friend. With your permission, I’ve got to go to Freiburg.’
Colonel Raymond stared across the room. Down below, the Thames was sparkling in the morning sunlight, and as he watched it, this proud, lonely man found himself envying the ordinary people in the street who could enjoy a scene like this without the burden of responsibility he always carried. Finally, he slapped his stainless steel ruler on the desk.
‘Right you are, Bigglesworth. I’ll back you. Probably I shouldn’t — and if anything goes wrong, I’ll soon be seeking fresh employment. Please remember that. But we can’t leave Lacey without doing something. I’ll arrange an aircraft for you and all necessary clearances. Then you’re on your own. Don’t let me down.’
‘As if I could!’ said Biggles.
An hour later, Biggles was at Heston Airport, performing the last-minute checks on a long-range Vickers monoplane, lent by the R.A.F. He had borrowed goggles and a flying suit, and at Colonel Raymond’s own suggestion had been issued with a — 32 Browning automatic from the armoury. Apart from a thermos flask of scalding coffee, this was all Biggles carried for the long flight to Germany.
Once he was airborne all his worries left him. New though the aircraft was to him, the controls were no problem to a flier of his experience, and before long the English Channel was below him like a bright blue mist as the monoplane roared on at 15,000 feet. Then came the patchwork fields of France, and about an hour later he espied the Rhine, a silver ribbon just below his wing-tip.
‘Hunland!’ he thought — the stronghold he had fought against for all those months in France. What devilment was being hatched there even in defeat? When would that barbarous race ever learn its lesson? If they had done anything to Algy ... He ground his teeth and checked his compass. Strasbourg sprawled below him on the right, and with the mountains on his left horizon he urged the aircraft on the straight flight south to Freiburg.
He still had no idea how he would contact Algy, but he assumed his captors must have prompted him to make the call and would be soon prepared to introduce themselves. The airport was a simple field outside the town, with two small hangars and a runway. He circled it, and at first saw little sign of life, but as he came in to land, he saw a large black car suddenly race towards him from the perimeter of the field, and by the time his engine stopped, the car had drawn u
p some twenty yards away. It had darkened windows so that he could not see inside.
He was about to jump down from the cockpit when the driver’s door swung open and he heard a voice he thought he recognised — a guttural, inhuman voice that stirred vague memories from the past.
‘Bigglesworth, stay where you are. That’s excellent. Now, no tricks please. I have you covered and would hate to have to kill you now. You will please walk towards me with your hands above your head. You must excuse me, but I must assure myself you are not armed. March! Quick!’
But Biggles wasn’t being hurried.
‘Just a moment! What about Captain Lacey?’ he called back.
‘He’s here with me. See for yourself!’ The passenger door swung open, and Biggles glimpsed a recumbent form, gagged and tied hand and foot. There was no question who it was.
‘O.K.,’ he shouted then, ‘I’m coming down,’ and stepping from the cockpit he advanced towards the car, his hands above his head. The far door of the car opened wider now, and a masked figure emerged, holding a massive Mauser automatic. He limped slightly, and at that moment Biggles recognised him.
‘Von Stalhein!’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought that you were dead.’
‘It would suit many people if I were, but no such luck! A little higher, please. That’s better.’
Biggles was conscious of cold, reptilian eyes fixing him through the thin slits of the mask, and despite himself he shivered as he felt the Junker’s hands exploring his defenceless body.
‘A Browning automatic!’ snarled von Stalhein. ‘You should have known better, Bigglesworth. Such toys are for children!’ and he sent the weapon spinning onto the grass behind him.
‘Now we must be swift. There are certain things I want transferred from the car into your plane. You will carry them, and I will keep you covered.’
‘Not until you remove the gag from Captain Lacey. You know quite well that that’s no way to treat an officer and a gentleman, von Stalhein.’