by John Pearson
The Prussian shrugged.
‘Very well. There’s nothing he can do now anyhow. Captain Lacey, my apologies.’
‘Sorry, Biggles,’ Algy said when the bandage was removed. ‘I should have followed your advice. I wouldn’t be in this mess
‘Enough of that,’ barked von Stalhein. ‘Bigglesworth, in the back of the car are six large cases. Place them in the cockpit.’
‘Professor Krahenbiehl’s famous specimens,’ said Biggles.
‘You might call them that,’ von Stalhein said. ‘Hurry now. I’m anxious to be off.’
Biggles went to lift the first of the cases. It was as much as he could do to carry it, but finally he had staggered to the aircraft with all six of them.
‘And now?’ asked Biggles.
‘Into the aircraft please. We will fly due south.’
‘I thought you wished to get to Zurich. That’s south-east from here.’
‘And fly straight into the arms of your Colonel Raymond or one of his employees? Please to credit me with just a little sense, Major. No, we will land at Basel. There is a small airport there, and I have made arrangements to be met. Once that is done all your responsibilities will be over. But don’t forget, Major Bigglesworth, I shall be sitting just behind you, and at the first sign of double-dealing I shall blow your head off.’
Biggles nodded.
‘And what about Captain Lacey?’
‘He can stay where he is. I’m sure he’s rather stiff, but otherwise in perfect health. Once we have gone, someone will release him.’
Biggles realised that it was pointless arguing, so after a brief farewell to Algy, he climbed aboard the aircraft, revved the engine, and glanced back quickly to see the muzzle of von Stalhein’s automatic just behind his neck. Angrily he opened up the throttle, and the plane soared up the runway on its way to Switzerland.
It was a short, uneventful flight to Basel, but all the way Biggles racked his brains to think of how to outwit von Stalhein. Some things were clear to him already. It had obviously suited the wily Prussian to have had Biggles and the British Secret Service believe that he had died on his mission to Palestine, and since then he had enjoyed the perfect cover for a spy — that of a man his enemies believe is dead. It was a daring plan of his to count on Biggles or Algy to get him into Switzerland under the guise of old Professor Krahenbiehl. But why take such a risk? Biggles could not believe von Stalhein needed to escape from Germany on his own account. Whatever crimes the man was guilty of, he was so elusive and such a master of disguise that he could confidently escape from any manhunt. The answer clearly lay in that mysterious luggage he carried with him. It must be desperately important for a man like von Stalhein to have taken quite such risks to get it into Switzerland. Biggles would have given almost anything for a chance to peep inside those six black cases, but von Stalhein’s Mauser was still six inches from his neck, and now that they were coming into land, Biggles required all his energies to bring the monoplane safely into the small mountain airport.
He made his usual perfect three-point landing.
‘A stylish piece of flying, Major,’ said von Stalhein as the big aircraft rolled to a halt before the airport building. He had now taken off his mask, and, but for the cropped hair and livid duelling scars disfiguring his cheeks, might have been an ordinary businessman.
‘Now listen carefully,’ he went on. I have everything arranged. The customs men are in my pay, and you and I will take the baggage through without any trouble. Outside the airport my associate is waiting with a car. Once we are gone you are free to do exactly as you like, but until that moment I shall be behind you and will have the Mauser in my pocket. So no tricks, Major Bigglesworth. It would upset me to be obliged to kill so excellent a pilot.’
Biggles nodded.
‘You win, von Stalhein — for the moment. But don’t think you’ll get away with it.’
‘Oh, but I think I have already. Now, the luggage if you please. Be careful with it. Be good enough to load it on that porter’s trolley, and I must be on my way.’
Biggles had no alternative but to do as he was told. He piled the heavy bags aboard the trolley and, followed by von Stalhein, pushed them past the few officials who were in the airport and out towards a waiting car. He had all but reached it when he heard someone behind him say, ‘One moment, sir!’
He turned and saw that a tall, good-looking man with spectacles had approached von Stalhein, and that the Prussian was attempting to ignore him.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the man repeated with polite insistence.
‘What is it?’ growled von Stalhein. ‘Can’t you see I’m in a hurry?’
‘I won’t keep you long, sir. Just a small formality. Inspector Luscher, Swiss Federal Police. Your passport would appear to be out of date. Would you mind ...’
It was the diversion Biggles needed, and in a flash he turned upon von Stalhein. A shot rang out — but von Stalhein’s aim was faulty now and the bullet went whining harmlessly away. At the same time, Biggles had the satisfaction of landing a good British uppercut onto the Junker’s jaw.
‘That’s for Algy,’ Biggles gasped, ‘and that’s for ...’ But before he could land a second blow von Stalhein had wrenched himself away and bounded like a panther for the waiting car. The engine was already running and as the door swung open for him, Biggles had a clear view of the driver. It was a face that he could never in his life forget, a small white face framed in a halo of blonde hair. The driver of von Stalhein’s car was Marie Janis.
Not that Biggles had much time to dwell upon the fact, for von Stalhein was still armed, and as the car sped off he raised his Mauser and was about to fire at Biggles. Rage suffused his face and at such short range no one could have missed, but at just that moment Biggles saw Marie raise her arm and grab von Stalhein by the sleeve. She must have shouted something, for the Prussian turned towards her and held his fire. Then the car roared off, leaving Biggles by the roadside with six large suitcases.
‘Well, Bigglesworth, twelve million pounds in bullion and assorted currencies. Not a bad haul for an afternoon. I congratulate you.’
The scene was the Adam dining room of the Blazers’ Club the following evening, and Colonel Raymond, in full evening dress, raised his glass to Biggles.
‘At least the British taxpayer isn’t out of pocket for my flight, sir.’ Biggles said. ‘My one regret is that von Stalhein got away like that. The man’s as slippery as a cobra.’
‘And as evil,’ Algy added. ‘I have a score or two to settle with him for the way he treated me. But one thing still puzzles me, sir. Where did the money come from?’
Colonel Raymond smiled as he lit a large cigar.
‘You really want to know? I’ll tell you. It was part of the hidden funds of the old German Secret Service. Von Stalhein had had access to them since the Armistice.’
‘So he was just a common criminal?’ said Algy.
The Colonel shook his head.
‘To give the devil his due, he didn’t want the money for himself. It was more serious than that. From what Inspector Luscher tells me, he was planning to use it to finance an undercover network of German agents inside Switzerland to provide a nucleus of trained spies for the future. The Germans may have lost the war, but the German Secret Service, with von Stalhein at the head, is not so easily defeated. Still, Bigglesworth, your action dealt it quite a blow. Small wonder he was furious when it all went wrong. You were lucky that he didn’t kill you.’
‘But for Marie he would have done,’ said Biggles softly.
‘Marie? Oh yes, that girl of yours. Of course,’ said Colonel Raymond. ‘We should have dealt with her originally when we had the chance. She’s dangerous, you know.’
‘I don’t believe it, sir,’ said Biggles.
‘I’m sorry, Bigglesworth, I know how you feel about her, but you can’t fly in the face of facts. Even when you knew her first she was working for the German Secret Service. Since then she has become one of their mo
st daring operators — and von Stalhein’s mistress.’
Biggles was on his feet.
‘His what, sir?’
‘Now, Bigglesworth, sit down, there’s a good fellow,’ said the Colonel. His voice was gentle now, but as he spoke to Biggles it was with the firmness of a father talking to his son. ‘I know it’s hard for you, but you must be realistic. The reports that I have had leave no room for doubt. Why else do you think that she was waiting for him at the airport?’
‘Seems pretty obvious to me,’ said Algy.
Biggles said nothing.
‘More champagne?’ asked Colonel Raymond anxiously. ‘It’s Bollinger 98. Drink up, Bigglesworth, it’s very good. And take my advice, forget her. There are more fish in the sea, old boy.’
‘But sir, you don’t understand. Yesterday she saved my life! You don’t forget a girl like that, even if she is a spy. So, with your permission sir, I propose a toast. To Marie — whatever and wherever she may be!’
‘I’ll second that,’ said Algy.
There was a pause as Colonel Raymond stared across the table. Then he raised his glass.
‘Marie!’ he said.
And in silence Biggles drank to the woman he still loved.
5
Flying High
‘Well,’ said Biggles, putting his legs against the fender in his den and lighting a gold-tipped Turkish cigarette, ‘things are distinctly looking up, Algy my old lad.’
Algy grinned back at him from the armchair opposite and closed his blue account-book with a bang.
‘Over £4,000 straight profit on our first year’s operations. That’s after allowing for depreciation on the aircraft, wages, petrol, every jolly thing. Biggles and Co. has quite a healthy surplus at the bank.’
‘Wages of sin!’ laughed Biggles. ‘Only one thing rather worries me. What are we going to do with all this wealth?’
As Biggles knew quite well, the company had been extremely lucky, thanks in the main to Colonel Raymond’s influence. As something of a reward for the recovery of von Stalhein’s gold — and as replacement for the Supersnipe — he had persuaded the British Government to make an outright gift of the Vickers monoplane to Biggles and Co. It was through Colonel Raymond also that they had been recommended for a number of lucrative operations. The best of these has been the Cronfelt Bullion job (described in detail by Captain Johns in his book Biggles and Co.). This had established the two cousins as couriers extraordinary, fliers entrusted by the banks, diamond dealers and insurance companies to transport valuables around the globe at a moment’s notice, and business had been booming ever since. An old protegé of Biggles’, ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite, had recently been added to the payroll as an extra pilot, and the company now owned a powerful six-seater plane, the Cormorant.
‘We seem to have found ourselves an airline,’ Biggles had remarked with barely feigned surprise, and although a regular business was the last thing either of them had intended, Biggles and Co. was running with considerable efficiency. Algy had managed the accounts — and shown quite a flair for high finance — whilst Biggles worked as unofficial operations manager, dealing with customers, keeping an eye on Smyth who serviced and repaired the aircraft, and coping with extra staff whenever the need arose.
Biggles and Algy still flew as regularly as ever, but the truth was that suddenly they both felt slightly bored by all the humdrum details of their life.
‘The trouble is,’ said Algy, lighting a cigarette as well, ‘we’re both in danger of becoming blasted businessmen. Money, balance sheets and wage bills — they weren’t what we wanted when we started flying. And you, my fat friend, unless I’m much mistaken, are beginning to develop quite a paunch. Really, Biggles my old lad, something must be done.’
‘Stuff and nonsense!’ retorted Biggles, slapping his midriff, ‘stomach muscles of iron. Not an ounce of surplus fat anywhere!’
‘All the same,’ laughed Algy, ‘I think I’d better have a word with Mrs Symes to go easy on the steak and kidney pudding.’
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ said Biggles. ‘What we both need is something different, not just a change of diet. Why don’t we have a holiday?’
Biggles had never really had a holiday before, apart from his times with General Bigglesworth during his breaks from Malton Hall, and he and Algy were determined to enjoy themselves. Luckily, Ginger Hebblethwaite was more than competent to manage the company during the fortnight they planned to be away, and anyhow, the tail-end of February was a slack period for commercial flying.
‘Be glad to be rid of you both,’ said the irrepressible Yorkshireman. ‘Always hanging round the bar at Brooklands and making the mechanics nervous. Smyth is planning to overhaul the Cormorant once you’re off the scene and I’ll put the company in order in your absence.’
‘What it is to be a genius!’ said Algy, grinning. ‘Still, it’s good to know that Biggles and Co. will be in safe hands while we’re gone.’
‘And where might you be going to, you old lounge-lizard? I think a walking holiday through the Yorkshire Dales at this time of year would do both of you a power of good.’
‘Or a bike ride to John o’ Groats,’ retorted Algy. ‘No, Ginger my old scout, we’ll leave the violent exercise to you. I’ve persuaded Biggles that we owe it to ourselves to holiday in style. Only place a gentleman can go in February is Monte Carlo. A good hotel, a little flutter at the casino, some decent French food. It’ll be good for Biggles. He’s been dwelling on that wretched Janis woman ever since the von Stalhein business and it’ll give him something new to think about.’
‘You mean it will give you an opportunity to get up to no good, Algernon my boy. I know your sort. But while you’re trying to break the bank, be careful that you don’t go and break the company instead. Biggles and Co. shouldn’t play roulette.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Algy dreamily. ‘A few bob invested in Dame Fortune never did much harm.’
It was a perfect journey to the south. The Bentley had been specially tuned up by Smyth, and as it bowled along the straight French roads with Algy at the wheel, all their cares seemed left behind in wintry London. Just after Paris the rain stopped and by the time they reached Lyons, they were in brilliant sunshine; it seemed that spring had come. Even Biggles, who was ill at ease without an aeroplane to fly, had suddenly relaxed. They dined in style at Mère Brazier’s, stayed at the best hotel in town, and made an early start for Monte Carlo, where they arrived in time for lunch.
‘Where are we staying?’ Biggles asked.
‘Little place called the Hotel de Paris,’ said Algy with a grin. ‘That’s where the parents always stay. The Mater says it’s the one place on the Riviera where you can trust the plumbing, so I’ve followed her advice.’
‘But dear old chap, it’s the most expensive hotel in the South of France!’
‘Biggles, my boy, you’re too concerned with filthy lucre. We agreed finance was my department, so leave the sordid details to your old pal Algy. Enjoy yourself. I’m told the lobster here is reasonable, and how about some really good champagne? Nothing like starting as you mean to continue.’
Biggles would have protested further, but Algy’s high spirits were infectious. They garaged the Bentley, entrusted their luggage to a porter with a gold and black striped waistcoat, and sat enjoying their champagne on the terrace.
‘To think that back in dear old London, everyone’s shivering with cold,’ said Biggles.
‘That’s half the fun of this,’ said Algy. ‘Enjoy it while you can, old boy, it won’t last. Nothing really pleasant ever does. Incidentally, how about setting up a branch of Biggles and Co. here in the South of France? I’m willing to make the sacrifice of working here if you’ll run the show from England.’
‘Extremely decent of you, Algy, but by the sound of it, someone’s got here before us.’
As he spoke his voice was drowned in the roar of an aircraft engine, and a sleek blue biplane flashed across the terrace at a height of les
s than fifty feet, narrowly missed the gleaming bulk of the Casino, then swept across the harbour in a 360-degree roll. Then, amid the ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ of the people on the terrace, the small plane climbed like a rocket, looped the loop, and then came screaming down towards the ranks of expensive yachts gathered in the harbour. By now half the watchers on the terrace were on their feet, as it seemed certain that the plane would crash. For several seconds it was out of sight, hidden by the promenade and Casino, but instead of an explosion, there was a sudden roar and the glitter of blue wings as the plane pulled out of its dive and flashed past the terrace, waggling its wings and zooming out of sight into the perfect sky.
‘Not bad,’ said Algy. ‘Not bad at all!’
Biggles nodded. ‘All the same, I can’t stand chaps who will go showing off like that. What do they have to prove? If the silly idiot had crashed it wouldn’t just have been his own life down the drain. Dozens could have died.’
‘True, master. Very true. But all the same he didn’t crash and a spot of showing-off does nobody much harm. I wonder who the hell it was. Garçon!’ he shouted to the waiter who was hovering behind their table. ‘Connaissez-vous l’ aviateur?’
‘But certainly, sir,’ replied the waiter, in perfect English. ‘He is one of your own countrymen. Captain James Gordon-Bell. He is extremely rich. How do you say, a playboy? He has a lady friend who owns a big yacht in the harbour. He does the aerobatics to impress her, so they say.’
‘Cor, stone the crows!’ said Algy when the waiter was safely out of earshot. ‘D’you hear that Biggles? Wasn’t he the bounder they chucked out of 266? Dreadful fellow?’
Biggles nodded. ‘Couldn’t stand him — nor could anybody else. He was yellow too. That’s why he got his marching orders. Nerve cracked or something!’
‘Well, he seems to have recovered it, and no mistake. But Biggles, surely he was never rich? Unless my memory deceives me he never had two brass farthings to rub together.’