by John Pearson
‘Ah, Major Bigglesworth,’ he said, ‘time we settled up. What was the figure we agreed on?’
‘One hundred thousand pounds, my Lord,’ said Biggles coolly.
‘Oh, so it was,’ replied Lord Elberton, taking his cheque book from his pocket with a grin. ‘Pretty easy money, I should say. By all accounts it was a fairly uneventful flight.’
‘A piece of cake,’ said Biggles, pocketing the cheque.
8
The Fuehrer’s Lady
‘I don’t care how good-looking the wretched woman is,’ said Biggles furiously. ‘She’s been married twice already. She’s a German and a Nazi Party member. Algy should have more sense than have anything to do with her, let alone be photographed in public with the silly cow!’
He hurled his copy of The Taller angrily across the room, narrowly missing Ginger in the process.
‘Oh, come now Biggles!’ replied Ginger soothingly as he retrieved the tattered journal from the fireplace. ‘You know Algy well enough to realise that such considerations don’t come into it. He’s an incurable romantic, and Frau von Sternberg’s very much his type — blonde, blue-eyed, dominating. Rather reminds me of the girl he was in love with years ago, the tennis-player, Deborah something-or-other.’
‘But she was relatively harmless,’ replied Biggles sharply. ‘This one isn’t. She’s right in with all the leading Huns from the Fuehrer down — or up. Her ex-husband is a pal of Goering’s, Ribbentrop’s some sort of relative, and ever since she made that record-breaking flight to Buenos Aires the German propaganda experts have been using her as one of the Nazi Party’s top attractions. Before he knows what’s hit him, our Algy will be caught up with all that merry gang as well.’
‘Now that’s not fair,’ said Ginger. ‘He’s not that stupid.’
‘Isn’t he?’ fumed Biggles. ‘Listen Ginger, I’ve known that cousin of mine since he was in short grey trousers, and women have always been his downfall.’
‘But Biggles, Algy’s thirty-eight next birthday, and you really must allow him a little private life. Just because we’re a pair of crusty old bachelors ourselves, it doesn’t follow Algy has to live a life of total chastity. If he wants a bit of fun, good luck to him, I say.’
‘That’s not the point, Ginger, and you know it. Last week he was off flying with her in some confounded air display at Munich. Now there’s a picture of him with the wretched woman at the German Embassy. If things go on like this, he’ll soon be staying as a weekend guest at Berchtesgaden.’
‘Well, if he does, he does,’ said Ginger wearily. ‘It’s Algy’s business and I do suggest that you stay out of it.’
‘Rubbish!’ snorted Biggles. ‘It’s our business. Algy’s one of us, and the next thing you know people will be thinking that we’ve all gone over to the Germans. I’m going to tell him exactly what I think!’
‘Well, if you must, you must,’ said Ginger, opening a new tin of his favourite St Bruno Flake, ‘but I would still advise against it.’
During the three years since Biggles and Algy made their name by their spectacular success in the London to Singapore air race, fortune had seemed to smile upon them both. The £100,000 that their win had earned them had been carefully invested on behalf of Biggles and Co., and this had given them the capital they needed for their adventures to continue. They had flown in Africa and revisited their favourite haunts in the Pacific. They had been to South America again, and also had some time in southern India — but although the adventures had continued, there had been a subtle change in the friends’ attitude to life. Biggles summed it up in one of his favourite phrases at the time — ‘Enjoy it while you can, for none of this is going to last.’ He knew that war was on its way, and that when it came precious little of the life they loved could possibly endure.
They had lived the good life to the full and done their best to ignore the storm clouds gathering over Europe. In 1936 Biggles and Algy both narrowly avoided real involvement in the Spanish Civil War, after Franco’s bombers sank the cruise ship in which they were holidaying in the Mediterranean. (Biggles had had a troublesome recurrence of his old malaria and the cruise had been on doctor’s orders.) But even then, they studiously avoided taking sides in what they felt to be a purely Spanish matter. Had anybody questioned Biggles on his politics, he would have said he was a King and Empire man — and changed the subject. But he had one unchanging and unchangeable belief or prejudice, call it what you will: profound distrust of Germany. ‘The Germans are either at your feet, or at your throat,’ he used to say, and for this reason his one hero in contemporary politics was the arch-enemy of appeasement, Winston Churchill. Almost all the remainder of his country’s politicians he summed up as ‘ninnies, Reds or traitors’. Because of his passionate affair with Frau von Sternberg, Algy was almost in the third category himself.
One might have thought that Algy, who knew his cousin better than anyone alive, would have understood this. He still worshipped Biggles, and had always gone to almost any lengths to keep him happy. In the past, a quizzical expression on his cousin’s face followed by a simple verdict such as ‘not quite our sort, old chap’ had been enough to seal the fate of any luckless maiden who failed to pass the test of Biggles’ scrutiny, but Irmgard Ulrike von Sternberg had been different. Algy had met the lady at the Hendon Air Display. She was already famous for her record-breaking flights around the world, and had been sponsored by the German government to fly her massive Junkers monoplane across to Britain for the show. Everyone was intrigued to see this German Amazon. The press had made a fuss of her and it was thought quite natural to introduce her to the famous British long-distance flier, Captain the Honourable Algernon Lacey. Algy fell in love with her at once.
It was hard to tell how she felt in return. She was obviously flattered to discover this distinguished, aristocratic British flier so totally in love with her. Algy courted her with everything he could — flowers, chocolates, evenings at Ciro’s and afternoons at Henley. She was also clearly most impressed by Algy as a flier. She was a very cool professional herself, and they had countless subjects for discussion if they tired of love – undercarriages, pay-loads, altimeters, fuel tanks — the list was endless. She got on well with Algy’s parents, and gave herself with slightly clinical abandon after a vegetarian dinner at the Dorchester. (She had the smooth, hard-muscled body of an athlete, and exclaimed ‘my flier’ at the crucial moment, which had Algy somewhat puzzled.)
But there was something calculating and uncomfortably inhuman about the lady — at least in the eyes of others. Ginger had christened her ‘the lady with ice-cube eyes’ and everyone could see exactly what he meant — everyone, that is, except Algy. He had flown with her, holidayed with her, been several times to Germany with her, and seemed to grow more fond of her with every day that passed.
Biggles could certainly have been more tactful when he delivered his ultimatum to Algy. A quiet corner of the Royal Aero Club and a fatherly word over a whisky and soda might well have done the trick. Instead, they had what rapidly turned into a most fearful row. Biggles and Ginger had breezed innocently enough into what Biggles called his ‘favourite watering hole’ at the Café Royal when he had noticed Algy at the bar with the glamorous Frau von Sternberg. He was about to turn away when Algy spotted him and called him over.
Until this point, Biggles had carefully avoided meeting the famous German flier, but now there was no evading her — especially with Algy looking rather pink and anxious in the background.
‘Biggles! Ginger!’ he exclaimed. ‘You must meet Irmgard. Irmgard, these are the best two chums a fellow ever had, my cousin Biggles, and the famous Ginger Hebblethwaite.’
Biggles thrust out his hand, but instead of shaking it, Frau von Sternberg raised her own in stiff salute and said, ‘Heil Hitler!’
‘Oh — er — yes!’ replied Biggles, momentarily at a loss for words.
‘What’s your poison, Biggles?’ asked Algy nervously. (Normally he would not have dreamt of as
king Biggles what he wanted, knowing that he always drank a couple of pink gins at this time of the evening.)
‘Oh, the usual, Algy, if it’s all the same to you,’ said Biggles, looking uncomfortably towards the ice-cold female presence opposite.
‘And how are you enjoying England, Frau von Sternberg?’ he inquired.
‘Not greatly,’ she replied.
‘A pity. And why not?’ asked Biggles.
‘Here in this country there is not sufficient discipline,’ she said. ‘It is quite different in Germany. We would not tolerate the sort of nonsense that I see in Britain — sloppiness everywhere, and no respect for authority. And then there is this so-called democracy of yours.’
‘Oh?’ said Biggles. ‘And what’s wrong with that? It generally seems to work.’
‘But how can you say that, Major, when it allows a criminal like this man Winston Churchill to criticise my country? In Germany he would be in prison.’
‘Would he now’ said Biggles evenly. ‘I think perhaps too many people are in prison in Germany.’
‘Are you criticising my country, Major?’ she hissed, with a steely glitter in her eyes.
‘Frau von Sternberg, you began this conversation by criticising mine. But perhaps we should keep off politics. What about this aeroplane of yours?’
‘Yes,’ said Algy eagerly, ‘tell Biggles about this flight we plan to do together. It’ll be fantastic’
‘Algernon,’ she cut in quickly, ‘our plans are not to be discussed, any more than my aircraft is, with enemies of my country. Major Bigglesworth, good day to you. Algernon, I shall be back at my hotel.’
With this she grabbed her handbag, glared at Biggles, and was gone — leaving consternation and the scent of Chanel No. 5 behind her.
‘Phew, I’m sorry, old chap,’ murmured Algy, ‘but you shouldn’t have picked on her like that. She’s very sensitive, you know.’
‘Sensitive?’ roared Biggles. ‘She’s as sensitive as an anti-aircraft gun! And as for me picking on her, you heard the way she started off on Winston. I didn’t even say a word against her Corporal Schickelgruber.’
‘Now Biggles!’ interjected Algy.
‘Don’t “now Biggles” me, my lad!’ expostulated Biggles, thumping his fist upon the bar. ‘You need to come to your senses, my good fellow! Maybe she’s wonderful in bed. I wouldn’t know, thank God, but that’s no earthly reason for betraying Britain.’
By now, everybody in the bar was listening agog. Biggles was white with rage, and a crimson flush had spread over Algy’s countenance. There was a pause, then Algy picked up his Martini, glared at Biggles, and threw it in his face.
‘How dare you!’ he exclaimed.
‘All right,’ said Ginger for the umpteenth time. ‘So it was the wretched woman’s fault, but what is done is done, old chap, and no amount of blaming her is going to fetch him back.’
‘But I don’t want him back!’ exploded Biggles. ‘I wouldn’t speak to him if he came and begged my pardon on his bended knees. All that worries me is the thought of Algy going off to Germany for good. He’s such a silly ass. And in that woman’s hands ...’
‘There you go again!’ said Ginger, as he discreetly edged the Gordons out of Biggles’ reach. ‘Just forget her. Algy will tire of her in time — he always does. Or else she’ll be the one who gives him the old heave-ho! Either way, it’ll all work out and Algy will finally be back, none the worse for wear.’
It was two days since that fateful evening at the Café Royal, and a lot had happened. Algy had failed to return to Mount Street, and inquiries from Ginger had elicited the fact that he had now mmoved in with Frau von Sternberg at the Dorchester Hotel. The gossip columnists had instantly latched on to the rumpus — and the details of the row lost little in the telling in the morning papers. This had been followed by an interview with Algy in The Times (strongly pro-German in those days), in which he had calmly said that he intended settling in Germany, marrying the Frau von Sternberg as soon as her divorce was settled, and flying with her in her future record-breaking bids.
‘So this means the end of the old partnership with Major Biggles worth?’ The Times man inquired.
‘Afraid it does,’ said Algy stoically. ‘But it’s perhaps as well. Some partnerships can last too long, and jealousies and antagonisms can develop. I have immense respect for Major Bigglesworth, and always will, but I’m sure it’s best for all concerned ...’
The Times man tried to contact Biggles, but Biggles cursed him down the telephone (not recommended when dealing with the press) and Algy’s version of the story hit the headlines. Later that same day, Algy rang Ginger, asking him to pack up his belongings for him, and by the evening Algy had moved out of the little flat which he and the friends had shared through thick and thin for nearly twenty years. Biggles and Co. had broken up.
At first the break-up seemed to make little difference. Biggles and Ginger still kept their aircraft down at Brooklands, Smyth still serviced them, and they even had a holiday together early that summer on the Norfolk Broads, where Biggles found he rather enjoyed sailing, in a leisurely sort of way. He drank somewhat more than usual, but otherwise life continued as before. Algy was never mentioned.
From time to time there were reports of Algy in the foreign pages of the press. He hadn’t married but was plainly still as close as ever to the Frau von Sternberg. That summer they had piloted the Junkers to New York, breaking the record for the transatlantic crossing, and had returned to a full-scale hero’s welcome in Berlin. Algy was subsequently photographed with Goering and several leading German politicians. Later he toured Germany, visiting German Air Force installations, and helping the Frau von Sternberg in her lectures and her meetings with the members of the German aircraft industry.
Ginger discussed it all with Nobby Smyth.
‘Can’t understand it, Nobby,’ he complained. ‘It simply isn’t like old Algy. Must be that confounded woman.’
Nobby Smyth agreed. ‘Weak as water, poor old Algy, where women are concerned,’ he added sagely.
‘Still,’ continued Ginger, ‘I blame Biggles for what happened. Always has been too possessive over Algy, and it was stupid of him going off the handle as he did. Finesse is what you must have where women are concerned.’
‘Absolutely, Ginger,’ Nobby Smyth agreed. ‘That’s how I run my married life. What I like to call the subtle approach. Always works with women. But tell me, Ginger, how’s Biggles really taking all this latest news from Germany? Isn’t he upset?’
‘More than I’ve ever known him to be,’ he replied. ‘Of course he keeps it bottled up, his sort always does. But in a way I don’t think he’ll ever quite recover from it. He doesn’t only feel that Algy’s let him down, he thinks he has betrayed his country.’ ‘I always say that pheasant is absurdly over-rated, don’t you agree, James?’ asked Colonel Raymond, scanning the evening offering at the Blazers’ Club. (Some time a year or two before, Biggles had been elevated from ‘Bigglesworth’ to ‘James’ in the Colonel’s personal vocabulary. Biggles, however, still continued to address the older man as ‘sir’.)
‘Dry, fairly tasteless,’ the Colonel went on. ‘A boring fowl, fit for nothing but the casserole. I recommend the partridge. Shot, incidentally, on the estate of your old friend, Elberton. They should be rather good.’
‘That sounds marvellous,’ said Biggles, surrendering the choice of food as usual to the Colonel. ‘How is the old boy, incidentally?’
‘Unbearable as ever,’ said the Colonel with a somewhat toothy grin. ‘He was in the other night, and inquiring after you. Seems that he has a brand-new version of the Swallow being developed for the R.A.F. Terribly hush-hush, of course, so keep it to yourself, but it could be just the bomber the Air Force needs. He seems to be wanting you to test-fly the thing for him sometime, so I expect he’ll be in touch with you. You’ve been warned.’
‘Thanks very much for telling me, sir,’ said Biggles with a wry smile. ‘Perhaps I should become a tes
t-pilot and have done with it. A short life, but a cheerful one.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, my boy. With this war in the offing, I think we can find you something a bit more interesting than that, if it’s still excitement that you’re after. Now, how about some smoked trout to begin with — or why don’t we push the boat out and have caviar? A year or two from now and caviar will only be a memory.’
Biggles knew from long experience with Colonel Raymond that a sumptuous meal at the Blazers’ Club invariably preceded some assignment with the British Secret Service and, as a rule, the better the food, the worse the task that followed. So, when the caviar arrived, Biggles was on his guard. But Colonel Raymond was in a mellow mood that night. He talked about the salmon fishing in the Highlands, the shooting on the Surrey-Hampshire borders and the hunting with the Quorn. He reminisced about their time in France and spoke discreetly — but disparagingly — of his colleagues at New Scotland Yard. In short, he spent a good three-quarters of that most delicious meal beating about the bush, and it was not until the marrons glacis had appeared that he finally inquired, ‘Oh, and by the way James, heard anything of Algy Lacey lately?’
‘No,’ said Biggles without looking up. ‘And I’m not sure I want to.’
‘Oh, it’s like that is it?’ replied the Colonel, chewing solemnly and trying to decide between the Cockburns and the Courvoisier.
‘Well, don’t you feel the same, sir?’ answered Biggles sternly. ‘You knew him almost as well as I did, and I still can’t quite believe that Algy, of all people, has gone over to the Huns.’
Colonel Raymond looked up quickly.
‘That’s what you honestly believe?’ he asked.
‘Well, what else can a fellow think? First there’s this wretched von Sternberg woman, then he goes flying for the Junkers company and now I hear he’s living in Berlin. Surely there’s only one word one can use about a rotter who does that. Algy’s a traitor to his class and to his country.’