by John Pearson
Algy had never acted faster in his life. Round came the Proctor in a terrifying bank and once again he swept down on the terror-stricken men below, all but hitting them with his undercarriage. Then came a loop-the-loop and then another dive, at the end of which he flattened out, banked gently, and brought the aircraft into the neatest landing of his life, barely twenty yards from where Biggles stood.
‘Quick!’ shouted Algy, opening the cockpit door, but Biggles needed no encouragement — especially as the gangsters had now recovered their nerve and were already firing at the plane. A bullet struck the engine cowling and went whining off. Another hit the windscreen.
‘Good to see you, dear old chap!’ panted Biggles as he heaved himself aboard. ‘Nicest little exercise in dive-bombing I’ve seen in years.’
‘Never knew that you could run so fast, old thing,’ replied Algy with a grin. ‘And now I think perhaps we’d better make ourselves scarce, unless we want to face your friends’ machine-guns.’
As Algy spoke, the rattle of a Browning gun sounded above the racket of the engine, and a neat line of holes appeared in the Proctor’s wing.
‘With any luck we’ve just sufficient petrol to get us over to Catania. And from then on it’s up to you, Brigadiere.’
‘After the last ten minutes, it will be a holiday to deal with the whole Sicilian Mafia,’ answered the ashen-faced policeman.
They never did find Don Gesualdo. The canny old capo mafioso simply disappeared in that island which was always famous for its disappearing tricks. But all the other members of the gang were caught — except for the Barber, who was killed in the gunfight when the castle in the plain was raided. It was there, too, that the Carabinieri found the up-to-date laboratory where the heroin had been produced.
Biggles and Algy had their dinner with the Brigadiere in the little restaurant off the Corso — it was the best food they had eaten since before the war — and the next day they flew back to England. The smuggling of heroin on British planes was over, for a while at least, and the Special Air Police had finally achieved its first resounding victory.
11
The Missing Missile
The triumphant conclusion of the heroin affair by Biggles and Algy was an historic achievement in its way. Not only did it keep the British airways free from narcotics smuggling for several years to come, but it also gave the Special Air Police what it desperately needed — a genuine success.
The chief beneficiary, of course, was the man at the top — Air Commodore Raymond. The Press began to sit up and take notice of the new department at the Yard, particularly after the Home Secretary himself had praised it in the House of Commons. The budget doubled almost overnight, and most important of all for the Air Commodore, his status at the Yard improved immeasurably. He could ignore the jealousy of senior detectives. Respect for him increased among the lower orders and finally, a few months later, when the Yard’s solicitor-in-chief conveniently expired, the Air Commodore regained his old room with its view across the river.
One would have thought that all this would have made him grateful to the chums — and probably he was, deep down. But Raymond was a strange and contradictory man. In adversity no one was a better ally, but when things started to go well he was inclined to grow suspicious, a tendency that had increased with age. Biggles’ theory was that he hated owing anything — particularly gratitude — to anyone. Perhaps he was also worried that a successful subordinate like Biggles might one day prove a threat. This was ridiculous, of course. Apart from the genuine respect that Biggles had always felt towards the older man, the last thing he wanted was a desk job with its never-ending load of tiresome responsibilities. Like Algy, Biggles remained what he had always been — a man of action, and a dedicated flier. He had no interest in power, wealth or titles. He despised politics and politicians more than ever and was honestly delighted that a man like Raymond should be once again enjoying the success and influence he patently deserved.’
But at the same time, Biggles would have been less than human had he not felt slightly miffed at the way that he and Algy were beginning to be treated by their boss. No further invitations to the Blazers’ Club had followed the big Old Bailey case which marked the end of the narcotics network. (Six airline stewards were sent down with hefty sentences, and the Special Air Police were warmly commended by the judge.) And whilst Biggles was reasonably satisfied to be offered the rank of detective inspector in the force, he was incensed to hear that all that Algy would receive was the position of detective sergeant.
‘It’s all right, dear old boy,’ Algy had remarked when the news arrived at Mount Street in a cool official letter from the Police Establishments Department. ‘Sergeant suits me rather well, and what does it matter what a fellow’s called these days? Pass me the marmalade, there’s a good fellow.’
But Biggles could not imitate his cousin’s nonchalance.
‘That’s gratitude for you!’ he fumed. ‘And after all these years and all we’ve done for him. He doesn’t risk his bally neck. He simply sits on his backside and orders us around. And then he offers you the rank of sergeant! It’s an insult, Algy, and I’m going to tell him so.’
‘Now, now, calm down,’ said the pacific Algy. ‘I rather like to be back among the other ranks after all these years, and Mrs Symes will certainly be most impressed. Her husband was a police sergeant, you know. But seriously, Biggles, what does any of this matter? Raymond’s a tricky character — always has been. But the main point is that if we stick with him, we’ll get the sort of work that we enjoy, and frankly Biggles, what’s the alternative?’
‘Oh, I know all that,’ said Biggles, ‘but I hate meanness in a man.’
‘Forget it. But I do suggest we concentrate on getting a few of our former chums to join us. That would improve the atmosphere no end. There’s Ginger Hebblethwaite for instance.’
‘But Ginger’s in New Zealand running that bally sheep-farm he inherited.’
‘Wrong again, old scout. He’s back. He rang last night when you were out. Apparently he couldn’t stand the place. Got bored to tears, and so he’s sold the farm and is back here with his tail between his legs looking for something he can do. He sends you his regards.’
‘I should jolly well think he does,’ roared Biggles, all thought of his annoyance with the Air Commodore instantly forgotten. ‘Where is the wretched fellow?’
‘Staying at the Cumberland Hotel.’
‘The devil he is! You should have asked him round. His room’s still here.’
Algy grinned and nodded cheerfully.
‘Just what I thought myself. I’ve ordered him to report here this morning. That’s probably him at the front door now.’
‘Great suffering catfish!’ expostulated Biggles as his former protegé appeared. ‘I’d given you up to the Antipodes for good. How wonderful to see you!’
‘And wonderful to be back, I can tell you Biggles! What’s been happening in my absence?’
‘Oh, all sorts of things. You’d be surprised! But before we start getting down to that, we must get a few facts straight. Firstly, you’re coming back here to the flat to live.’
‘If you say so Biggles,’ replied Ginger with a grin.
‘I do say so, and so does Algy. Secondly, have you got a job?’
Ginger shook his head.
‘Well, you have now, you lucky lad. You’re joining an outfit called the Special Air Police. Your country needs you, Ginger. And for that matter, so do we.’
As luck would have it, Ginger’s arrival at New Scotland Yard coincided with a period of furious activity, most of which has now been faithfully recorded by Captain Johns. As commercial travel in the air advanced, air crime kept pace with it — sabotage, smuggling, mail-bag thefts, and kidnapping by air — the list was endless, and wherever a British aircraft was involved, the Special Air Police became involved as well. This rather suited Biggles, who enjoyed nothing more than disappearing to the far side of the globe at a moment’s notice, and
the full range of his investigations was phenomenal.
One moment he and Algy and the ebullient Ginger would be off to Central Africa investigating the suspicious loss of a private monoplane with a wanted criminal aboard. A few weeks later, they were in Canada investigating a horrendous series of disasters caused by bombs planted in the luggage holds of domestic aircraft. They collaborated ceaselessly with their French opposite number, Marcel Brissac of the French Sûreté, and sometimes found themselves in Rome, where they were always glad to work with the cheerful Brigadiere Grattapalli of the Carabinieri. Early in 1949 they were in the Antarctic, successfully salvaging a lost cargo of bullion from a wreck, a mission Captain W. E. Johns describes in Biggles in the Antarctic. Later that same year they helped foil one of the earliest attempts at hijacking a commercial aircraft, when Biggles flew to Addis Ababa and overpowered a demented Ethiopian who was threatening to blow up a British aircraft on the runway.
It was shortly after this that another of Biggles’ favourite cronies from the past joined the Special Air Police. This was the deceptively lethargic, monocle-wearing, former racing driver, Lord Bertie Lissie. At first, the Air Commodore had jibbed at the idea of having a member of the House of Lords on the payroll as an ordinary Air Constable.
‘Really James,’ he complained to Biggles, ‘the man’s a member of my club. How can I possibly expect him to obey my orders? And besides, a chap like Lissie as a humble member of the Force — it’s quite ridiculous!’
But Biggles patiently explained that Bertie never used his title, and that his appearance as a sort of stage-door-Johnnie was deceptive.
‘The man’s a splendid flier,’ he explained, ‘and a thoroughly good egg. Besides, he was a member of the Squadron in the war, and I can’t speak higher of a man than that.’
‘All right then, James,’ replied the Air Commodore with somewhat weary resignation. ‘You win, as usual, but people are beginning to complain that the Special Air Police is simply Biggles’ Private Army.’
‘Well, what’s wrong with that, sir?’ countered Biggles with a grin. ‘It seems an excellent idea to me. If only I could persuade old Nobby Smyth to join us, it would be just like old times again.’
The Air Commodore groaned.
‘Please James, spare me that. But since you mention it, what has happened to your old mechanic?’
‘He’s become very rich,’ said Biggles. ‘Started his own aircraft component business down at Farnborough, and he’s become a regular tycoon — Rolls-Royce, house in the South of France, the lot, so I think you’re pretty safe.’
‘Well, thank the Lord for that!’ the Air Commodore replied.
During these years of expansion of the Special Air Police, there was one vital area of activity which by necessity has had to remain secret until now — the special assignments Biggles and his friends performed for the British Secret Service. For, although Air Commodore Raymond was officially on the staff of the police, he still maintained his contacts with the spy world he had known in the past. And sometimes, when the need arose for the special skills that Biggles and his friends possessed, they would find themselves seconded to some hush-hush operation which had nothing much in common with the routine work of the Special Air Police. Biggles always would object to being called a spy — ‘sounds like some seedy fellow in a dirty mackintosh’, he used to say — but the fact was that he still enjoyed the Secret Service world, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than the undercover tasks that sometimes came his way. Many of these are still affected by the Official Secrets Act and so will have to wait for their historian. Others are of marginal interest to the actual story of Biggles’ life, but there is one affair which can finally be revealed and which is of such importance to the life of Biggles that it requires treating in some detail — the conclusion of his involvement with his oldest enemy of all, Hauptmann Erich von Stalhein.
Captain Johns himself described the beginning of this strange episode in a book which he entitled Biggles Buries a Hatchet. It was an appropriate title for the story of the curious events which ended with Biggles and a task force from the Special Air Police rescuing his old enemy from a Soviet prison camp on the island of Sakhalin, off the mainland of Siberia.
The story behind von Stalhein’s imprisonment is strange enough. With the ending of the war, the wily Prussian had thrown in his lot with the Secret Service of the Peoples’ Federal Republic of East Germany, and for several years had worked against the West. This was not entirely surprising, for although an old-style Prussian aristocrat, von Stalhein was a citizen of East Germany by birth, and the undercover world of spies and sabotage remained his natural habitat. He played a vital part in building up the East German Secret Service — but then his star began to wane. He was clearly not a dedicated communist, and several somewhat costly failures in the early sixties sealed his doom with his new political masters. (Biggles himself had played his part in his enemy’s eclipse when he foiled von Stalhein’s attempt to recover an important cache of secret documents which a former Nazi Intelligence Officer called Wolff had hidden in Jamaica. It was shortly after this that von Stalhein was arrested, tried by a people’s court in Lubeck and finally consigned to the grim work-camp at Sakhalin.)
Quixotically enough, one of von Stalhein’s final acts before arrest had been to get a warning through to Biggles of an attempt by the Russian K.G.B. to assassinate him. Why he did this is anybody’s guess. Perhaps some lingering sense of honour made the Prussian feel that murder in cold blood was indefensible. Perhaps he was getting back at the people who arrested him. Whatever lay behind it, von Stalhein’s warning certainly saved Biggles’ life. One good turn deserved another, and Biggles, Algy, Ginger and Bertie Lissie undertook the sea-plane flight to the island of Sakhalin which resulted in the spectacular release of von Stalhein himself.
But although it seems a slightly touching story — as indeed in many ways it was — there was far more to this ‘burying of the hatchet’ with von Stalhein than was revealed at the time. Whilst Biggles and his chums went off to rescue von Stalhein for reasons of gratitude and, as Biggles put it, ‘really for old time’s sake’, Raymond was quite immune to all such sentimental motives. His cold, calculating brain had worked out in advance that the Hauptmann would be quite a prize — and a much-needed feather in the cap for British Intelligence in its competition with the American C.I.A., and once von Stalhein was in British hands, Raymond was determined to exploit him to the full.
Biggles, who now had few illusions about his boss, had guessed as much from the beginning, and did his best to save von Stalhein from the excesses of the faceless men in the British Secret Service. Indeed, he had quite a set-to with the Air Commodore on the subject just a few days after his return from the hell-hole of Sakhalin. Von Stalhein was still recovering from his ordeal in the carefully guarded mansion outside Brighton, which the Secret Service used to house its most valuable guests, and when Biggles asked to see him, he was greeted with a blank refusal.
‘Sorry, James old chap! Quite out of the question I’m afraid,’ the Air Commodore replied.
‘But why, sir?’ Biggles asked with some asperity. ‘I’ve known von Stalhein almost all my life, and now we’ve rescued him I’d like a chance to see that he’s all right.’
‘Oh, he’s all right — you can set your mind at rest on that score, James.’
‘But ordinary good manners would demand that I should visit him. Besides, sir, I know von Stalhein well enough to know that if he’s going to spill the beans to anyone, he’s far more likely to do so to me than to some cold-blooded interrogator from British Military Intelligence.’
‘James,’ sighed Raymond wearily, ‘do me a favour. Just stop being sentimental. You know as well as I do that von Stalhein is the biggest prize we’ve had for years. The professionals are dealing with him, and can’t have chaps like you around to muck things up. So just forget von Stalhein. You don’t owe him anything — after all, you saved the wretched fellow’s life.’
; ‘That’s not the point, sir, He’s a human being, and an officer and a gentleman, whatever else he may have been — which is more than I can say for these damned “professionals” of yours. I’m appealing to you, sir, to let me visit him.’
‘Quite out of the question, James,’ the Air Commodore replied, slapping the desk with his stainless steel ruler. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’
‘It’s a really dirty business,’ Biggles fumed that night when all the chums were gathered in the flat.’ ‘And when I tried to reason with him he dismissed me like the confounded office-boy. I tell you, Algy, it’s the last bally straw. I’m resigning.’
‘Oh, calm down Biggles,’ answered Algy, sipping a lethargic Scotch and soda, ‘what’s the use of that? It’ll make no difference. Von Stalhein knew what he was in for when he came back with us. The Secret Service boys have got to do their job, and he’ll be O.K. in the end. When they’ve finished with him, they’ll get the plastic surgeons to give him a nice new face and find him a job somewhere under a new name – which is more than the other side would have done for us. You can save your indignation for someone other than the Hauptmann Erich. Don’t you agree, Bertie?’
Bertie Lissie nodded.
‘Quite,’ he drawled. ‘Frankly, can’t see what all the fuss is about. Always thought von Stalhein was a pain in the bally neck.’
‘Of course, he was,’ retorted Biggles. ‘He was the most determined enemy we ever had, but that’s precisely why I feel responsible for him. If you can’t see that, Bertie, then I’m sorry for you. What do you think, Ginger?’
Ginger Hebblethwaite shrugged his shoulders.
‘As far as von Stalhein goes,’ he said, ‘I think that I agree with Bertie. He’ll be all right, and if he isn’t I don’t think I’ll lose much sleep. But honestly, Biggles, what does worry me is Raymond’s attitude to us, and I suspect that that’s what really worries you as well.’