by W E Johns
‘Sakhalin,’ he read aloud. ‘An island six hundred miles long and from sixteen to a hundred and twenty-five miles wide separated from the Siberian mainland by the Gulf of Tartary, which varies from twenty to eighty miles across. Two ranges of mountains up to five thousand feet high run the full length of the island from north to south. Sakhalin is almost entirely covered with fir and larch forest, in which live elk, bears, wolves, and other animals which cross over from the mainland when the Tartar Passage is frozen in winter. The climate is cold and sunless. A number of tribes live in primitive conditions by hunting and fishing. Their staple food is dried fish. Large crabs are dried and ground to flour to make a form of bread. The island is now being developed, oil, coal and some other minerals being produced. The chief towns are Due and Alexandrovsk.’ Ginger closed the book and looked up. ‘That’s all.’
Biggles nodded slowly. ‘So that’s where they’ve sent von Stalhein. What a place to end up. He was no friend of ours, but I couldn’t wish my worst enemy a fate like that.’
‘I suppose young Lowenhardt was telling the truth... I mean, his tale wasn’t a trap to get you where some people would like to see you?’ suggested Bertie.
‘He was telling the truth, all right,’ answered Biggles. ‘A boy of that age couldn’t fool me. Besides, what was the purpose of spinning such a yarn when not by the widest stretch of imagination could I, of all people, be expected to attempt the impossible in an effort to help a man who has always been an implacable enemy? That wouldn’t make sense.’ Biggles reached for a cigarette and went on. ‘Had von Stalhein been allowed to have his way he would have won the first round on the first occasion that we bumped into each other, and that was a long time ago. Algy could tell you all about it.’
‘You tell us,’ suggested Ginger.
‘There isn’t much to tell,’ answered Biggles. ‘A German agent in London mistook me for someone else and offered me an assignment.2 I reported the matter to Intelligence, at the Air Ministry, and they ordered me to accept. That led to the stickiest job I’ve ever had, and was really responsible for what I’ve been doing on and off ever since. To make a long story short I found myself playing the double-spy on the German aerodrome at Zabala, in the Middle East. The station commander was a doddering old fool named Count von Faubourg. Von Stalhein, a regular army officer, who was limping about on two sticks, having been wounded in the leg, was his Chief of Staff Intelligence. He knew I was a phoney, but there was nothing he could do about it because he was under von Faubourg, who believed in me. At least, he demanded evidence before he’d act, and somehow I always managed, often by the skin of my teeth, to prevent von Stalhein from getting it. It was touch and go, cut and thrust, all the time, and he must since have regretted many times that he didn’t do what he should have done, which was to fake the evidence to have me shot, as — let us admit it — I deserved.’
‘That he didn’t must have been due to a weakness in him somewhere,’ put in Ginger.
‘Yes, I think you may have hit on something there,’ agreed Biggles. ‘His weakness, if we can call it that, lay in the fact that he was what he was — a Prussian professional soldier of the old school, a rigid disciplinarian and a gentleman in the sense that by upbringing and training he had a certain code of behaviour from which he was unable to break away. Actually, I suspect that has been his trouble all along. As a monarchist born and bred he had no business on the other side of the Iron Curtain, and in his heart knew it. Like a square peg in a round hole he just didn’t fit, which was why it was inevitable that sooner or later he would fall foul of the people for whom he has been working. They aren’t handicapped by scruples. He is, and always has been. I knew that. I told him so more than once. Well, there it is. It’s a queer thought that after all these years we shan’t be seeing him again. It’ll be interesting to see who replaces him. But as I said just now, let’s forget it.’
* * *
1 See Biggles in the Blue.
2 See Biggles Flies East.
CHAPTER 2
A MURDERER STRIKES TWICE
BEFORE doing anything else the following morning Biggles went to the office of his chief, Air Commodore Raymond, to report the information that had reached him overnight in so strange a manner.
‘I could have told you that,’ said the Air Commodore, pushing forward the cigarette box.
‘Do you mean you knew there was a plot to bump me off?’ demanded Biggles, indignantly.
‘No, I knew nothing about that,’ corrected the Air Commodore. ‘But I knew that von Stalhein had been sacked and sent to prison.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me? You knew I’d be interested.’
‘The information was only handed to me last night as a top secret. Actually, it was this piece of news, which came of course through one of our secret agents in the country, that prevented me from returning to the office last night. I would have told you this morning, but as it happens you have beaten me to it.’
‘Do you know where von Stalhein has been sent?’
‘No. We may learn that in due course.’
‘I can tell you.’
The Air Commodore’s eyebrows went up. ‘Where is he?’
‘Sakhalin.’
‘Oh dear. How dreadful. It looks as if he’s had it. No one gets away from there. Pity.’
‘What’s a pity?’
‘That he’s been sent so far away.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Had he been in a more accessible place we might have made contact with him through our agents. He must be a mine of information, and after the treatment he’s received he might be prepared to sell some to us.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Every man has his price.’
Biggles frowned. ‘By thunder! That’s a cold-blooded way of looking at it. I doubt if it would work with von Stalhein, anyway. He’s actuated by motives harder even than hard cash.’
The Air Commodore sat back in his chair, the tips of his lingers pressed together. ‘My dear Bigglesworth, it’s time you knew that nothing on earth has colder blood than those who serve in what is sometimes called the Sinister Service. Counter-espionage, to give it its nicer name, must by its very nature be like that. But you don’t need me to tell you. Who brought this information?’
‘A young German named Lowenhardt. Von Stalhein’s nephew, as a matter of fact.’
The Air Commodore sat erect. ‘Did you say Lowenhardt?’
‘I did. Fritz Lowenhardt.’
‘Have you seen the morning papers?’
‘No. I haven’t yet had time to look at them.’
‘Then apparently you don’t know that a man named Lowenhardt was found stabbed last night.’
‘Dead?’
‘No, but he may die.’
‘Where did this happen?’
‘Near Victoria. I wonder could it be the same man, or is this coincidence?’
‘What age was the man found stabbed?’
‘I don’t know the details. I’ll get Inspector Gaskin up. He’ll know all there is to know because he has the case in hand.’
The Air Commodore reached for the intercom telephone and requested the presence of the detective in his office. Presently he came, dressed as usual in plain clothes.
‘This man Lowenhardt who was found stabbed last night,’ began the Air Commodore, without preamble. ‘What sort of age was he?’
‘Seventeen or eighteen.’
‘How did you learn his name?’
‘From some letters in his pocket. Christian name Fritz.’
‘How is he?’ put in Biggles.
‘He’s in a bad way, but the doctors think he has a chance. He’s still unconscious, but I have a couple of men sitting by him to take a statement when he comes round. He’d just been given a blood transfusion the last time I rang up.’
‘What’s his chief trouble?’
‘The knife wound, although he has concussion. It looks as if he was coshed from behind and then had a knife run between
his shoulder blades. Whoever did the job meant to finish him. He was lucky. A woman came out of her house just in time to see it happen. She screamed. That brought along the officer on point duty at the next corner, although, of course, by the time he got there the assailant had bolted.’
‘Could this woman give a description of him?’
‘No. It was dark between the lamp posts and she only saw his back as he ran away. All she can say is he looked a powerfully built man of middle age.’
‘Have you found out where Lowenhardt was living in London?’ asked Biggles.
‘No. I reckon we shan’t know that till he comes round,’ answered Gaskin, taking his pipe from his pocket.
‘As it happens I can tell you,’ went on Biggles. ‘He was staying at the Brimsdale Hotel.’
Gaskin stopped in the act of filling his pipe. ‘How the deuce do you know that?’
‘He came to see me last night and must have been attacked on his way back to the hotel.’
Gaskin’s eyes opened wide. ‘What did he want to see you about? Don’t say you come into this.’
‘I do, very much so,’ stated Biggles, smiling faintly at the detective’s expression. ‘Briefly, this lad Lowenhardt had come from East Berlin to warn me that certain gentlemen on the other side of the Iron Curtain had decided it was time I was put out of business. I’d never seen Lowenhardt before; in fact, I didn’t know he existed. But I know his uncle. It was he who sent the message.’
‘Looks as if Lowenhardt was tailed,’ grunted Gaskin.
‘Or was missed, and it was discovered where he’d gone. Agents in London would be waiting for him when he landed.’
The Air Commodore stepped in again. ‘This is a political job, Gaskin. You’d better give this lad police protection in case an attempt is made to finish him off. With nothing to go on I don’t expect you’ll find the man who stabbed him. As the attack came from behind it’s unlikely that the victim will be able to help you with a description.’
Gaskin looked at Biggles. ‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘You may be the next to get a skewer in your back. Have you got a gun in your pocket?’
‘I don’t normally carry hardware in my pocket in London. Anyway, a gun isn’t much use against a thug who stabs from behind.’
Gaskin nodded. ‘Mebbe you’re right, at that. I’d better go along to the Brimsdale to see if there’s anything there to give us a line.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ decided Biggles.
‘Be careful what you do,’ the Air Commodore told Biggles, as he and Gaskin left the room.
In the corridor outside Biggles told the detective: ‘I’ll just slip along to my office to give my boys the gen. I’ll see you at the door.’
In five minutes a police car was on its way to the Brimsdale Hotel. On arrival Gaskin identified himself to the manager, told him that his guest had met with an accident and asked to be taken to his room. This was done, the manager unlocking the door with a master-key.
As they walked in the detective’s eyes made a comprehensive survey. A brand new suit of pyjamas lay on the bed and there were some toilet things, also new, over the wash basin. There was nothing else.
‘Didn’t he bring any luggage?’ Gaskin asked the manager.
‘No. He told me he had lost his suitcase on the way to London. For obvious reasons we don’t like people without luggage, but he paid for two nights in advance, so I let him have the room.’
‘I see. All right. You can leave us alone now. We shan’t be long.’
After the manager had left the room the Inspector turned to Biggles. ‘Did Lowenhardt tell you he’d come straight here from Berlin?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did he manage that?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Where’s his passport ? It wasn’t on him. It isn’t here. The man who knocked him down couldn’t have had time to go through his pockets, with the woman who saw it happen yelling murder.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘It looks as if he managed to get here without one.’
“That’s what I mean,’ growled Gaskin. ‘How did he manage that?’
‘I’ll ask him when he comes round,’ said Biggles. ‘He’ll tell me.’
‘Looks like a case of illegal entry.’
‘Could be,’ agreed Biggles. ‘It would be understandable, bearing in mind he lives in the Soviet Zone. Had he applied for a passport, not only would it have been refused, but he would have come under suspicion. That would mean he’d be watched, in which case he’d never have got away. He told me he came on the spur of the moment and he didn’t dare to be seen carrying luggage. He must have bought these pyjamas and things when he got here.’
‘That still doesn’t explain how he got through Customs. I gather you believed his tale?’
‘I did.’
‘Sounds a bit woolly to me.’
‘What he came here to tell me, or one of the things, that his uncle has gone to prison for working for the West, has been confirmed by our own agents. The Air Commodore told me that this morning.’
‘Well, there’s nothing more we can do here,’ returned the Inspector, making a final survey of the room. ‘I suppose you now have a personal interest in this business?’
‘I most certainly have.’
‘Then in that case I suggest we slip round to the hospital to see how he’s getting on.’
‘Where is he?’
‘In a private ward at St George’s.’
‘Okay. Let’s go. As he came to London for my benefit the least I can do is take care of him while he’s here.’
They drove round to the hospital where they learned from the Sister on duty that the man in whom they were interested had recovered consciousness but was still too weak to make a statement. They could speak to him but were not to stay long. Gaskin’s men were still sitting beside the bed.
They were taken to the patient. As was to be expected he looked terribly ill. Yet, curiously, he was the first to speak. His eyes found Biggles’ face and he said: ‘Now do you believe me?’
‘I never said I disbelieved you,’ answered Biggles. ‘I’m not going to worry you now, but can you tell me this? How did you get here without a passport?’
‘A friend, a pilot on the regular air line, gave me a lift. My uncle arranged it.’
‘You didn’t tell me that.’
‘I did not think it was important.’
‘How did he get you through Customs?’
‘He lent me a spare pilot’s uniform. I had no luggage.’
Biggles smiled understandingly. ‘I see. Would you like me to try to make contact with your mother, to tell her what has happened?’
‘No, thank you. Please don’t do that. It would upset her. Besides, it would be dangerous.’
‘As you wish. That’s all for now. You’re under police protection so you have nothing to worry about. All you have to do is get well. I’ll see you again when you’re better.’
Biggles and Gaskin left the room and returned to Scotland Yard, where the Inspector went to his own office and Biggles to the Air Commodore.
‘Well?’ queried Raymond.
‘We found nothing in Lowenhardt’s room. He’s conscious, and seems to have a fair chance of pulling through.’
‘What are you going to do about all this?’
‘Me? Apart from keeping an eye on him while he’s here what else can I do?’
‘Not much, I suppose. You’ll do what you can for him?’
‘Of course.’
Biggles went on to his own office and gave what news there was to the others.
‘The dirty dogs, stabbing a kid like that in the back!’ muttered Bertie. ‘Pity we can’t catch the skunk who did it.’
‘Not much hope of that, I’m afraid,’ said Biggles ruefully
‘Are you going to do anything about this?’ asked Algy.
‘All we can do is wait for Lowenhardt to get better and hear what he has to say abo
ut it,’ returned Biggles. ‘Gaskin has the case in hand. He’ll keep an eye on him.’
‘Didn’t you ask him to keep an eye on you, too?’
‘Gaskin has plenty to do without playing nursemaid to me,’ returned Biggles, shortly.
For the next few days there were no further developments. Work went on in Biggles’ office much as usual, while Lowenhardt, still under police protection, made steady progress towards recovery. He made a statement to the police but could say no more than what was already known. He didn’t see the man who attacked him. Biggles called regularly and, as the patient gained strength, he had several chats with him.
‘Do you know exactly where your uncle is on Sakhalin?’ he asked casually, one day.
‘Yes, he’s in the old prison of Onor,’ was the answer. ‘It is on the Sea of Okhotsk side of the island. It stands near the sea on the River Tim, which flows into the Bay of Nyisk. Years ago, the man who is now governor of the prison was himself a prisoner there. He was a murderer, but he was released by the Bolsheviks with all the other prisoners.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Biggles, curiously.
‘I was told by my mother, who had the information through a friend.’
‘This prison would be a difficult place to get out of, I imagine.’
‘Without help from outside it would be impossible. To get out of the prison would be only the beginning. One would then have to get off the island, and the only way that could be done, without a boat, would be to cross over to the mainland, on the ice, in winter. That would get the prisoner to Siberia. If he wasn’t recaptured he would die of starvation. I suppose that is why Sakhalin was chosen as a prison for dangerous criminals. It is now used for political prisoners. The original prisoners, the robbers and murderers, are still on the island, or their descendants are, living as best they can.’
‘One thing with another it must be a ghastly place,’ said Biggles, getting up. ‘Make haste and get well. I’ll see you again before you start for home.’
‘Shall I be allowed to go home?’
‘Probably, as your offence was only a technical one. But my chief will want to see you about that.’