Biggles Buries a Hatchet

by W E Johns

  ‘I’ll tell him the truth about everything, as far as I know it.’

  ‘That’s the best thing you can do,’ asserted Biggles. ‘The doctor says you’re going on fine and if you continue to improve at this rate you should soon be out of hospital. Good-bye for now.’

  That same evening he had a sharp reminder of the purpose that had brought the young German to London. The others had gone on home, but he had taken a taxi and broken his journey at the Royal Aero Club, in Piccadilly, not for any particular reason but merely to see if any old friends were passing an hour or two at this natural rendezvous for professional air pilots, past and present. He saw no one with whom he was on familiar terms, but spent a little while in the reading room skipping through the foreign aviation journals.

  It was dark when he left, and he had hardly taken up a position on the curb to hail the first taxi cruising for a fare when he noticed one standing a little farther along. Its meter flag was down, showing it was engaged, but thinking that the driver might just have dropped a fare and had not yet raised the flag, he walked towards the taxi ready to engage it should this happen. From force of habit his eyes went to the number plate, and what he saw brought him sharply to a halt.

  On his way to the club he had seen that same cab just behind his own. There was of course nothing remarkable about that; what had struck him as odd was the fact that although the following taxi was a new one, and could more than once have overtaken the older vehicle in which he himself was travelling, the driver had not availed himself of the opportunity. Which struck him as unusual behaviour for a London cabby. And after the warning he had received he was extra sensitive to anything unusual.

  The same thing had happened at the traffic lights at Hyde Park Corner. When the green light had come on the other car was slow to move, although, being new, it obviously had a much better acceleration than his own. He didn’t see it again, so he thought no more about it. Now, here was the same taxi by the curb, showing the ‘engaged’ signal, in a position from which the club entrance could easily be watched. Was that coincidence or was he being followed? He didn’t know, but he was not in the mood to take chances, so he changed his mind about taking that particular cab even if it became ‘free’.

  At that moment another taxi came along. He stopped it, and having announced his address said to the driver: ‘You see that cab against the curb in front of you?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ answered the man.

  ‘Make a note of the number and watch if it follows us.’

  ‘I’ve got it, sir,’ agreed the driver, cheerfully.

  Biggles stepped in and slammed the door. The driver pulled down his flag and moved off. Presently he slid back the glass panel and asked: ‘Do you want me to go the shortest way, guv’nor?’

  ‘No,’ answered Biggles, thinking fast. ‘Go the back doubles; that should tell us if we’re being followed.’ Back doubles is Cockney slang for side streets.

  In a few minutes the driver called: ‘He’s following us, guv’nor. Do you want me to do anything about it? I can give him the slip if yer like. I can tell yer this. From the way he drives, the bloke at the wheel o’ that cab ain’t a regular.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ decided Biggles. ‘Take me to Mount Street but drop me at the corner.’

  ‘Just as yer like, guv’nor.’

  In making his decision it must be admitted that Biggles did not expect that an attempt would be made on his life in a London street where there was always a certain amount of traffic. He was interested to see what the man shadowing him would do when he had paid off his taxi. He thought there was a chance that he might get a glimpse of him, or the driver. So far he had only seen the driver indistinctly. He had seen nothing of a passenger, but he assumed there was one. He had not forgotten what his own driver had said about the other not being a regular, which he took to mean that he was not an experienced professional cabby.

  Reaching Mount Street his own car pulled in at the curb. Biggles got out. With his eyes on the other taxi, which had slowed to a crawl, he paid the fare, adding a good tip, whereupon with a cheerful ‘Much obliged, sir — Good night,’ the taxi went on its way, leaving Biggles standing on the pavement.

  In a moment the other taxi, moving close against the curb, was level with him. An arm, pointing directly at him, was thrust out of the window. Vaguely, behind it, was a muffled face.

  Biggles didn’t wait to learn the reason for this. He knew. Or at any rate, he guessed, and his instant reaction was to jump sideways like a startled cat. There was a noise that was something between a crack and a hiss, and mingled with it a vicious whang as a bullet struck some metal object behind him. As the taxi shot forward he lurched and fell, hoping to lead his unknown assailant to believe that he had been hit.

  The taxi swung out of sight round the next comer.

  Biggles got up and hurried home. He hadn’t far to go. Of the man who had fired the shot at him, from a firearm fitted with a silencer, he had seen nothing. The driver had been so muffled up, with his hat pulled down, that he had seen practically nothing of him, either.

  Striding into the flat he went straight to the phone, and under the wondering eyes of the others dialled Scotland Yard. Having got the extension of the Flying Squad duty officer, he gave his name and said: ‘A fellow just took a crack at me, in Mount Street, with a pistol. He fired from a taxi. Here’s its number. I imagine the number plates were false, but you might radio your cars to keep an eye open for it. No, I don’t want an arrest. It’s a political job and had better be kept quiet. If you spot the cab tail it and watch where it goes. That’s all. Thanks.’ Biggles hung up, and turned to face the others who were staring at him with mixed expressions.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Ginger.

  Biggles narrated his adventure. ‘The thing was clumsily done,’ he concluded. ‘They must think I’m a fool, or else I go about with my eyes shut. Once I realized I was being tailed I was ready for anything, although I must confess I didn’t think they’d have the nerve to try to knock me off practically outside my own front door.’

  ‘You might not have been so ready had it not been for young Lowenhardt tipping you off that they were out to get you,’ said Algy, seriously.

  ‘That’s true,’ admitted Biggles, dropping into his chair and lighting a cigarette. He smiled whimsically. ‘It’s a queer thought, isn’t it, when you come to consider it, that I might owe my life to a man who must often have wished me dead.’

  ‘Von Stalhein is never likely to know that,’ stated Bertie.

  ‘Pity,’ murmured Biggles. ‘It might have tickled his sense of humour — if he has one.’

  ‘I’ve never seen any sign of it,’ observed Algy, coldly.

  CHAPTER 3

  BIGGLES CHANGES HIS MIND

  IT may as well be said at once that Biggles’ opinion of the taxi that had followed him was probably correct. The number plates must have been false ones, for not only was the vehicle not seen by police cars on the watch for it, but no such taxi was registered in the Metropolitan area. More than once in the days that followed the attack Biggles suspected he was being shadowed; and, in fact, he was, for although he was unaware of it, and would doubtless have objected had he known, Inspector Gaskin, at the request of Air Commodore Raymond, had laid on plain clothes men for his protection should the attack be repeated.

  It was about three weeks after this that the Air Commodore called him on the intercom telephone and asked him to step along to his office. Without the slightest suspicion of what was in the wind. Biggles went along to find his chief, hands in pockets, standing behind his desk — an attitude Biggles knew from experience meant that the Air Commodore had a problem on his mind.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me, sir,’ prompted Biggles, as the Air Commodore hesitated, as if uncertain how to begin.

  ‘Er — yes,’ was the answer. ‘I’ve just been having a word with this lad Lowenhardt.’

  ‘Then he hasn’t gone home? I haven’t seen him for some days.’r />
  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Pretty well. He was discharged from hospital ten days ago, since when he has been convalescing at a quiet seaside resort — still under our protection of course. Fellows of that age mend very quickly you know, provided there are no complications.’

  ‘Are you going to charge him with illegal entry?’

  ‘No. That might bring his name into the newspapers, and we’d rather the man who tried to kill him thought he was dead. As a matter of fact I saw him first a week ago, and as a result of that interview I’ve been able to check up on his story. It appears to be true in every detail. He told me, in confidence, the name of the German air line pilot who brought him here, a fellow on the regular Berlin-London run. I’ve had a word with him, too. He admitted that he gave Lowenhardt a free lift, which was naughty of him, but in the circumstances pardonable, since the trip was fixed up in the hope of preventing murder. Actually, this fellow has been friendly with von Stalhein’s family for years. Anyway, since the breach of regulations was made more in your interest than anyone else’s it would be rank ingratitude to prosecute.’

  ‘Things get crazier and crazier,’ observed Biggles. ‘After being enemies for years we look like ending up all pals together.’

  ‘That’s what things have come to,’ averred the Air Commodore. ‘Friends today are enemies tomorrow and vice versa. It’s hard to keep pace, and it’s not to be wondered at if the man in the street gets all confused. But there it is. New atlases are out of date almost before they’re printed.’

  ‘What about this German air line pilot?’

  ‘Nothing, except that he’s confirmed the boy’s story and is willing to take him home if we’ll arrange an exit permit for him. It’s a dangerous game he and Lowenhardt are playing, because if they’re caught at it over the other side they’ll be for trouble in a big way.’

  ‘When’s Lowenhardt going home?’

  ‘That hasn’t been decided. It — er — may not be for some time.’

  ‘Why not? If he’s fit, why the delay?’

  The Air Commodore answered the question with another. ‘I believe he asked you if you could do anything to help von Stalhein to get off Sakhalin.’

  ‘He did. I told him it was out of the question.’

  ‘So I gather. You will remember I suggested to you that von Stalhein, as a fount of information, would be useful to us if we could get him here in a mood in which he was willing to talk?’

  ‘I do. I also remember that I told you I took a dim view of that.’ Biggles stared at his chief, eyes half closed as if trying to read his mind. ‘What are you getting at?’ he asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

  ‘I’ve had a word about this with Major Charles, of Intelligence Headquarters. Or rather, he’s had a word with me. He’d like to have a chat with von Stalhein.’

  ‘Why did you tell him about this?’

  ‘I didn’t. It was he who told me, before you did, that von Stalhein had been sacked and thrown into prison.’

  ‘And now he’d like to see the man who has been a headache to him — not to mention me — for years.’

  ‘Naturally. That’s why. Something’s cooking behind the Iron Curtain and maybe von Stalhein knows about it. That could be the real reason why they’ve put him behind bars. If they thought he was no longer to be trusted they wouldn’t leave him on the loose.’

  ‘That charge of treason was all a pack of lies,’ declared Biggles, hotly. ‘I know von Stalhein. He wouldn’t sell the people for whom he was working.’

  ‘He might now, after what they’ve done to him,’ said the Air Commodore softly. ‘He’s no longer working for anyone.’

  Biggles looked incredulous. ‘You’re not by any chance suggesting that I go to Sakhalin and bring von Stalhein back here!’

  ‘He wouldn’t get away without help from outside, that’s certain.’

  Biggles groped for words. ‘This kills me,’ he muttered. ‘I’ve never heard of anything so fantastic in my life!’

  ‘We live in days when the fantastic is fast becoming commonplace, Bigglesworth,’ said the Air Commodore, sadly. ‘May I remind you that, strange though it may seem, Germany is now a member in the plan for the defence of Western Europe.’

  ‘Not East Germany.’

  ‘West Germany doesn’t acknowledge such a place. To a patriotic German, Germany is still one country. How would you like to see England cut in halves, one half, with friends in it maybe, dominated by a foreign power?’

  ‘I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Of course you wouldn’t. Neither does von Stalhein in his heart approve of his country being partitioned; you may be sure of that.’

  ‘Even if I was lucky enough to get him here he wouldn’t talk.’

  ‘After what has happened I think he would. The relationship between our two countries is very different from what it was a few years ago. All the countries of Western Europe have realized they must stand together or fall one by one. Even hereditary enemies like France and Germany, however distasteful the idea may seem at first, have come to see the wisdom of that. In these days of H-bombs, if more people in the world would see eye to eye, instead of glaring at each other across frontiers, the general public, the ordinary common people, would have less cause for anxiety. The problems that beset the world will not be solved by actions calculated to provoke hostility. If we can make a friend of von Stalhein we shall have done something really worth while.’

  ‘But Sakhalin!’ protested Biggles. ‘The thing isn’t possible.’

  ‘It’s not like you to talk like that.’

  ‘I’m talking like it now.’

  ‘Why isn’t it possible?’

  ‘In the first place I don’t speak a word of Russian, which presumably is the language spoken on the island.’

  ‘Young Lowenhardt was brought up in the Russian Zone. He speaks Russian fluently. He was forced to learn it at school.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’ve asked him.’

  Biggles sat back. He looked shaken, as he had every reason to be. ‘Are you,’ he asked, in a thin voice, ‘are you seriously asking me to go to Sakhalin, taking young Lowenhardt with me to act as interpreter?’

  ‘In that young man you have one who, because of his affection for his uncle, is prepared to stick his neck out as often as is necessary in order to help him. Such men can’t be bought for money.’

  Biggles considered his chief with a wry smile. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever said this before, sir, but don’t you think, in asking me to take this on, you’re asking too much?’

  ‘Of course I do. I wouldn’t have asked you on my own account. Unfortunately the matter has come before a higher authority who regard the project as necessary in the national interest. There’s no compulsion about it. You are at liberty to decline. But if you don’t go someone else will have to be found who will go. I put the proposition to you, first because you’re officially employed here, and secondly, in the light of your experience, you’re better fitted than anyone else I know to tackle the job and pull it off.’

  ‘If you put it like that you make it difficult for me to refuse,’ muttered Biggles.

  ‘I thought you’d see it like that,’ murmured the Air Commodore. ‘There are other factors that make you the most suitable man for the assignment. You and von Stalhein are known to each other. Even if von Stalhein suspected you of an ulterior motive, he’d have no such qualms about his own nephew — who, don’t forget, he sent to you with the message warning you of your danger. And touching upon that, you’re not exactly safe here at the moment.’ The Air Commodore’s eyes twinkled. ‘The last place your enemies would think of looking for you would be where they’d send you if they could — Sakhalin.’

  ‘It’s the last place I should think of looking for myself if I had any sense,’ retorted Biggles. ‘This is the thanks I get for trying to be efficient,’ he lamented.

  The Air Commodore shrugged. ‘Don’t go if you’d
rather not.’

  ‘You know I’ll go.’ Biggles spoke firmly. ‘But I make this stipulation. If I make contact with von Stalhein I’m not suggesting any terms for his rescue. I’m not saying I’ll take you home if you’ll tell us all you know. Nothing like that. If I bring him here that’s your affair. I shall expect him to be treated as a free man, free to go where he likes and do as he likes provided he doesn’t try to operate against us.’

  ‘That’s fair enough,’ agreed the Air Commodore. ‘As you know, we’ve no evidence to bring a court action against him.’

  ‘Good. Then that settles that,’ said Biggles. ‘How much do the Intelligence people know about Sakhalin?’

  ‘Frankly, practically nothing. That is, nothing in the political or military sense. They have the facts of the physical features, of course.’

  ‘Is there anywhere I could make a landing?’

  ‘Not that we know of. You’d better take a marine aircraft and land on the sea, or one of the rivers.’

  ‘How am I to get to Sakhalin, anyway? We’ve no airfield anywhere near. I imagine Hong Kong would be our nearest territory for refuelling.’

  ‘America has airfields in Japan. In a case like this arrangements might be made through diplomatic channels to allow you to use one of them.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘That would make a lot of difference. I’ll have a word with young Lowenhardt to see how he feels about this. Where is he, by the way?’

  ‘He’s outside in the waiting room. I kept him handy in case you wanted to see him. I’ll have him brought in.’

  Biggles lit another cigarette while he was waiting.

  Presently the young German came, looking at Biggles somewhat apologetically.

  Biggles came straight to the point. ‘I’m told you’re prepared to accompany an expedition to Sakhalin in the hope of getting your uncle out of Onor prison.’

  ‘Yes. If there is no expedition I shall go by myself.’

  ‘And how would you set about that?’ inquired Biggles, cynically.

  ‘Either I would get a canoe and paddle across to the island, or I would wait for the winter freeze-up and walk across on the ice. The Sea of Okhotsk doesn’t freeze, but the Tartar Passage can remain frozen for months.’