Biggles Secret Agent Page 2

  ‘You mean – you’d go to look for the tombstone?’ put in Algy.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘It would hardly do to trust to a tombstone,’ he said slowly. ‘In fact, there’s almost certain to be a tombstone. A grave will be there, whether it contains the Professor’s body or not; I don’t think we need have any doubt about that. Even if the alleged accident was a fake, Beklinder’s death was officially reported to the press, so the Lucranian agents would hardly overlook the necessity for providing such an elementary piece of evidence as a grave. Frankly, I have an open mind as to what it may contain—’

  ‘Just a minute,’ interrupted Algy tersely. His eyes had opened wide, and an expression of disgust, almost of horror, had settled on his face. ‘You mean—’

  ‘I perceive that you have at last realised just what I do mean,’ put in Biggles evenly. ‘Finding the grave is only the first step. We should have to open it up to see what it contained. That is the only way – to make sure; and guesswork won’t do in a case like this. There’s no alternative.’

  Silence fell. Biggles lit another cigarette. Algy stared into the fire. Ginger gazed thoughtfully at the hearthrug, chewing the end of a dead match, while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked out the seconds and dropped them into the past.

  ‘Is this – churchyard business – what was suggested to you?’ asked Algy at last.

  Biggles nodded.

  ‘Having established that fact, one way or the other, you could then come home?’

  ‘That would depend on what we… found.’

  ‘You mean, if Beklinder was alive?’

  ‘We should have to try to find him.’

  Algy stared aghast. ‘By heavens! That’s a tall order,’ he exclaimed indignantly.

  ‘If you will cast your mind back you will recall that I pointed that out in the beginning. Well, what do we do about it?’

  Ginger walked across to the bell-push.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Ring for some tea. The fact that Mr Beklinder has disappeared seems to be no reason why we should all starve to death. On the contrary, the statement that we’re all likely to be gassed to death in the near future suggests that we should make the most of things while the going’s good.’

  The remark relieved the tension in the atmosphere. Biggles smiled. ‘I quite agree,’ he said. ‘We’ll have a pot of tea and then go into things a bit more closely.’

  CHAPTER II

  Ways and Means

  While the tea things were still on the table Biggles reopened the conversation. ‘Assuming that we agreed to take on this proposition, let us try to work out how we should have to go about it. I gave it some thought on the way home, and this is the way it looks to me. First of all, let us be under no delusions as to the risks; if we’re caught, or if our mission is so much as suspected, we shall be – to use the popular expression – bumped off. In no circumstances whatever would the British government come to our assistance; on the contrary, they would, in accordance with international tradition in such matters, disclaim all knowledge of us. It would be impossible for them to do anything else. I don’t know how you feel about it, but my own reaction to all this is something like relief, because it permits no introduction of half measures. If we go, we go the whole hog all the time. The question of mitigating circumstances would not arise. Knowing that failure could have only one ending we should go to any lengths – any lengths – to prevent it. In other words, knowing that our opponents would not hesitate to kill us, I should not hesitate to proceed on the same principle.

  ‘Now about getting there. As I see it, the machine required would be a four-seater with manoeuvrability as the first consideration. We shouldn’t need anything of outstanding performance. Something stable, easy to fly – bearing in mind that the actual flying would be done at night – something that could be put down in a small field, on rough ground, is what we should want. That means something light, with wheel brakes to pull up quickly, and a wide landing chassis to prevent the machine turning over if a wheel hit an obstruction.’

  ‘Something like the Wessex Student?’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘That’s the machine I had in mind,’ declared Biggles. ‘All right. Let us imagine that we are starting. Obviously we couldn’t operate from England. It’s too far away. The ideal base would be a small aerodrome in north-eastern France. At the moment we are good friends with France, so Colonel Raymond could probably arrange that. Right! We are now at the aerodrome. We go over into enemy country on the first fine Saturday night – and here we strike the first snag; there’s no way round it that I can see. There can be no question of landing in Lucrania except in the case of extreme emergency, because while it’s possible to get down without making a noise, it’s unfortunately impossible for a machine to take off except under full throttle, and you know what that means. We daren’t risk being heard. With the state of vigilance the country is in, one rumour of a machine taking off at night would make further operations impossible. No! There’s only one way. It means taking the machine up to twenty thousand feet outside the frontier and gliding over. Someone will have to stay in the machine; the other two will go down by parachute. The machine, still gliding, will then go back across the frontier without having opened its engine inside Lucrania. Algy, I should ask you to fly the machine. Ginger and I would go down into what we may regard as enemy country.’

  Algy nodded. ‘That’s all right with me,’ he said lightly.

  ‘It’s the getting out that is likely to worry us,’ continued Biggles. ‘And this is where we shall have to do some serious thinking. It means working to a time-table. You would have to glide over at prearranged times and watch for signals. Fortunately, we all know the Morse code, so in an emergency those on the ground could flash a message to the machine. That may not be necessary, though. Coloured lights are simpler. For example, a red light would mean “keep away”; a green light would be “come down and fetch us”. Do you follow?’

  ‘Yes, that’s quite straightforward,’ agreed Algy.

  ‘Good! Now for the landing-ground. In my pocket I have a tracing of a large-scale map of the Unterhamstadt district. I got it at the Foreign Office. There isn’t a proper aerodrome near the village – nor would it be desirable to work too close, anyway. The village itself lies in a valley with wooded hills on either side. Incidentally, the churchyard is about a quarter of a mile from the centre of the village. Apart from the church, there happens to be a conspicuous landmark near by – Unterhamstadt Castle. It’s only a ruin of crumbling towers and walls, so I understand, but it stands on a knoll and rises above the surrounding trees. It seems to be one of those romantic-sounding old places that inspired Grimm’s fairy tales. Lucrania and Bohemia are full of them – relics of the days when knights were bold and slew stray dragons to please beautiful princesses. I fancy we shall have something far more dangerous than dragons to contend with.

  ‘Beyond the hills the country is open, most of it under cultivation. There are several places where a machine could get down at a pinch, but four miles due north there’s a large grazing area which would suit our purpose admirably. Ginger and I would aim to hit that when we go over with our “brollies”. Another point arises here. We can’t float about Lucrania without any luggage. We should have to adopt the role of tourists – this being, as far as I can see, the only excuse for an Englishman to visit the country.’

  ‘You mean – you wouldn’t actually hide up?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘I don’t see how we could. We may be there for some time, and we’ve got to eat. Sooner or later somebody would be bound to see us, and a report of two strangers slinking about in the woods wouldn’t make our task any easier. This is my idea, and you’ll see the reason for it presently. Bear in mind that I have been into this pretty closely with the Foreign Office people, who were able to give me a lot of useful information. Ginger and I would arrive at Unterhamstadt ostensibly as tourists. Having disposed of our parachutes we should, of course,
arrive on foot. Now tourists seldom walk about Lucrania, or anywhere else in Europe for that matter, carrying their own suitcases. When they have suit-cases they arrive at the railway station, and either drive or walk to their hotel, in which case the hotel porter fetches the luggage. Alternatively, they arrive at a place by motor-car. I say alternatively, but there is, in fact, another fairly common way of travelling nowadays when a lot of people are going abroad on the cheap. They walk, carrying their kit in a rucksack. If, therefore, Ginger and I arrive at the hotel in Unterhamstadt in shorts or flannel bags, carrying rucksacks, we should, I think, pass for a type of tourist which is becoming increasingly common on the Continent. As you know, I speak German fairly well, which should be a great help.’

  ‘You said the hotel,’ put in Algy.

  ‘Yes, there’s only one, but it is a good one. I gather that it is one of those big old coaching stations which still hang on in France and Germany. I believe a number of tourists use it, artists, plant hunters, hikers, and so on. We can be artists.’

  ‘I see – go on.’

  ‘Very well. Ginger and I arrive at the hotel. Assuming that our arrival passes without comment, we shall have exactly seven days to do our job and get out of it.’

  ‘Why seven days?’

  ‘When we arrive we shall have to register, which reminds me, we shall have to forge frontier control stamps on our passports for the hotel proprietor’s benefit. As you know, one has to register everywhere in Europe. The hotel proprietor checks the registration forms with passports. In Lucrania, every seven days – every Saturday, to be precise – the forms are sent to police headquarters. I suspect that when the forms bearing the names of two Englishmen are received at headquarters the police will be along hot-foot. You see, quite apart from the fact that they’ll want to have a look at us anyway, their anxiety will be stimulated when they discover – as they certainly will – that there are no corresponding entries in the frontier books. Naturally, they will want to know how we got into the country, and that’s a question we should not be able to answer. And that, I may say, is looking at the thing in the best possible light. In other words, that is what we might reasonably suppose would happen were the circumstances merely normal. Unfortunately a factor arises here which will make our task much more hazardous, although to some extent it cuts both ways. The circumstances will not be normal.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ asked Algy.

  Biggles smiled, a curious smile in which there was little mirth. ‘You will remember that when I mentioned the incident of Beklinder being seen by a British agent in Prenzel, he was accompanied by the Lucranian Chief of Secret Police.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is nothing surprising in the fact that this official is a German, Germany being the country most concerned with the welfare or otherwise of Lucrania. Many of the leading civil and military appointments are held by Germans.’

  ‘Go on. You’re not going to tell me that we know him?’

  ‘We do. By a curious chance which at first sight may seem remarkable, but which, when all the circumstances are considered, becomes a feasible likelihood, this gentleman happens to be one whose path we seem destined to cross – at least, while we both make a business of espionage. I mean Erich von Stalhein.’

  There was a moment of profound silence. Then Ginger sprang to his feet. ‘What?’

  Algy sat bolt upright in his chair. His eyes narrowed. ‘That oily-tongued swine?’ he exclaimed in a hard voice.

  Biggles made a deprecatory gesture. ‘You choose your words carelessly, Algy,’ he protested. ‘There is nothing oily about von Stalhein. Acid-tongued, if you like. And why a swine? Be fair. The man serves his country as we try to serve ours. Apart from which he is the most efficient German I have ever met. Had he been in command of German Intelligence in the Near East during the last war I should now be a handful of mouldering earth under the desert sand. He knew I was a fake – but his boss didn’t believe him. He was brilliant, and only I know how lucky I was to beat him. We ran into him again in that gold racket. Again it was touch and go. At the finish the cards fell in our favour. No, von Stalhein is a gentleman at heart. If his methods seem harsh, remember that he is a German, and was trained in a school where ruthlessness is essential to success. Personally, I have a sneaking regard for him; and, if we knew the truth, he probably feels the same about us. That would not prevent him from killing us, nor us him, if circumstances demanded it. But I wouldn’t call a man a swine on that account. Now let us get back to the point. Von Stalhein knows us by sight. We also know him – that is what I meant when I said that it cuts both ways. The fact that he is where he is makes our task more difficult. There is just a chance that he, personally, may not see the hotel registration forms when they are sent in from Unterhamstadt, but if he does – well, I need say no more. If we arrive at the hotel on Sunday morning those forms should not reach police headquarters until the following Saturday afternoon. Now you know what I meant when I said that we have seven days to do the job and get out.’

  ‘Why not use false names?’ suggested Ginger.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘That would only complicate matters,’ he answered. ‘It would mean false passports.’

  ‘That could be arranged, too.’

  ‘No doubt; but one slip and we shouldn’t have a leg to stand on. We might arouse suspicion where none existed. After all, if our plan goes right, we might be tourists. But if we are found to be carrying dud passports we might as well admit that we are spies. Our records are in the German archives, don’t forget. They’ve probably got our photographs filed there, too.’

  ‘Couldn’t we disguise ourselves?’ offered Ginger.

  ‘I’m all against this melodrama stuff,’ replied Biggles emphatically. ‘Unless a disguise is absolutely perfect, it is worse than useless. We’re not experts at that sort of thing. I should probably forget my wig and leave it on the dressing table, or drop my false whiskers into the soup, or something equally daft. My feeling is that all these tricks are out of date. They belong to spy books of the last generation. My principle is, and always has been, simplicity. It has worked so far, and I don’t feel inclined at this juncture to switch on to cheap detective stuff. Let us make a straight bid for what we are after. We ought to have a clear week to do the job. If we haven’t done it by then, the chances are that we never shall do it.’

  ‘That’s O.K. by me,’ agreed Ginger.

  ‘What happens next?’ inquired Algy.

  ‘When we arrive in the country we shall have to take certain equipment, which we must dispose of before arriving at the hotel,’ went on Biggles. ‘As we agreed just now, after that our immediate objective would be the churchyard. If we are lucky enough, or clever enough, to discover what the grave contains, the first vital step would be to report to London. If we can do that, no matter what happens to us we shall have done a good job. We may be able to get out of the country and report in person, but, on the other hand, a hundred things might happen to prevent us from doing that. I propose, therefore, to take a Foreign Office pigeon. Once it is released with a message it will be a lot harder to catch it than us.’

  Algy nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s a good idea,’ he agreed. ‘But tell me – how do you propose getting into this grave?’

  ‘I’m coming to that,’ replied Biggles. ‘Obviously, we shall need tools – a couple of spades would probably do, since the earth will have been newly turned.’

  ‘But you can’t take things like spades with you. You’ll be cluttered up quite enough with your rucksacks and pigeon basket for safe parachute work.’

  ‘We shall have to put them on a special parachute and throw it overboard at the same time as we ourselves jump.’

  ‘Yes, that sounds the only way.’

  ‘Having collected the spades, we hide them, with the pigeon basket, in the woods, if possible somewhere near the churchyard. We then proceed to the hotel. After that we shall have to take our chance.’

  ‘Do you im
agine that you can get into a churchyard and dig up a grave without leaving signs of what has happened?’ Algy’s tone of voice was frankly sceptical.

  ‘Surely that depends on where the grave is?’ returned Biggles without hesitation, which suggested that he had not overlooked the point. ‘If the grave is in a conspicuous place, say near the porch, obviously any interference would be noticed by people passing by. But if it is in a remote corner, which seems more likely, nobody may go near it for some time; in which case, as it is the spring of the year, the herbage will soon overgrow any mess we make. That is one of the things we have got to take a chance on. But even if the grave were right by the church door we should have to investigate it, otherwise we might as well stay at home. To start looking haphazardly for the Professor, even in a small country like Lucrania, would make looking for a needle in a haystack child’s play by comparison; and that is assuming he’s alive.’

  ‘That’s true enough.’

  ‘Well, that’s the story, and the broad basis of the only practicable scheme the Intelligence experts, in conjunction with myself, can work out. The only saving grace about it is, money is no object. The security of the nation is at stake, and we can spend as much as we like on equipment, bribes, or anything else. The only question that remains to be answered is – do we take it on? We are under no compulsion to do so, nor any obligation. The risks being what they are, and the government fully aware of them, it is essentially a volunteer show. But once started there’s no going back. Now, how do you feel about it? Your lives are your own; they are the only ones you’re likely to have this side of eternity so they are not to be thrown away lightly. You’ve risked them before, I know, more than once, and so have I; but maybe we’ve all been lucky, and luck is a mistress not to be relied upon. We shall need her smiles this journey, make no mistake about that. Never before has the peril been so real, so deadly, so cold-blooded, from the very outset. If we go, we go with our eyes open. If you’d rather not, don’t hesitate to say so. Now, what about it?’