Читать книгу Biggles in the Blue - W E Johns - Страница 4

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‘Did you want to see me, Sir?’

Air Commodore Raymond, head of the Air Section of Scotland Yard, looked up from his desk as his chief operational pilot entered the room and asked the question. A peculiar smile softened his austere features and something like a twinkle appeared in his eyes as he answered: ‘Yes, make yourself comfortable. I have an item of news that I feel sure will interest you.’

Biggles pulled up a chair and reached for a cigarette. ‘Tell me the worst,’ he requested. ‘Nothing would surprise me.’

‘Your old arch-enemy, Erich von Stalhein, is in Jamaica.’

Biggles’s eyebrows lifted a trifle. ‘I was wrong,’ he admitted. ‘That does surprise me. Somehow I have never associated our frigid Prussian friend with palm beaches and blue lagoons.’

‘His purpose in going there has nothing to do with either,’ stated the Air Commodore dryly.

‘I can believe that,’ returned Biggles. ‘How did you know he was there?’

‘Major Charles, of M.I.5, passed me the word.’

‘D’you know what he’s doing in Jamaica?’

‘We’ve a pretty good idea.’

‘That’s comforting, anyway. Tell me about it.’

The Air Commodore settled back in his chair and put the tips of his fingers together. ‘It’s a queer story, mostly fact, but padded with a certain amount of surmise dropped in to fill the gaps. However, it all ties up pretty well. Do you recall a friend of von Stalhein’s named Werner Wolff?’

Biggles knitted his forehead. ‘Vaguely—a long time ago.’

‘He rarely came into your line of country. He was closely associated with von Stalhein in his early days at the Wilhelmstrasse. Between the wars Wolff left the Intelligence Service for politics, which pay off rather better. During the Hitler régime, he became a sort of liaison officer with the big industrial concerns, mostly naval armaments, and like some of the others he got into the big money by farming out contracts for war material. Unlike the others, though, he didn’t keep all his eggs in a German basket. Nor did he get caught at the finish. He made several trips to the United States before America came into the war and may have feathered a nest there. At least, that’s what we supposed. Maybe he wasn’t so sure that Hitler was going to win the war, for when it ended he just faded away and was never seen or heard of again; which means that he must have made his plans for escape and retirement with more care than the rest of them. It now seems that through the years since the war, while he was in hiding, he kept in touch with his old friend, von Stalhein.’

‘I take it that you’ve now discovered where this wily fox went to ground?’

The Air Commodore smiled ruefully. ‘Yes. For the past eight years he has resided on the outskirts of Kingston, Jamaica, as a respectable Norwegian gentleman named Christen Hagen.’

Biggles grinned. ‘Pretty good. How did he manage that?’

‘Through foresight, presumably, and being in a position to provide himself with everything he would need to get away with such a performance. Posing as a lone navigator, he turned up at Kingston in a small yacht named the Vega, having sailed single-handed across the Atlantic. He had an auxiliary engine to help him. That’s what he said on arrival.’

‘It could have been true. It has been done, often—and without an engine.’

‘His papers and the ship’s papers were in order, so he was allowed to land; and having landed, he stayed. Apparently nobody bothered about him afterwards. He was quiet and self-supporting so there was no reason why he shouldn’t stay if he wanted to. Anyway, he bought an old place in a secluded quarter with the enchanting name of Rumkeg Haven, in a bay called Tew’s Anchorage. Tew, I believe, was a notorious pirate in his day.’

‘How was it that nobody recognized Wolff?’

‘He had grown a beard during his long trip, and being sunburnt, and in rough sea clothes, he bore little resemblance to the spruce officer of Hitler’s staff. He kept his beard, of course, and like many people in the tropics wore dark glasses against sun-glare.’

‘The Port Authorities would search his craft. If he had his loot on board, why wasn’t it found?’

The Air Commodore shrugged. ‘Obviously, he hadn’t got it with him. He may have put it ashore somewhere before making his official landing. We’ve no proof that he came straight to Jamaica.’

‘How did all this come to light?’ inquired Biggles curiously.

‘Werner Wolff, alias Christen Hagen, has just died in Jamaica—from natural causes.’

‘How did that reveal his identity?’

‘There was found, in his safe, a personal letter of commendation from Hitler, with a signed photograph, which he must have valued so highly that he couldn’t bring himself to destroy it. That was his one slip, or weakness; a natural one, perhaps. He had disposed of, or hidden, everything else concerning his past.’

‘When did this happen?’

‘Just over a fortnight ago.’

‘And what brought von Stalhein into the picture so smartly?’

‘We’re a bit vague about that. He may have seen Hagen’s death reported in the newspapers. He knew who Hagen was, of course. He may have been tipped off by someone else in the know; or he might have gone out on the off-chance of seeing his old colleague. He had a good reason, as I shall presently explain. Be that as it may, Hagen was dead and buried when he arrived. But let us leave that for the moment. Von Stalhein is there. That’s what really concerns us.’

‘But surely, if von Stalhein was aware of Hagen’s death, there would be no point in him going to Jamaica?’

‘On the contrary, his reasons for going would be even more pressing. Hagen dead might be worth more than Hagen alive. To start with, von Stalhein must have known that Hagen had some money tucked away somewhere, probably in American dollars, or something equally easy to negotiate. I mention dollars because a fair-sized wad of them was found in Hagen’s desk, apparently for current use. Incidentally, these notes were in brand new condition although the serial numbers showed them to be ten years old; which could only mean that they had never been in circulation.’

‘They’d been tucked away somewhere?’

‘Exactly. But if money was the only lure, we wouldn’t worry about it. There was something else, something far more important. When Wolff bolted he took with him certain documents we should very much like to see. And so would a lot of other people. Or put it this way. Even if we didn’t want them ourselves, it would be a serious thing for us if other people got hold of them. They were the experimental data and blueprints of secret weapons, up as far as V. 18, which were in hand when the war ended. We knew they existed. As you can imagine, we hunted high and low for them. So did France and America. And so, I need hardly say, did Russia. They were never found. Subsequently, an engineer who had been on Wolff’s staff, under interrogation, told us that the last he saw of them was Wolff packing them in a valise. That was at Kiel, just before Wolff pulled out. At that time, no doubt, he was concerned primarily with preventing them from falling into our hands. We had hoped that by this time they would have been destroyed, or lost beyond recovery; but it now seems that they are still extant.’

‘They weren’t in the safe?’

‘Had they been there, we should have found them. They’re not in Hagen’s house, for it has been searched from floor to roof.’

‘What about the yacht?’

‘They’re not there, either. No. It’s pretty safe to assume that the papers are tucked away with Hagen’s private hoard.’

Biggles grimaced. ‘Not so good.’

‘It’s alarming. Imagine what Russia would give, at this moment, for those drawings!’

‘And if von Stalhein gets them, we know where they’ll go.’

‘He hates us so much for winning the war that he’d rather give them away to an enemy of ours than sell them to us for all the money in the Mint,’ asserted the Air Commodore bitterly.

Biggles nodded. ‘That’s really his trouble,’ he said pensively. ‘He’s made losing the war a personal matter and it warps his better judgment. He goes on playing the lone wolf, hoping to see our turn to take the rap.’

‘Don’t be too generous. You’ve always been the sand in his gear box. He’d kill you if he had the chance.’

Biggles smiled faintly. ‘I always try to see the other fellow’s point of view. Maybe that’s my weakness. But let’s get back to work. Has he any hope of getting his hands on these documents?’

‘That’s what we’d like to know. No doubt he hopes, but he may have no definite information. I’ll tell you why we think that. By one of those queer twists of fate, Hagen was in the act of writing to von Stalhein when he died.’

‘Who got the letter?’

‘We did—fortunately. But let me tell you what happened. It’s the crux of the whole business. Wolff, or Hagen as he was known, lived in a villa on the outskirts of Kingston with one servant, an elderly Negress named Josephine, who was maid-of-all-work. She knows nothing, and hardly comes into the affair. She says that her master had been ill, on and off, for some time before he died. Finding himself getting worse, he called in a doctor named Douglas. Douglas—we’ve spoken to him—says that he had to tell Hagen the truth, which was that he was suffering from thrombosis and might pop off at any time. There was nothing he could do for him. He gave him this disturbing information to give him a chance to put his affairs in order. Hagen must have accepted the advice. He went home, and sitting at his desk, started to write a letter to von Stalhein. It is pretty clear that he intended to tell him where his private papers were hidden, but he didn’t get as far as that. Old Man Death took a hand. The maid found her master sprawled across his desk, dead. She called the doctor. He knew there was no question of suicide or murder, but seeing that there was some good furniture in the house he brought in the police with a view to informing the next-of-kin. The police, not having this information, made a search hoping to find it. The letter from Hitler to Wolff was found, whereupon the authorities acted wisely and promptly. Everything was sealed, a guard put on the house, and M.I.5 informed. Major Charles had one of his best men flown out and he soon got to the bottom of things. The death couldn’t be kept out of the newspapers, but nothing else was released for publication. Hagen was buried in the name by which he had been known. That’s how things stand at the moment.’

‘And then von Stalhein arrived on the scene, eh?’

‘Yes. We weren’t surprised. In fact, we were watching for him. As I told you, Hagen was in the act of writing a letter when he died. It was in German. I have a translation of it here. It tells us something, but not enough. Actually, there were three objects of interest to us on the desk. There was the letter. There was an envelope already addressed, and there was a sketch, probably unfinished, since it means nothing as it is. The envelope was addressed to Herr Ernst Stalling, Hotel Prinz Karl, Zindenplatze, Berlin.’

‘Who was smart enough to associate that address with von Stalhein?’

‘First, there was the resemblance of the name. We knew from you that von Stalhein used the Hotel Prinz Karl^[A]; and if more were needed, Hagen began his letter “Dear Erich”. Confirmation was provided when von Stalhein arrived on the island in the name of Stalling.’

[A]	See Biggles follows on.

Biggles nodded. ‘Good enough.’

‘I’ll read you the letter,’ went on the Air Commodore. ‘You will spot the points on which our assumptions have been based.’ He picked up a sheet of notepaper. ‘ “Dear Erich: It is some time since I wrote to you, but I have not forgotten the promise I once made that should difficulties arise here I would pass to you certain information, knowing that you would use it to the best advantage. You will understand to what I am referring. The time, it seems, has come. My doctor has just informed me that my days are numbered, and death, when it comes, will be sudden. In these melancholy circumstances, I am writing to you what may be my last letter. The papers, etc., are safe, and in ...” ’

The Air Commodore looked up. ‘That’s the lot,’ he said simply. ‘Death chose that moment to strike.’

Biggles drew heavily on his cigarette. ‘A good way to go out,’ he observed. ‘Pity he didn’t finish the letter. And that’s all you know?’

‘Almost. Von Stalhein may know more—or less. It’s plain from the letter that there had been correspondence between the two men, in which case Hagen may have dropped a hint.’

‘There’s also a possibility that towards the end of the war Hagen may have told von Stalhein what he intended to do. Anyway, it wouldn’t be safe to conclude that von Stalhein knows no more than we do. Anything else?’

‘Just now I mentioned a sketch which Hagen may have intended to include in his letter, or incorporate into the text of it. It is, as you will see, a mere outline, with a square dot near it.’

Biggles took the paper and studied it critically. The drawing consisted of an oval, elongated at one end so that it might have represented a pear. There was a dent on one side, and a small square mark occurred just off the pointed end. ‘I don’t think we shall learn much from this,’ was his opinion.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ answered the Air Commodore.

‘One would have supposed the stuff to be hidden on an island somewhere.’

‘Yes, but not necessarily. Hagen had a yacht, don’t forget. He sometimes used it. Yachting was—or appeared to be—his pastime. We understand that he often made trips, sometimes long ones, always alone. We thought the sketch might represent one of the small islets or cays with which the Caribbean abounds. If it is, we haven’t been able to locate it. That isn’t surprising. The archipelago through which Hagen would pass on his way to Jamaica is the Bahamas. It may surprise you to know that in that particular group there are twenty-nine large islands, six hundred and sixty smaller ones and two thousand four hundred islets and cays. Some of them change shape and size according to the tides. Think that over!’

‘On second thoughts, I’d question the sketch representing an island.’

‘Why?’

The last word of Hagen’s letter is against it. The word is “in”. One doesn’t talk of a thing being in an island. One says on an island.’

‘He might have been going to write “in a box”, or something, on an island.’

‘True enough,’ conceded Biggles. He looked again at the sketch. ‘Is this the original?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, it’s made on flimsy stuff—tissue paper in fact.’

‘What about it?’

‘There must have been a reason for that. One doesn’t normally keep tissue paper on a writing-desk. Hagen must have had plenty of ordinary paper handy. Why fetch tissue?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘It might.’

‘Go on.’

‘One reason that occurs to me is, Hagen wanted to make a tracing of something, possibly from a map. Ordinary paper, being opaque, would be useless. This stuff is at least semi-transparent. It would serve the purpose I have suggested.’

‘Yes,’ asserted the Air Commodore. ‘You may have something there.’

‘If I’m right, the tracing would be made from something in the house. That’s all. It was just an idea.’ Biggles stubbed his cigarette. ‘It boils down to this. Von Stalhein, unaware of the existence of this letter, is already on the job.’

‘He is, we may hope, also unaware of the existence of the letter to his friend from Hitler, so he may be under the impression that Hagen’s real identity died with him. That would be to our advantage.’

Biggles pondered the matter. ‘My guess is, von Stalhein didn’t know of Hagen’s death until he arrived. He went out hoping to persuade Hagen to hand over the documents, to be used in a war against Britain. Where’s he staying, by the way?’

‘In an unpretentious boarding-house called the Maison Respiro.’

‘Papers in order?’

‘Perfect.’

Biggles smiled. ‘They would be. He would make no mistake about that. What is he supposed to be doing in Jamaica?’

‘Acting as a salesman for Rhine wines. He has samples.’

‘Could he obtain permission to enter Hagen’s house?’

‘No.’

‘He’ll try to get in.’

‘Of course he will. That’s why a caretaker is still on duty—officially pending the disposal of the furniture. We shall, I expect, take it over. Apart from the fact that there is no known next-of-kin, Wolff was on our list of wanted war criminals.’

‘What about the black servant?’

‘She’s no longer in the house. She wouldn’t stay after what happened.’ The Air Commodore smiled. ‘She’s afraid there might be a bogeyman on the prowl.’

‘And, by thunder, she might be right at that,’ contended Biggles. ‘Von Stalhein comes near to being one, anyway. But tell me: apart from the native servant, was no one ever in the house? I mean, in all the time he was there, didn’t Hagen make any friends, acquaintances who might be able to throw light on his movements?’

‘According to old Josephine, no. The only man with whom he seems to have got on a reasonably friendly footing was his nearest neighbour, a retired British naval commander named Evans. The houses are about five minutes’ walk from each other. There’s only a hedge between the two estates, so it was natural that the two men should get on speaking terms. Evans knows nothing. He says he might have been in Hagen’s house half a dozen times all told. Hagen was in his place perhaps two or three times. The conversation seems seldom to have got beyond natural history, that being Evans’s chief interest in life. Apparently he is writing a book on the birds of the West Indies.’

‘He never accompanied Hagen on one of his yachting trips, I take it?’

‘No. He says he sometimes wondered why, he being a sailor, Hagen never asked him to go with him; but he didn’t.’

‘And he still doesn’t know Hagen’s real name?’

‘No.’

Biggles eyed the Commodore thoughtfully. ‘Wolff had a nerve, planting himself on a British island.’

‘That was really rather clever of him. No doubt he worked it out that we shouldn’t search our own territory. But, then, he had plenty of time to make his plans, and facilities for providing himself with false papers.’

Biggles took another cigarette and tapped it pensively on his thumbnail. ‘Von Stalhein, obviously looking for the same thing as we are, is likely to be a nuisance. Have you considered picking him up on a technical offence and putting him where he can’t get into mischief?’

The Air Commodore shrugged. ‘I suppose we could do that. Major Charles was of opinion that it was better to let him run loose until we’re certain that he knows nothing definite. If he does find a clue he may lead us to the documents.’

‘He’s more likely to disappear under your noses.’

‘He couldn’t leave the island without us knowing.’

‘I wouldn’t bet on that,’ averred Biggles grimly. ‘He’s a crafty bird. He was trained in the right school. Besides, we don’t know what plans he made before he started. He may have taken his friends in Eastern Europe into his confidence in order to get assistance, financial or otherwise.’

‘We can watch him.’

Biggles smiled sceptically. ‘He’d know he was being watched in five minutes. He’s had years of experience and knows every trick in the game.’

‘He may be unaware that we have established Hagen’s identity, and that may make him careless.’

‘If he sees me, it won’t take him long to put two and two together and get the right answer. By the way, I’m assuming that the object of this little chat is an invitation to me to go and look for Hagen’s box of tricks?’

‘Quite right. But get the thing clear. We want these plans, not so much for our own use as to prevent them from falling into the hands of a potential enemy. If they were at the bottom of the sea, it wouldn’t matter. It’s the fact that they exist that’s worrying us. Burn them, do anything you like with them, rather than have anyone else get hold of them. While they’re floating about loose, we’re sitting on the brink of a volcano.’

Biggles nodded. ‘I understand. The sooner I get mobile the better. May I have these documents for further study?’

‘You may. From the air you should be able to check the sketch with the islands in the vicinity.’

Biggles folded the papers and put them in his wallet. ‘There’s a lot of ground—or rather, water—to cover.’ He got up. ‘I’ll take my crew out and see what we can make of it. I seem to spend my life looking for needles in haystacks.’

‘That’s because you so often find the needle,’ rejoined the Air Commodore soberly. ‘I’ll get the necessary authority prepared for you and warn Jamaica that you’re on your way. I take it you’d like everything handed over to you?’

‘Please, including the keys to the house and the safe. I’d like to have a look at things inside before I start scanning the horizon for pear-shaped islands.’

‘I’ll see to it.’

‘Then I’ll get along.’

Leaving the room, Biggles made his way back to his own office, to face the expectant gaze of Air Constables Algy Lacey, Bertie Lissie and “Ginger” Hepplethwaite.

‘Well, and where do we go from here?’ asked Ginger.

‘To the West Indies,’ answered Biggles, briefly.

Bertie flicked up his eyeglass and caught it in his eye. ‘Goody-goody,’ he murmured approvingly. ‘Where the jolly old bananas come from. That’s me, every time.’

‘Don’t flatter your appetite,’ Biggles told him seriously. ‘This is no fruity frolic. Erich von Stalhein is already off the mark. If he gets what he’s after, there’s liable to be a considerable explosion in which Western Europe will go up in a cloud of smoke and come down in a shower of dust.’

Bertie looked startled. ‘Here, I say, old boy, there’s no future in that.’

‘I hoped you’d see it that way,’ returned Biggles. ‘Now let’s get down to work.’ He took the sketch from his wallet and laid it on the table. ‘This is what we’ve got to find. The only man who knew what it represented is dead. Look hard and get the shape fixed on your minds, so that you’ll recognize it again if you see it.’