Читать книгу Biggles in the Blue - W E Johns - Страница 6

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A week after the conversation in the Air Commodore’s office, Ginger, standing beside Biggles, was regarding with mild astonishment the flamboyant uniforms of the band of the Royal West India Regiment as it made music against a background of palms, lawns and deck-chairs, near the swimming-pool at Kingston, Jamaica. Although the hot season was well advanced, there were quite a few people about, holiday-makers and tourists, to give the place an air of gaiety, some swimming, some sun-bathing, others at small tables having mid-morning coffee or a cocktail.

Algy and Bertie were not there. They had remained in charge of the aircraft selected for the operation, a twin-engined Otter amphibian that had found a mooring in Columbus Bay, where an unobtrusive hotel was available for accommodation. The main airport at Palisadoes, where every Central American Air Line seems to cross, was too busy and altogether too public for their purpose, Biggles had decided. Taking Ginger with him in a hired car he had gone to the Capital to present his credentials to the Chief of Police, who was expecting him, and at the same time inquire if there had been any developments in the case on hand.

This formality had produced little of interest. Von Stalhein, it appeared, was still there, spending most of his time, it was said, bathing or sitting about in the gardens near the bandstand. It seemed to Ginger that the authorities had not quite grasped the seriousness of the man’s presence, although he made allowance for the fact that they were not fully informed about his character or his purpose there. Nor did he overlook the possibility that von Stalhein’s behaviour was calculated deliberately to produce a lack of interest in his movements.

For the rest, they learned that a daily caretaker, a coloured man, was still on duty at Hagen’s house, Rumkeg Haven. He had the keys. Nothing had been moved. The yacht Vega was still lying in the harbour.

Biggles said they would take over. He collected the keys of Hagen’s safe and that was that. The authorities were content, Ginger thought, to have the responsibility taken off their hands.

The case had by this time been discussed by Biggles and his assistants from every angle; but at the finish, with so little on which to work, the immediate plan was simple. First, Biggles decided, they would make a thorough search of Hagen’s property for something more definite, something more in the nature of a clue; for he was convinced that their most important asset, the sketch, was a tracing that had been made from a map, a chart, a photograph, or an original drawing that should be somewhere in the house. If this search produced no result, they would have to fall back on the long and tedious task of making a reconnaissance of the surrounding seas for something that conformed to the shape of the sketch.

However, for the moment they were making a tour of the area in which von Stalhein was normally to be found at that hour, to confirm that he was there, before going on to Hagen’s house to collect the keys from the caretaker and make a preliminary survey of the place.

As a matter of detail, Biggles had remarked that he thought it odd that von Stalhein should fritter away his time round the swimming-pool when he had work to do. He was not that sort of man. What was his object? What was he waiting for? What could he hope to gain from this? There was, Biggles opined, something queer about it.

Ginger had thought on the same lines, and said he could only assume that von Stalhein, supposing Hagen’s real identity had not been discovered, was in no hurry. He might be waiting for the caretaker to be withdrawn from the house. He might even be contemplating buying, or hiring, the establishment, and living there. He would then be able to search the whole property from end to end unmolested.

Biggles agreed that these were possibilities, but not convincing ones. They were not in accord with von Stalhein’s usual methods. ‘But for the fact that he usually works alone, I’d be inclined to think he was waiting for someone to join him,’ he concluded.

‘Well, there he is, anyway,’ announced Ginger. ‘Over there by the pool, in the long chair, wearing a bath-robe. That long cigarette-holder, and the monocle, would give him away in a crowd.’

Biggles’s eyes found the subject of their conversation. ‘Been bathing, apparently,’ he observed. ‘From the way he’s wrapped himself up, he’s no intention of getting sunburnt. He doesn’t look like moving yet. Okay. That’s all I wanted to know. There’s no point in hanging around here any longer, so we’ll press on and give Hagen’s place the once over.’

They returned to their car, and a drive of some ten minutes or so took them to their next objective.

‘My word! Hagen was no fool when he chose this spot for a hide-out,’ remarked Biggles admiringly, as he cruised quietly to a standstill and surveyed the dazzling scene that a turn of the road had brought into view.

‘Tew, the pirate, wasn’t a bad judge either, if this was in fact where he dropped his anchor,’ contributed Ginger, his eyes absorbing the picture. ‘Talk about gorgeous technicolour!’

The anchorage, although small, was, he thought, the last word in tropic extravagance. Under a sky incredibly blue, turquoise undulations of water surged in to caress a crescent of glistening sands. At one point there was a rampart of coral on which tiny waves exploded in showers of diamonds before falling back in hissing sweeps of foamy lace. Behind the beach crowded coconut palms and sea-grape trees with leaves the size of plates. Behind, again, the land rose sharply under a cloak of colourful vegetation that included giant ferns, bougainvillaea, jasmine and hibiscus. Over all hung the drowsy hum of insects.

‘Almost too good to be true, isn’t it?’ murmured Biggles whimsically, as he got out and walked towards a gate that promised a house beyond.

It turned out to be the wrong one—for there were only two—presumably the home of the retired naval officer, Evans; but a hundred yards beyond, the words Rumkeg Haven, in faded paint on a sagging gate, told them that they had arrived at their destination.

A mossy drive, bounded by an overgrown garden in which mangoes, bananas and yams fought a losing battle with a jungle of weeds, gave access to a house of fair size, and from the style of its architecture, of some age. In most of the windows the blinds were down. All was silent.

Ginger looked expectantly for the caretaker, but he was not in sight, although the front door stood ajar. They went on to it. Biggles pushed it open. They stepped inside, and stopped.

The coloured caretaker was in the hall. He did not rise to greet them or demand their business, the simple reason being that he was sprawled in an armchair, and from his stertorous breathing, fast asleep. From a cigarette that had fallen from his drooping fingers to the carpet, a spiral of blue smoke still coiled upwards.

Biggles glanced at Ginger, smiling sadly at this flagrant dereliction of duty, and touched the man gently on the shoulder.

He did not move.

Biggles shook him.

Still the man made no response.

Biggles’s expression of easy tolerance changed abruptly. Frowning, he put a finger to the black eyelid and raised it, to reveal the iris half rolled back. The muscles of Biggles’s face stiffened. Stooping swiftly, he picked up the half-smoked cigarette and raised it to his nose. He flicked it out of the open door and laid a finger on his lips for silence, while his eyes explored the doors that led off the hall—as did Ginger, who did not need to be told what Biggles suspected.

There were three doors, one on either side, and another, of lesser importance, at the far end, obviously leading to the rear of the house. All were shut. But as they stood there in listening attitudes there came a slight sound from the room on their right, which happened to be the one nearest to them. Biggles tiptoed to it, and dropping on one knee put an eye to the keyhole. A shake of the head told Ginger that this attempt to see into the room had failed, presumably because the key was in the lock on the other side. The caretaker was still snoring.

Biggles’s hand closed over the old-fashioned china door-knob. With infinite care he turned it. The door yielded to his pressure. Slowly, and, as it seemed, without making a sound, it swung open. But there must have been a slight noise, or perhaps a draught, for a man who had been bending over a desk at the far end of the room spun round, so that they all stood face to face.

For perhaps five brittle seconds nobody moved or spoke. Shock froze lips and muscles, and it must have been the same at both ends of the room.

Indeed, Ginger could hardly believe his eyes, for the man was he, who, twenty minutes earlier, he would have sworn was wrapped in a bath-robe at the bathing-pool. They had travelled fast in a car and it had not stopped on the way. How the apparent miracle had been achieved he could not imagine, but there was no possibility of a mistake. The man in front of them, tight-lipped, staring with half-closed, calculating eyes, was Erich von Stalhein, one time Nazi secret agent, now a free-lance operative with headquarters behind the Iron Curtain.

Slowly, but perceptibly, as the initial shock subsided, the tension relaxed.

Biggles was the first to speak. ‘I’m sorry to see you’ve sunk as low as house-breaking, von Stalhein,’ he said evenly.

‘You jump to conclusions,’ answered von Stalhein suavely. ‘I am here on legitimate business.’

‘That must be a novel experience for you,’ returned Biggles coldly. ‘It would be interesting to know the sort of business you would regard as legitimate.’

‘There is no secret about that,’ averred von Stalhein. ‘I am at the moment concerned with the marketing of an excellent Rhine wine. I have some samples with me.’ He indicated an attaché case that stood just inside the door. ‘Would you care to try a half-bottle? I can recommend it.’

‘Not at the moment, thanks,’ replied Biggles. ‘Do you usually start by doping the servants of your prospective customers?’

Von Stalhein shrugged. ‘I came here inquiring for Mr Hagen. I was given to understand that he lived here. It is true that in the course of conversation I gave the man in the hall a cigarette. But how was I to know that he suffered from a weak head? He should not have accepted it.’

‘It would need a strong head to stand up to your brand of smoking material, I’ll warrant,’ said Biggles grimly.

‘A matter of opinion,’ came back from Stalhein, casually. ‘Since Mr Hagen seems to be away, and our views on the quality of nicotine differ, and you are not interested in wine, there would appear to be no point in pursuing this conversation. I must confess that I was surprised to see you walk in,’ he admitted, picking up his case of samples.

To Ginger’s surprise, Biggles made no attempt to stop him. He did no more than follow him to the front door. On the top step von Stalhein turned, and for a moment a cynical smile softened his austere features. ‘Our meeting here today was a happy coincidence,’ he murmured. ‘Otherwise I might not have known that you were on the island. That, you will agree, would have been a pity. If you change your mind about the wine, let me know.’

‘Are you thinking of staying here for some time, then?’ inquired Biggles.

‘It’s hard to say,’ replied von Stalhein thoughtfully. ‘It depends on how well my business goes ... the wine business, I mean.’

‘Of course.’

‘What about you, Bigglesworth? Are you thinking of staying on?’

‘As a matter of fact,’ answered Biggles slowly, his eyes on von Stalhein’s face, ‘I’m thinking of taking up residence here.’

‘In this house?’

‘Yes.’

‘You know, I was thinking of doing that myself,’ returned von Stalhein. ‘It’s a delightful spot.’

‘The name, certainly, would have been appropriate for a wine-merchant,’ agreed Biggles.

Von Stalhein shook his head. ‘I never touch rum. Beastly stuff. By the way, be careful if you decide to live here. They say there are snakes in the garden.’

Biggles smiled. ‘Snakes don’t worry me. I can deal with them. After all, I’ve had a lot of experience—as you know.’

‘I believe it is a fact that even the best snake-charmers usually die of snake bite at the finish,’ said von Stalhein softly. ‘I merely mentioned the danger in passing. But I must be getting along. Good-day, gentlemen.’ He turned about and strode away.

Biggles watched him out of sight with a curious expression on his face.

‘Are you letting him get away with this?’ inquired Ginger indignantly.

‘What can I do? We knew he was on the island, so from that angle the position hasn’t changed. I’m sorry he’s seen us. It puts a different complexion on the thing. Remember, he had no reason to suppose that Hagen’s true identity had even been suspected. No doubt he expected to be allowed to do his job in his own time without any hurry. Seeing us here has altered all that. It can only mean one thing—that British Intelligence knows the truth. It must have shaken him to the roots when we walked in, for up to that moment it couldn’t have occurred to him that we were on the job. Now he knows, and he’ll act accordingly. I’m sorry about it, because in effect it means that he’s scored the first point, as you might say. Now he must be wondering, and wondering hard, how much we know.’

‘That cuts two ways, too,’ muttered Ginger. ‘Bearing in mind that correspondence passed between him and Hagen, we can do a bit of wondering about how much he knows.’

‘We shall learn that in due course, no doubt.’

‘Why not scotch his antics right away? You could charge him with doping and house-breaking. He might have got what we know he came here for.’

‘I don’t think so,’ answered Biggles. ‘He couldn’t have had time. Had he found anything he wouldn’t be hanging about. I’d say he was only in the room for a minute or two. That doped cigarette was only half-smoked.’

‘And so you’re going to let him go?’

‘Even if we went for him, we might find it difficult to prove a charge. He would say that he called to sell wine. He found the caretaker asleep, so he waited. That’s what he would say and it would sound reasonable. He didn’t hurt the caretaker. As far as we know he hasn’t taken anything. No. Von Stalhein saw how I was fixed as well as I could see it myself. He as good as said so. No doubt he’s a bit worried now he knows we’re here, and annoyed that we disturbed him just as he was getting busy. But we have this consolation. I’m pretty certain he hasn’t got what he came to Jamaica to find, or he’d be away by now. It’s doubtful if he has a clue. It was in the hope of finding one that he came to this house.’

‘But how on earth did he get here so quickly? No car passed us on the road and he couldn’t have got here any other way.’

‘That’s what took the wind out of my bellows when I saw him standing there,’ admitted Biggles. ‘There’s only one answer to that conundrum. The man we saw at the pool wasn’t von Stalhein.’

‘If it wasn’t, I’ll eat my hat.’

‘You’d better get ready for a long chew.’

‘But two men so much alike! That would be a fantastic coincidence.’

‘I don’t think coincidence comes into it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that the man at the pool was a stooge planted there by von Stalhein. The trick succeeded. It took us in—and the police, who von Stalhein must have suspected were watching him. Erich wanted to get on with his job. He couldn’t very well do that while he was under surveillance. So he planted a decoy. Quite simple.’

‘It’s a bit hard to believe that he could find here a man sufficiently like him to impersonate him.’

‘It’s very hard to believe. That’s why I don’t believe it. It’s my guess that he brought the man with him. After all, the resemblance need not have been very close. The man at the pool was well wrapped up, as we remarked, in a bath-robe. It was the eyeglass and long cigarette-holder that fooled us.’

‘If he brought one confederate with him he might have brought two or three,’ muttered Ginger.

‘True enough. With strangers in the game we shall have to watch how we go—particularly after that backchat about snakes in the garden.’

‘Was that a threat?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘Was he speaking literally?’

‘I wouldn’t know, but I should hardly think so.’

‘Are there poisonous snakes in Jamaica?’

‘I’m not sure about that, although there is certainly a deadly serpent on some of the West Indian islands called the fer-de-lance.’

‘I’d like to be more sure about it,’ said Ginger. ‘If there’s one thing that scares me, it’s snakes.’

‘Forget about them for the moment. Let’s go and have a closer look at this stooge at the pool before von Stalhein can make contact with him, so that we’ll know him next time. At least, we should be able to confirm if he is what I suspect him to be. This place can wait. Von Stalhein isn’t likely to come back today. Let’s go.’

There was a brief delay, however, for at this juncture the caretaker yawned, stretched, and looking somewhat dazed, got unsteadily to his feet. He started as his eyes fell on Biggles and Ginger standing there looking at him. ‘What you men want here?’ he demanded thickly.

Biggles wasted no time in argument. ‘We’re police officers,’ he said curtly. ‘We want the keys. Then you can go home. What do you mean by going to sleep?’

‘Me? Sleep suh!’ The black looked shocked. ‘No suh.’

‘Never mind. Give me the keys and run along.’

‘If dat’s what you say, suh.’ The man handed over the keys, and still half asleep stumbled away.

Biggles locked the house and pocketed the keys, after which they walked quickly to the car and returned to the bathing-pool. Ginger kept a look-out for von Stalhein on the way, but seeing nothing of him decided that he must have taken the path that skirted the seashore. The car parked, they walked on to where they had seen von Stalhein’s double. He was still in the same chair, still in a bath-wrap, reading a newspaper.

‘That in itself is suspicious,’ said Biggles, as they strolled towards him. ‘It’s getting on for lunch-time, and as you see, most people have got their clothes on.’

As they drew near, Ginger perceived that the resemblance to von Stalhein was not so pronounced as he had thought, and it was clear that the monocle and long cigarette-holder, such as von Stalhein habitually used, had been largely responsible for the deception. But still, apart from that there was just a sufficient likeness, both of face and figure, to support Biggles’s contention that the imitation was deliberate, not accidental. The man in the chair was a trifle more heavily built, and somewhat flatter in the face.

As they passed close to him, as if aware of Ginger’s scrutiny, he looked up, and their eyes met; and there was a quality, a sort of cold-blooded absence of expression, in those of the man, that sent a chill down Ginger’s spine. As he presently described it to Biggles, it was like looking at the eyes of an octopus. ‘I’d hate to fall foul of him on a dark night,’ he stated.

‘Or at any other time,’ said Biggles quietly.

He did not stop. He went on a little way to where a white waiter was wiping a table that had just been abandoned. He indicated the man in the bath-wrap. ‘D’you happen to know the name of that gentleman?’ he inquired.

The waiter looked and shook his head. ‘Sorry sir, no,’ he answered, in a voice that had a frank cockney ring. ‘He only turned up here lately. I’ve served him with a drink once or twice, but I don’t know him from Adam. Foreigner, by the way he talks. He’s got some queer pals, I know that much. There’s one of them coming now.’

Queer was understatement, thought Ginger, as he regarded the new arrival, who had said something in passing to the man they were watching and was answered by a curt nod. He was coloured; not quite the ebony black of a full-blooded negro, but the deep chocolate brown of a mixed breed, mostly negro. There was nothing remarkable about that. It was his get-up that fascinated Ginger—beautifully-pressed lilac trousers tapered almost to a point at the ankles, and a square-shouldered, wasp-waisted jacket with long lapels that ended in a single large button. A broad-rimmed hat, snapped down in front, covered his head. A flaunting red tie decorated with dice, and a large gold pin, completed an outfit that would have been ridiculous had not the man, who was tall and slim, walked with the smooth grace of a panther.

‘Who’s that astonishing piece of work?’ Biggles asked the waiter.

‘Napoleon Morgan—at least that’s what he says,’ answered the waiter cynically.

‘By thunder! He certainly chose a name while he was at it,’ said Biggles.

‘Nappy Morgan, they call him; but I reckon you’d be smart to catch him napping,’ went on the waiter, grinning at his own joke. ‘He’s well known here. Too well known. One of the high-lights of the Communist Party. Always stirring up trouble. That’s easier than working. Can’t think why they don’t push him back to Trinidad, where, so they say, he was a big noise in the Saga Boys.’

‘What are the Saga Boys?’ inquired Ginger curiously.

‘Spivs, smart guys and razor-slashers, mostly,’ replied the waiter. ‘This particular specimen lives in the Dunghill.’

‘That’s a pretty address,’ murmured Biggles, smiling.

‘It’s the slums down by the railway yard, and a good place for a white man to keep away from,’ concluded the waiter, moving off to serve a customer.

Biggles found a shady seat under some palms. ‘We’ll sit here for a bit and see what else happens,’ he decided. ‘Von Stalhein seems to be flying with some strange birds. That fellow over there,’ he indicated the original object of their visit, ‘is a Slav from Eastern Europe, judging from his flat face and high cheekbones.’

What happened next was not unexpected. About a quarter of an hour later von Stalhein arrived on the scene. He went straight to the man in the bath gown, said something to him and strode on. The unknown man at once got up and disappeared in the direction of the dressing-cabins.

‘That, I think, answers our questions,’ said Biggles drily. ‘Friend Erich is not alone here. Which of these two is the boss remains to be seen.’

‘Is there likely to be any doubt about that?’ asked Ginger, with a trace of surprise in his voice.

‘Plenty of doubt,’ replied Biggles. ‘People who draw their pay packet from behind the Iron Curtain can’t do as they like. They do as they are told—and there are people to see that they do just that. But come on. It’s lunch-time. Let’s go somewhere and tear a chop. Then we’ll go back to Rumkeg Haven and see what there is to see there.’