Biggles (36 page)

‘Touch of the old trouble, Algy,' he explained. ‘The medics seem to think I need an overhaul.'

In fact, he was at a certain house in Middlesex which specialised in what was known as ‘the Secret War'. There were cryptographers, saboteurs, experts in unarmed combat, and agents recently returned from France. But most of Biggles' time was spent in the small department specialising in counter-intelligence, studying everything on record about one elusive individual — Erich von Stalhein. Many of the facts he knew already, but there was much that was completely new to him, particularly concerning the Prussian's rise to influence and
power since the Occupation. It was apparently von Stalhein who had played a vital part in building up the notorious ‘Fifth Column' of traitors inside France who had contributed so much to their country's swift defeat, and now he was using all his foxlike cunning to destroy the French Resistance. Estimates varied on the damage he had inflicted on the Allied cause. Some reports claimed he was responsible for arresting more than two hundred Allied agents, and it was clear that the St Nazaire disaster was only one of the successes of the Prussian super-spy.

There was much information on his private life as well, including quite recent photographs taken by agents using long-range cameras, and despite himself, Biggles could not help admiring his enemy as he studied them. One showed von Stalhein in his black Mercedes, driving through the Paris streets, and there were others taken of him leaving his office on the Rue de Rivoli. He was as slim, as ramrod straight as ever, and the grim countenance with the crossed duelling scars had barely changed since Biggles had first clapped eyes on it, more than twenty years before. During that time he had become the evil genius who haunted Biggles' life, the man who seemed to symbolise the enemy.

There were some other pictures too, which instantly caught Biggles' eye. These showed a more relaxed von Stalhein, taken in the garden of the villa where he was living outside Paris. He was sitting in a deckchair, reading, and in one of these photographs there was the blurred image of a woman standing just behind him. It was impossible to see her face, but the body was the one female figure Biggles would recognise until the day he died. It belonged unmistakably to Marie Janis.

Biggles didn't mention this to anyone — not even to the Air Commodore himself when he arrived a few days later for a final action conference with the top brass of British counter-intelligence.

‘Well, James,' he said breezily, ‘I trust you've done your stuff, and got it all worked out?' The blighter's got a lot to answer for, and destroying him will be the equivalent of wiping out an Infantry Division for the damage it will do the enemy.'

‘That's one way of looking at it, sir. I prefer to think about the men I flew with into St Nazaire. Someone should avenge them.'

‘Quite,' said Raymond.

A few days later Biggles was back in France. The way he went was practically routine — a night-time drop by parachute into a field near Fontainebleau, a waiting group of French Resistance men to meet him, then shelter in a ‘safe house' on the outskirts of the town. Biggles was disguised as a typical French working man, down to his grimy overalls and stubble on his chin, and his documents would have fooled the French Sûreté itself. But from the moment he arrived, he was treated with considerable respect, for news had somehow filtered through of why he was in France.

‘You're a brave man,
mon vieux
' remarked his host, ‘and you're going to have your work cut out to get von Stalhein. Don't think we haven't tried already, but he's as slippery as they come, and we have to be a little careful. The Boches have started shooting hostages when any of their men are killed, and we don't want innocent people shot unless it's absolutely necessary.'

Biggles nodded.

‘They've explained all that to me in England, and none of you will be involved.'

‘Who's going to do it then?' the Frenchman asked.

‘The R.A.F.,' said Biggles softly. ‘To be precise, the chaps in my Special Duty Squadron. I've already briefed them personally, and they've been practising for weeks. The boys won't miss their target, and none of you French will be involved.'

The Frenchman looked relieved at this.

‘What do you want, monsieur?' he asked. ‘How can we help you?'

‘Quite simple,' answered Biggles quickly. ‘I need a vantage point from where I can watch von Stalhein's villa. I need to know his movements — when he arrives and when he leaves. I have a small transmitter with which I can signal back to my boys in England. They can be here in half an hour, but we must be absolutely sure von Stalhein's in the villa when they arrive. We've one chance — and one chance only.'

A look of quiet satisfaction spread across the Frenchman's face at this.

‘Monsieur, I'll guarantee you get it,' he replied.

The next few days reminded Biggles of the tiger shooting he had seen in India as a boy. There was the same long wait, the same
desperate need for patience, and endless false alarms and bungled chances as he waited for his prey. His hosts had been extraordinarily efficient. The very morning after his arrival he had been taken in a baker's van which stopped outside a big suburban house in a leafy street in Neuilly, and the door was opened by an ancient female housekeeper in black. She asked no questions, but had conducted him upstairs to the attic. There, she had pointed to a dusty little window, and when Biggles peered through it he saw exactly what he needed — a clear view of von Stalhein's villa at the far end of the street. Biggles' long wait had started.

He had all he needed — binoculars, his small transmitter, and a book to while away the hours when nothing happened. There was a camp bed there, and regularly, three times a day, the old woman brought him food. No one else bothered him, and when he tried to talk to her she never answered. The first evening he was there he saw von Stalhein. The big Mercedes had arrived outside the villa just after six o'clock, driven by a uniformed chauffeur who descended from the car, unlocked the big iron gates, then drove right up to the door beyond. The front door opened, and as von Stalhein entered, Biggles had seen the dim shape of a woman welcoming him. He couldn't see her features clearly, but he knew it was Marie, and an hour later, when the car returned, he saw her properly. She was in a bright green dress and his heart turned over as he glimpsed through his binoculars that flawless profile. She was alone. The chauffeur had saluted, opened the rear door of the car for her, and they had driven off.

This was the moment when Biggles should have acted, for von Stalhein was alone inside the villa now — the perfect target. But something made him hesitate. Perhaps it was the feeling that his luck was too good to be true and that he needed more time to make absolutely certain. It was a mistake. Around ten o'clock the car returned, Marie descended, the villa gates were shut, and Biggles spent a sleepless night, knowing that the man he hated and the woman he still loved were lying in each others' arms behind the shuttered windows of the white house opposite.

The next three, days were hell. Until he had actually seen Marie, Biggles had barely given her a thought. He knew she was with von Stalhein, and had honestly believed that he was completely cured of his ancient love for her. If it was necessary for
her to die along with von Stalhein, so much the better. It would even serve her right. But now he had seen her, Biggles knew that this was inconceivable. Marie remained what she had always been — the one love of his life. Not even jealousy and bitter hatred for von Stalhein could make it possible to do anything to hurt her.

So, Biggles waited on — consumed with jealousy and anger, and at the same time dreading having to make the call to London that would destroy von Stalhein — and put Marie in dreadful danger. By now, he had decided that the only thing to do was wait until he knew for sure that Marie had left the house with von Stalhein safely in it. But suddenly this seemed impossible. At eight o'clock each morning the car arrived to take von Stalhein to his office, and at seven he would return. The second evening they went out together — and returned together. And so this maddening routine went on throughout the week. Several times he saw her in the garden, and once when she went out walking with a dog and passed beneath his window, Biggles was seized by a mad urge to rush down and speak to her again. Ten minutes later she walked back, and Biggles watched her hungrily. How beautiful she was tall, confident, the blonde hair flecked with grey, the loveliness that he had known from her girlhood now at its full maturity. The dog had stopped outside his house. For a moment she looked up, and Biggles could have sworn that she had seen him watching her. Then she walked on, called the dog and the villa gates clanged shut behind her.

Finally, the chance that he was waiting for arrived. It had been a long hot summer day and the unventilated attic had been stifling. He had seen von Stalhein leave as usual in the morning, but since then there had been no sign of life from the villa. Then, around six o'clock, the Mercedes had returned — earlier than usual. Von Stalhein had got out and entered the house, but the Mercedes waited, and ten minutes later Biggles saw Marie come out alone, enter the car and drive away. The moment he had waited for had come at last. The tiger was safely in the trap. All that was needed was the signal to destroy him.

Biggles was trembling as he took the small transmitter from its case and set it up. It was a simple operation. All he had to do was press a switch to send a signal on a pre-arranged frequency to the monitoring experts back in Britain. Once this was done, the deadly operation would be set in motion as the take-off order
flashed from Intelligence Headquarters to Squadron 666 at Tangmere. He took one last look at the villa. Nothing stirred. The iron gates were shut, the street still empty in the heat of early evening. Biggles put his finger on the switch, and pressed it, hard.

He glanced at his watch — 6.13 p.m. It had been calculated that the aircraft would take roughly thirty minutes' flying time from Tangmere. Allowing for inevitable delays in take-off, it could take just a little longer. Certainly by seven it should all be over — mission accomplished, and the dead of St Nazaire finally avenged. Biggles waited, praying now for one thing only — that von Stalhein stayed exactly where he was.

Those next thirty minutes were the longest and cruellest half hour of Biggles' life. Soon he was pacing round the attic.

‘Come on Algy, come on Ginger! Get a move on! For Cripe's sake, get it over with!'

But nothing happened. Time had suddenly slowed down. There was nothing but silence from the street and from the empty house beneath him. He looked at his watch again — 6.40 — then 6.45. Any minute now. But still the minutes ticked away and nothing happened.

It was nearly seven when he heard the noise that he had secretly been dreading all along — the faint hum of a car approaching down the street. Then he saw it — the Mercedes was gliding slowly underneath his window and in to the villa where it stopped. The gates were opened and he saw Marie descend and go inside the house.

The nightmare started then, with Biggles sitting petrified beside the window. He glanced at his watch again. It was now five past seven, and for one mad moment he considered rushing down and out into the street to warn them — anything to save Marie. But luckily for him there was no time for that, and suddenly all hell broke loose. There was the roar of engines overhead and then a deadly
whoosh.
A split second later the whole attic seemed to rock as the bombs struck home, and the attic window shattered. Biggles was blown back by the explosion and when he stumbled to his feet and stared out from the window he saw at once how beautifully his plan had worked — and how efficiently Squadron 666 had carried out his orders. Von Stalhein's villa was little more now than a pile of rubble.

Biggles was still staring, mesmerised by the horror of it all, when the old housekeeper entered. She was smiling — the first time she ever had since Biggles came, and she was carrying a tray with a glass and a bottle of good brandy.

‘You've done your work, monsieur,' she said quietly. ‘A drink to celebrate before you go?'

Biggles had little memory of what happened then — or how he finally got back to England. Two of the original Resistance men from Fontainebleau came to the house later that night and found him very drunk and in a sort of numb despair. Somehow they smuggled him away. They were both understanding men who thought they realised the strain of his ordeal, and they looked after him for several days, grateful that the Germans could not blame the French for what had happened. No hostages were shot, and Algy collected him without a hitch in the Lysander, from the field near Fontainbleau, a few nights later.

‘What's up, old lad?' said Algy when he saw him. ‘You look as if you've seen a ghost.'

‘I have,' said Biggles, wearily. ‘For Pete's sake, let's get back to England.'

‘But didn't the whole business go off perfectly? It seemed to be bang-on.'

‘It was, old boy. The God-forsaken plan went off like clockwork.'

‘Then what's the matter, Biggles? What on earth went wrong?'

‘Later, Algy! We'll talk about it later. Just let's get back.'

Raymond had known that Biggles was being fetched from France and it was something of an honour that he was actually at Tangmere to welcome him when he arrived.

‘Congratulations, James,' he said. ‘You had us worried for a while with the time you took to send the message through, but your fellows did a lovely job. Bombs absolutely spot on, James. A great tribute to the way you've trained ‘em, eh Algy? No other squadron in the R.A.F. could possibly have done it.'

‘Any news, sir, about the people in the villa?' asked Biggles flatly. ‘None of the chaps at Fontainebleau appeared to know for sure ...'