Biggles (15 page)

The strange affair began one Saturday. Biggles and Algy had been down at Brooklands, working on the aircraft, and they were late returning to the flat. Mrs Symes was out, but she had left a note for Algy.

‘Phew,' he said to Biggles as he read it. ‘It's the old man on the war-path. I'm to telephone him urgently. If I know the Pater that means one thing only — trouble.'

‘Better face it like a man,' said Biggles, laughing at the expression on his cousin's face. ‘Just have a good stiff drink and get it over with,' and pouring him a mammoth whisky soda, Biggles pushed the white-faced Algy to the telephone and closed the door. Two minutes later, Algy re-emerged, but instead of looking shattered, he was cock-a-hoop.

‘Well,' he exclaimed, ‘the dear old boy is not as daft as we thought he was!'

‘That's not saying very much,' said Biggles drily.

‘But seriously, it's quite incredible! He knows about the Supersnipe and what we're up to, and far from disapproving, he has work for us.'

‘What sort of work? Gathering cowslips from the air? Tell him it's the wrong time of year.'

‘Biggles, your levity is quite uncalled for. It sounds just the sort of job we're looking for — flying some botanist friend of his to Switzerland.'

‘From where?' said Biggles cautiously.

‘It was a bad line, and he couldn't tell me any more than that, but I said we'd both go down for lunch tomorrow and he'll brief us then. Could be the start of something interesting.'

‘It could,' said Biggles.

It was a fine spring morning, and the dark green Bentley bowled along the Brighton Road like the thoroughbred it was, but Biggles' mood was anything but sunny. Unlike Algy, who delighted in his motorcar, Biggles was always bored by any mode of transport other than an aeroplane. Also, he was feeling guilty. He knew that his mother would be staying with the Laceys, and he also knew that he had been neglecting her. But the truth was that she always managed to infuriate him now, with her perpetual fussing over petty details, her tactlessness and chronic snobbery. Besides, as he realised, she was often right — and that was worse.

But it was not just the thought of lunching with his mother that had so upset him. He would have been hard put to explain just what it was, but something worried him about this project that his uncle was suggesting, and the fact that Algy was so thrilled about it somehow made his premonition darker still.

‘Well,' said Lord Lacey, when they were all seated round the enormous luncheon table, ‘it's good to have you two boys safely home again.'

‘Amen!' said Biggles' mother fervently. (She was still attired from head to toe in mourning for his brother, which Biggles thought excessive in the circumstances.)

‘And what's all this your father tells me about this aeroplane of yours?' said Aunt Priscilla to her son. ‘I for one would have imagined that you'd had enough of the beastly things while you were out in France. I still think you should be a diplomat, Algernon.'

‘There, there, my dear,' Lord Lacey answered tactfully before a family row developed. ‘They tell me aeroplanes are quite the coming thing. And that reminds me. There's this business of Professor Krahenbiehl. Perhaps when the ladies have retired, we can discuss it all.'

‘You mean the details are too shocking for the gentler sex?' said Aunt Priscilla.

‘By no means,' said Lord Lacey. ‘But I think that the details might bore you and Catherine. So if you'll both excuse us ...'

‘Well, father,' Algy said when the ladies had departed, ‘many thanks for your support. I thought you handled mother wonderfully. But just who is Professor Krahenbiehl, and why does he want to go to Switzerland?'

‘Of course, dear boy. I keep forgetting that you're not a botanist yourself. Such a pity! No, Krahenbiehl's an old, old friend of mine, and the world's greatest expert on the mountain orchid. I haven't seen him since before the war. He lives near Frankfurt. But two days ago I heard from him. Miraculously, he has survived, but as he explained in his letter, all his work, his notes, his specimens are threatened by the chaos of defeat. Imagine, there's no heat for his greenhouses!'

‘Terrible!' said Biggles.

‘Exactly! But there's a way of saving Krahenbiehl and his work for posterity, if he can only get to Switzerland. The Institute at Zurich has invited him, but he must get there swiftly with the best of his collection. Most of his specimens are irreplaceable and delay would be unthinkable. That's where you and this aeroplane of yours come in. How's about it? Krahenbiehl's a rich man and I know he'll make it worth your while.'

Biggles scratched his chin.

‘Flying to Hunland,' he said dubiously. ‘Could be tricky, and I don't know if we'd get permission. Probably take weeks.'

‘Weeks?' said Lord Lacey, suddenly aghast. ‘But that's no good. By then the whole collection will have perished, and the loss to science would be quite unthinkable.'

‘It's all right Father,' Algy said. ‘You can count on us. Cable Professor Krahenbiehl we'll pick him up tomorrow evening.'

‘You must be off your rocker, Algernon, dear chap,' Biggles exclaimed angrily.

The two of them were seated by the fire in Biggles' ‘den', having just consumed the cutlets and rice pudding Mrs Symes had cooked for them.

‘You know quite well how risky it will be. Flights into Germany are rigidly controlled, and if anything goes wrong we
could end up with the Supersnipe impounded by the Allies. I'm totally against it.'

Algy looked surprised to hear his cousin talk like this.

‘Old scout,' he said, ‘are you feeling all right? I mean, it's not like you to go worrying your head about controls. Besides, what can go wrong? The Supersnipe's in perfect nick, thanks to the splendid Smyth, and we agreed that what we wanted was adventure. Why all the fuss?'

Biggles had no reply to this, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘O.K.,' he said. ‘If you'll drive me down to Brooklands after breakfast, I'll nip across to Frankfurt and pick up the blighter and his orchids by early afternoon. Please tell Mrs Symes that I'll be late for supper.'

Algy flushed at this.

‘Now not so fast. Who said that you were going? It was my idea — or at any rate, my father's — and I wouldn't dream of letting you have all the fun.'

‘And I,' retorted Biggles, ‘am your superior officer. As such it's my decision who should go.'

‘Sounds like stalemate,' said Algy with a grin. ‘Only one thing for it. We must toss for it — the winner goes.'

Biggles nodded, and producing a half-crown, spun it expertly and slapped it on his hand.

‘Heads!' shouted Algy.

And heads it was.

Biggles and Algy were at Brooklands early, and despite his cousin's cheerfulness, Biggles hated to see him go.

‘No need at all to worry, dear old chap!' shouted Algy above the roar of the Supersnipe's great engine. ‘I'll be home in time for supper, never fear.'

He raised a gloved hand, gunned the engine, and as Smyth pulled back the chocks from the aircraft's wheels, the Supersnipe went sailing off into the morning sky.

Biggles spent a singularly useless day, pottering around the airport, lunching at the club-house, and then driving off for tea with Smyth in Weybridge — anything to pass the time. The shadows on the airport lengthened, and the landing lights went on.

‘Captain Lacey will be back any minute now sir, I suppose,' said Smyth.

But he wasn't.

Biggles stayed on at Brooklands all that night and by breakfast-time, with Algy missing still, he decided something must be done. But what? It was difficult to know exactly what to do that wouldn't cause more trouble than it solved, for as Biggles had already pointed out, they had no authority to fly to Germany, and if he sounded the alarm and Algy had simply been delayed en route, there would be hell to pay.

On the other hand, if he had crashed, search parties should be looking for him. Biggles pondered deeply over breakfast and finally decided there was one man in England who could be relied upon to help him. Ten minutes later he was hurling the Bentley up the London Road in search of him.

‘Ah, Bigglesworth!' said Colonel Raymond, as Biggles entered the large airy room with its view across the Thames, from which the Colonel ran the Criminal Intelligence Department of New Scotland Yard. ‘An unexpected pleasure! What are you up to now that you've left 266? I heard something about you and old Lord Lacey's heir setting up together. Charter flights or something of the sort. Any truth in it?'

Biggles smiled modestly.

‘Well, sir, we're a little more ambitious than the usual charter firm. Algy and I are really after something that peacetime life appears to lack.'

‘What's that?' asked Colonel Raymond, screwing his monocle in place, and fixing Biggles with his eagle eye.

‘Excitement, sir!'

‘Good God, man!' said the Colonel. ‘I'd have thought that both of you had had enough of that to last a lifetime.'

‘It becomes something of a habit,' replied Biggles.

‘I suppose it does,' said Colonel Raymond, pensively. ‘I'm not certain that I couldn't use you in my line of business. We'll have to see, but in the meantime what can I do for you today? I can't believe you've driven here at this unearthly hour simply for old time's sake.'

‘Well, no sir. Since you mention it, I have a little problem and I wanted your advice. It's about Algy ...'

In a few well-chosen words, Biggles proceeded to outline the strange story of Professor Krahenbiehl and Algy's flight to Frankfurt, and as he did so, Colonel Raymond's face looked grim.

‘Well,' he growled when Biggles finished. ‘I would award your cousin high marks for daring — but none at all for common sense. If you'd only come to me originally, I might have given you a little help — and good advice. Serious business, you know, making an unauthorised flight into ex-enemy territory like this. Most probably he's been arrested and at this very moment is cooling his heels inside a German gaol. And quite right too. Daft young idiot!'

Biggles began to feel his anger rise at hearing Algy thus described, fair though he knew the Colonel's words to be.

‘But all the same sir, we can't leave him to the gentle mercy of the Huns. He's an Englishman, and also he's my partner and my friend. Besides, we don't know for certain that he is in prison. He may have crashed — or anything.'

The Colonel's face relaxed at this, and he nodded sympathetically.

‘You've a point there, Bigglesworth. First we must ascertain our facts.' He glanced swiftly at his wristlet watch. ‘You know the Blazers' Club in St James's? Meet me there for luncheon at twelve-thirty sharp. By then I hope to have the information that we need, and possibly the two of us can work out an appropriate campaign.'

Biggles had often heard of the Blazers' Club, that holy of holies of the Secret Service world, but he had never been beyond its eighteenth-century portals. Discreetly tucked away in a small street between St James's and Green Park, its elegant exterior had scarcely changed from the days when it had been the town house of some long-dead nobleman. Even its subfusc interior — old panelling, dim portraits, solid hide armchairs — gave little hint that here the casual visitor was entering the most exclusive club in London, and for that matter, in the Empire.

Early though Biggles was, the Colonel was already waiting for him in the vestibule. His visage was distinctly stern.

‘Well, sir?' asked Biggles, ready for the worst.

‘Not here, Bigglesworth. Let us both wait until we're seated at the luncheon table. No point in muddying the gastric juices with premature bad news. Here at Blazers' we pride ourselves on having one of the six best chefs in Europe and we owe it to him to do justice to his art.'

Eager though Biggles was for news of Algy, he could do nothing but possess himself in patience, and it was not until the potted shrimps were on the table, and the Colonel had satisfied himself that the legendary Club claret was at the proper temperature, that Biggles blurted out the question that he had to ask.

‘What news of Algy?'

The Colonel shook his head and sniffed the claret for the umpteenth time.

‘None,' he said briskly.

‘None?' repeated Biggles. ‘But there must be something, sir. Some news from Frankfurt, or the report of a crash in Switzerland.'

‘I said none, and I mean none,' barked the Colonel. ‘I've made the most thorough inquiries across Europe, and I've drawn a blank. Your friend has vanished into the thinnest of thin air. I'm sorry Bigglesworth, but there it is.'

Biggles felt his heart begin to pound.

‘Poor old chap,' he said. ‘I blame myself. I should have stopped him going. It's entirely my fault. So there's nothing to be done but wait?'

‘I didn't say that,' Raymond replied quickly. ‘I drew a blank about your friend, but in the process of inquiry I discovered several most disturbing facts.'

‘Such as?'

‘That Lacey landed at Frankfurt entirely as planned just after two o'clock yesterday afternoon. He refuelled, and took off again some twenty minutes later with a passenger he evidently felt was your Professor Krahenbiehl.'

‘And wasn't it?'

Raymond shook his head.

‘One of my men, acting on my orders, went to the Professor's house. Professor Krahenbiehl was there — in perfect health, and total ignorance of his so-called flight to Switzerland.'

‘Ignorance?' said Biggles. ‘That's impossible! I saw the letter that he wrote to Algy's father.'

‘Plainly a forgery. It wouldn't have been too difficult to do. You told me that Lord Lacey hadn't seen Krahenbiehl since well before the war. It wouldn't have needed much ingenuity to fake his writing, and it would seem a reasonable deduction that this was done by whoever was aboard the plane.'