Biggles (42 page)

Quixotically enough, one of von Stalhein's final acts before arrest had been to get a warning through to Biggles of an attempt by the Russian K.G.B. to assassinate him. Why he did this is anybody's guess. Perhaps some lingering sense of honour made the Prussian feel that murder in cold blood was indefensible. Perhaps he was getting back at the people who arrested him. Whatever lay behind it, von Stalhein's warning certainly saved Biggles' life. One good turn deserved another, and Biggles, Algy, Ginger and Bertie Lissie undertook the sea-plane flight to the island of Sakhalin which resulted in the spectacular release of von Stalhein himself.

But although it seems a slightly touching story — as indeed in many ways it was — there was far more to this ‘burying of the hatchet' with von Stalhein than was revealed at the time. Whilst Biggles and his chums went off to rescue von Stalhein for reasons of gratitude and, as Biggles put it, ‘really for old time's sake', Raymond was quite immune to all such sentimental motives. His cold, calculating brain had worked out in advance that the Hauptmann would be quite a prize — and a much-needed feather
in the cap for British Intelligence in its competition with the American C.I.A., and once von Stalhein was in British hands, Raymond was determined to exploit him to the full.

Biggles, who now had few illusions about his boss, had guessed as much from the beginning, and did his best to save von Stalhein from the excesses of the faceless men in the British Secret Service. Indeed, he had quite a set-to with the Air Commodore on the subject just a few days after his return from the hell-hole of Sakhalin. Von Stalhein was still recovering from his ordeal in the carefully guarded mansion outside Brighton, which the Secret Service used to house its most valuable guests, and when Biggles asked to see him, he was greeted with a blank refusal.

‘Sorry, James old chap! Quite out of the question I'm afraid,' the Air Commodore replied.

‘But why, sir?' Biggles asked with some asperity. ‘I've known von Stalhein almost all my life, and now we've rescued him I'd like a chance to see that he's all right.'

‘Oh, he's all right — you can set your mind at rest on that score, James.'

‘But ordinary good manners would demand that I should visit him. Besides, sir, I know von Stalhein well enough to know that if he's going to spill the beans to anyone, he's far more likely to do so to me than to some cold-blooded interrogator from British Military Intelligence.'

‘James,' sighed Raymond wearily, ‘do me a favour. Just stop being sentimental. You know as well as I do that von Stalhein is the biggest prize we've had for years. The professionals are dealing with him, and can't have chaps like you around to muck things up. So just forget von Stalhein. You don't owe him anything — after all, you saved the wretched fellow's life.'

‘That's not the point, sir, He's a human being, and an officer and a gentleman, whatever else he may have been — which is more than I can say for these damned “professionals” of yours. I'm appealing to you, sir, to let me visit him.'

‘Quite out of the question, James,' the Air Commodore replied, slapping the desk with his stainless steel ruler. ‘And now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.'

‘It's a really dirty business,' Biggles fumed that night when all the
chums were gathered in the flat.' ‘And when I tried to reason with him he dismissed me like the confounded office-boy. I tell you, Algy, it's the last bally straw. I'm resigning.'

‘Oh, calm down Biggles,' answered Algy, sipping a lethargic Scotch and soda, ‘what's the use of that? It'll make no difference. Von Stalhein knew what he was in for when he came back with us. The Secret Service boys have got to do their job, and he'll be O.K. in the end. When they've finished with him, they'll get the plastic surgeons to give him a nice new face and find him a job somewhere under a new name – which is more than the other side would have done for us. You can save your indignation for someone other than the Hauptmann Erich. Don't you agree, Bertie?'

Bertie Lissie nodded.

‘Quite,' he drawled. ‘Frankly, can't see what all the fuss is about. Always thought von Stalhein was a pain in the bally neck.'

‘Of course, he was,' retorted Biggles. ‘He was the most determined enemy we ever had, but that's precisely why I feel responsible for him. If you can't see that, Bertie, then I'm sorry for you. What do you think, Ginger?'

Ginger Hebblethwaite shrugged his shoulders.

‘As far as von Stalhein goes,' he said, ‘I think that I agree with Bertie. He'll be all right, and if he isn't I don't think I'll lose much sleep. But honestly, Biggles, what does worry me is Raymond's attitude to us, and I suspect that that's what really worries you as well.'

‘What d'you mean, old boy?' asked Biggles.

‘Well,' replied Ginger thoughtfully, ‘it seems to me that Raymond has been taking us too much for granted. In the old days he was fairly human, but he's becoming impossible now, and since the department's been successful — largely thanks to us — he's been treating all of us like blinking sheep. I don't like it — and I sympathise with Biggles.'

‘Thanks Ginger,' replied Biggles sombrely. ‘You can see it if the others don't — although I do mean what I said about von Stalhein. No, Algy, I've had enough of Raymond and his confounded job. If you chaps can take it, then good luck to you. Perhaps I'm just a bit old-fashioned, but I don't like the way that things are going, and I've no intention of being treated like a blinking doormat at my time of life.'

‘You mean you're serious about resigning?' Algy said, aghast.

‘Absolutely, dear old boy. Never been more serious in my life.'

Biggles' resignation from the Special Air Police was carefully hushed up, although the papers did their best to make a story of it. There were several angry scenes when journalists tried to nobble the Air Commodore at his flat in Duke Street, St James's, to question him about it, and there was speculation in one Sunday newspaper that the Special Air Police was undergoing what it called ‘internal difficulties'. There were even rumours that Algy Lacey, Ginger Hebblethwaite and Bertie Lissie were about to leave as well in sympathy with their old friend. But these rumours came to nothing, and Biggles insisted that the whole argument was purely between himself and Raymond.

‘No point at all in dragging you into it, old scout,' said Biggles stoically to Algy. ‘It's not your battle, and besides, the Special Air Police would utterly collapse if all of you pulled out, and that would never do.'

‘But Biggles,' Algy said with genuine concern, ‘what are you going to do? You need looking after, and without your chums to keep an eye on you, you're simply bound to end up in some frightful pickle.'

Biggles smiled and patted Algy's arm.

‘There, there, my dear old chap,' he said. ‘It's decent of you to speak like that, and I do appreciate it, but I'll be all right, and it's not as if we'll not be seeing one another. I'll still be living in the flat — if you'll put up with me — and I'm probably too old for the temptations of this wicked world. Besides, I've got a job already, and I'm rather looking forward to it.'

‘You've got
what?'
exclaimed Algy incredulously.

‘A job. Rather a good one as it happens, and with somebody you know.'

‘I don't know anybody in his right mind who'd offer you a job, old scout,' said Algy smiling with relief. ‘Who is it?'

‘Our old pal Nobby Smyth. He rang me up the moment he heard that I was leaving Scotland Yard. They always say that when you're up against it you discover who your real friends are.'

‘Well, good for Nobby,' answered Algy. ‘Always did say he was one of the best. What sort of job?'

‘Oh, he requires what he calls a sales executive. Blowed if I know exactly what it means, but I gather I'll be a sort of salesman for his firm. Bags of foreign travel, fat expense account, nineteen-year-old secretary and a company car — the usual racket. I'm rather looking forward to it all.'

‘That's absolutely capital! You can become a prosperous fat businessman at last. It'll rather suit you, Biggles.'

‘Suit me be damned!' growled Biggles. ‘Still, it's better than the dole, and as Nobby says, I've got a lot of contacts in the airline business round the world. You never know, one day I could even be touting you for business.'

‘You might at that. By the way, one thing I meant to ask you. How did old Raymond take it when you handed in your resignation? You never told me.'

‘Not much to tell you, dear old chap,' replied Biggles with a frown. ‘The blighter wouldn't see me. Said we had nothing to discuss. Rum way of behaving when you think of it, but if that's the way he feels ...'

Algy's doubts nothwithstanding, Biggles was surprisingly successful as a businessman, and much as he pretended to despise his new-found trade, he actually enjoyed himself. One week he would be off to Bangkok discussing aero-engines with an old acquaintance who was now the chief executive of Thai Airlines. The next he would be in South America selling fuel tanks to Argentinians, and from there he would double back to Washington to look up several contacts with the Pentagon. Old fliers form a sort of international trade union, and everywhere that Biggles went he found friends who would go out of their way to help him and provide fresh business.

At the same time, his relations with his new boss could hardly have been better. Business was booming, and although it was several years yet before Nobby Smyth received his inevitable knighthood, he was already quite a power in the land. It was a situation that could easily have been difficult — particularly with somebody as touchy as Biggles — but fortunately Nobby Smyth possessed considerable respect for his old C.O. He also realised his value to the firm, and Biggles was allowed to be very much his own master, with his own small office in the Smyth Organisation
H.Q. in Park Lane, and all the other business perks that he expected — including the effective use of the company's De Havilland Dove whenever he felt like flying.

The only drawback to this whole new way of life was that he inevitably started to lose contact with his chums in Mount Street. He saw them frequently of course, and often treated them to lunch. His kit remained in his old den at the flat, and when he was in London he used it as his home. But, although no one would admit it, the fact was that Biggles was in a very different world now from the others. They had the excitements of their work, he had his business to attend to and, naturally, their paths diverged. It was hard to tell how much this worried Biggles. Sometimes it seemed as if he really missed the thrills and camaraderie of days gone by.

‘Lucky blighter,' he would say to Algy as he donned his dark blue suit and grabbed his briefcase for an early-morning business conference. ‘It's all right for you, off playing cops and robbers.
I've
got to earn my living by the sweat of my blinking brow.'

But as time went by, he seemed less and less interested in the work of the Special Air Police — so much so that sometimes, when Algy started telling him about his latest exploits, Biggles would have to hide a yawn. Algy noticed this of course, and became upset, but there seemed nothing anyone could do to set things right, and he resigned himself to the gloomy thought that their old partnership was over. The final disappointment came when Algy mentioned summer holidays. For as long as either could remember, Biggles and Algy had always taken them together, and Algy not unnaturally assumed that this would be happening again. His three weeks' leave was due at the end of June, and he mentioned it to Biggles.

‘Sorry, old scout, you'll have to count me out this year,' he answered somewhat shiftily.

‘Count you out, Biggles? Why? Doesn't Nobby give wage-slaves like you a summer holiday? I'll have to have a word with him!'

‘No, don't do that old boy,' said Biggles quickly. ‘Fact is that Norah's invited me down to Cannes for a sort of house party affair, you know.'

‘Norah!' expostulated Algy. ‘Who the hell's Norah?'

‘Norah Smyth, old boy. Nobby's wife. You must remember
her. It's rather expected of a chap to go when his employer and his wife invite him specially. Confounded bore, of course. You simply must excuse me.'

So that year Algy went on holiday to Trinidad with Bertie Lissie, while Ginger held the fort at Scotland Yard with several of the new, less colourful members of the Force. And Biggles was at Cannes, living the so-called ‘good life' to the hilt. In fact, it rather suited him. The Smyths were extremely rich by now and entertained extensively. Not all their guests were Biggles' cup of tea, but most of them were mixed up in the world of aeronautics so he was not exactly bored. His old pal, Wilkinson, last seen before the war reorganising the Bolivian Air Force, and now a big wheel in a South American airline, was staying at the Eden Roc with his fourth and very nubile wife, and Marcel Brissac of the Sûreté was camping
en famille
near Cannes. Biggles wined and dined, mixed business gossip with reminiscences of the past, and generally enjoyed himself. He even gambled once or twice at Monte Carlo, recalling as he did so those far-off days before the war when he and Algy had been young and carefree, spending the profits they had made from Biggles and Co. in the gilded precincts of the
salles privées.
He missed Algy now, and one night when he and Nobby Smyth had spent a happy evening on their own, dining together at the
Chapon Fin,
and losing a small fortune at roulette, he became slightly maudlin on the subject of his ancient crony.

‘Dashed pity that it had to break up as it did, Nobby old thing,' he said gloomily. ‘Of course I couldn't be more grateful to you and Norah for everything you've done, but you must know how I feel'.