42 Biggles Follows On Part 15

Ginger allowed his breath to escape in a sigh of relief. 'It's Wung,' he announced. '

Something must have gone wrong.'

They all stood up and Wung joined the party.

'What's the matter?' asked Biggles in a terse undertone.

'There seems to be a conference going on at the Commandant's house,'

reported Wung in a low voice. 'Captain King asked me to look in when we were pa.s.sing, Some men are talking about you. I heard your name mentioned. Captain King could not wait as he has much to do, but he thought you should know in case some sort of trap has been set.'

'You actually looked in the room?'

'Yes, through the window.'

'Who is there?'

'The Commandant. With him is a Chinese general whom they call Kw.a.n.g-Sen.

I have not seen him before, but he seems to be senior to the Commandant.

There is also another Russian officer, who is, I think, an aeroplane pilot. He wears wings on his uniform. There is also a German. I think he does not speak much Russian or Chinese, because there is an interpreter.'

'Did you see this German when you were here before?' 'No.'

'What sort of man is he?'

'Tall, clean shaven, well dressed. He stands and speaks like a soldier.

He wears an eyegla.s.s, and smokes all the time a cigarette in a long holder.'

'Sounds as if von Stalhein has got here,' remarked Biggles dryly, looking at the others. 'I can't say that I'm altogether surprised. After all, this is his affair as much as ours.' He turned back to Wung. 'Did you get any idea of what these men were talking about, apart from mentioning my name?'

'From what I could make out the German was trying to convince General Kw.a.n.g-Sen that you would come here, so there should be more soldiers. He seems to know that you have left London, and that British Intelligence now knows about the broadcasting station.

'What did the General say to that?'

'He seemed disinclined to do anything. I have the impression that he was drinking with Commandant Kubenoff when the others arrived.'

'Nothing else?'

'No. I did not stay long because Captain King was waiting for me.'

'All right. You'd better get back to him. Tell him to lose no time because von Stalhein is here, and if he has his way things are likely to happen.'

Wung went off and soon merged into the gloom.

Biggles faced the others. 'I'd better have a look at this in case it is decided to post extra guards right away. That might put Gimlet in a jam.

Stand fast till I come back. If a flap should start, try to grab Ross and make for the ruined hut. I'll join you there.' So saying, he walked quickly in the direction of the bungalow, the position of which was clear from the light that streamed from one of its windows.

A glance showed him that his surmise had been correct. Von Stalhein, as coldly austere and as immaculate as ever in spite of his long journey, was expostulating with a heavily-built Chinaman who, in a uniform decorated with medals, sprawled in an armchair with a gla.s.s in his hand.

A man in Russian uniform a" Kubenoff, Biggles presumed a" was sitting opposite. Standing nearby was a man who, from his actions and the way he spoke, was evidently the interpreter. Von Stalhein spoke in German.

The matter is of importance to me, if not to you, General,' he was saying. 'Why do you think I have come all this way? For my own good, I admit, but for yours also. This man Ross is a spy, put in by the British secret agent, Bigglesworth. If it is learned in Moscow that a stool-pigeon has been introduced into the organisation it will be bad for me, and for you, too, if you do nothing about it. Stresser, one of my men in Europe, has made a complete confession. He was suspected, and has been made to talk. He now admits that in Prague he sold to Bigglesworth information about the destination of Ross, who was followed out from England.'

'We will have this man Ross before us in the morning,' said the General thickly. 'He shall tell us all he knows.'

'Why not now?' argued von Stalhein.

'Because I am tired. Nothing is likely to happen between now and daylight.'

Biggles, with his eyes on von Stalhein's face, could almost sympathise with him. It seemed to be the fate of the German that his own efficiency should be offset by the laxity of the people under whom he served.

Another man stepped into the conversation. 'It would be better to wait for a little while,'

he said. 'Ross is to broadcast presently. It is important and will be relayed to all stations.

He does not know this, of course. He has been told that it is only a rehearsal to test his voice, otherwise he would refuse. He is difficult.

It would be better not to upset him just before the broadcast.'

'I agree,' said the General, reaching for a bottle that stood on a nearby table.

'But, at least, it would be no trouble to put on extra guards,' protested von Stalhein.

Kw.a.n.g-Sen yawned. 'Very well, if it will satisfy you.'

'Why not let me have a word with Ross?' suggested von Stalhein. 'He knows me. I would tell him that his being sent here was all a mistake and that I have come to take him back to Europe. That would put him in good heart.

I would learn the truth from him.

Afterwards, you can do what you like with him.'

'That might be a good thing,' conceded Kw.a.n.g-Sen. 'But don't worry me again tonight. I'

m tired and I'm going to bed. Have a drink?'

Biggles waited for no more. He hastened back to the others. 'We were just in time,' he informed them grimly. 'We'd better get mobile. Von Stalhein is here. Stresser has spilt the whole can of beans, so von Stalhein has a pretty good idea of what's likely to happen.

He insists on the guards being doubled. The General is soaked with liquor, and can't be bothered, but he has more or less agreed. What is worse, von Stalhein is trying to get to Ross. I left them all talking.

But, whatever the others do, von Stalhein won't go to bed.

We don't want him barging into the picture before we are finished, so we'd better get Ross and pull out right away.'

'What's the drill?' asked Ginger.

'I shall have to switch on the light in the hut,' answered Biggles. 'We must see what we're doing. When I do, you, Bertie, will slip along to the far end and deal with this sergeant fellow if he tries to make trouble, as no doubt he will. But no shooting unless the position becomes desperate. Okay. Let's go.'

Automatic in one hand, Biggles advanced to the door. At the same moment it was opened from the inside and a man in pyjamas stepped out. Half-asleep, it seemed, he had taken two paces towards the wash-house before he noticed that he was not alone. The shock brought him to life.

'What's the idea? Who are you?' he demanded, in English, with an American accent.

Biggles showed his gun. 'Are you an American?'

'Sure I'm an American.'

'Do you like it here or would you rather go home?'

The man stared. 'Would I rather go home?' he echoed incredulously.

'That's somewhere I didn't reckon to see again. Serve me right for being a sucker. Who are you?'

'British agents. We've come to fetch one of our fellows home. The name's Ross.'

'That's right. The guy's inside.'

'Are you coming with us?'

'Am I coming? Brother, wait till I get my clothes on!'

'Stand fast for a minute.'

Biggles went to the door. Inside all was in darkness. From it came the heavy breathing of sleeping men. A few seconds sufficed to find the electric light switch. It clicked, and the scene inside the hut was revealed.

It was as Wung had described. Low trestle beds, about twelve on each side, were arranged round the walls. Not all were occupied. From those that were, men, awakened by the light, raised themselves on an elbow to ascertain the reason.

Bertie walked quickly down the centre gangway to a door at the far end and took up a position beside it.

From behind it a harsh voice shouted: 'Put that light out!' 'Put it out yourself,' invited Bertie smoothly.

A stream of threats well mixed with curses was the reply. An instant later the door was flung open and a man with tousled hair, and pyjamas awry, appeared, eyes glowering belligerently.

'That'll do nicely,' said Bertie. 'Don't move.'

The man spun round and blinked at the muzzle of Bertie's gun. By this time the occupied beds were astir. Some of the men sat up. Others flung off their blankets and sprang to their feet. 'Take it easy, everybody,'

ordered Biggles. 'Ross!'

'Sir?'

'Get your clothes on and make it snappy. We've come for you.' Biggles went on: 'Listen, everybody. Anyone who wants to go home will stand up.

Those who want to stay, lie down a" and stay down. No tricks. This gun's loaded.'

The sergeant in charge found his voice. He took a pace forward, but, seeing Bertie's gun move, stopped abruptly. 'What is this?' he demanded.

'Just a hold-up a" just a hold-up,' murmured Bertie. 'Nothing to get excited about. Stand still unless you want to go bye-byes for a long time.'

The man stood still, staring. There was in fact little else he could do in a situation that he could hardly have imagined.

Biggles' voice rose again above the babble of conversation that had broken out. 'Not so much noise,' he snapped. 'One word of warning. Those who come with me will face a court-martial when they get home. Please yourselves. I don't care whether you come or stay.'

Practically all the men who were scrambling into their clothes continued to do so. Only two got back into their beds, and later on Biggles was to learn why. They, and the sergeant in charge, were wanted in their own countries for crimes more serious than desertion. The sergeant had, in fact, murdered a girl in Berlin while serving with the Forces of Occupation.

The first man to be ready was, from his accent, an American. His bed was at the far end of the room. Still b.u.t.toning his tunic, he advanced purposefully towards Bertie. 'Thanks for calling, pal,' he said in a curious voice. 'I was afraid I was in this dump for keeps.

Show us your gun.'

Smiling, Bertie half withdrew; but with a lightning movement the man s.n.a.t.c.hed the gun from his hand and jumped back.

'Nice work,' said the sergeant, and started to move; but he stopped dead as the muzzle of the weapon jerked round to cover him. 'What a" what's the idea?' he faltered.

The American's eyes had taken on a queer glitter. His lips were parted and drawn back against his teeth. 'You know the idea, Sarge,' he grated.

'Remember me? Clutson's the name a" Joe Clutson, from Arizona. You prodded me into this frame-up, didn't you, me and my buddy, Johnny Briggs? You remember Johnny? You croaked him, didn't you?

Bashed him on the head with a hammer because he told you what you are a" a dirty, lying, sneaking rat. I've prayed every night for this chance. Now I know that prayers are answered.'

'Stop that!' shouted Biggles from the far end of the room.

'Now, wait a minute, Joe,' quavered the sergeant, raising his hand.

'Wait nothing,' snarled Clutson. 'Now it's my turn, even if I fry for it.

Hold this, you swine, for Johnny. Youa"'

The rest was lost in the crash of the weapon as it spat a stream of sparks that ended at the sergeant's chest.

The sergeant, a look of horror and amazement frozen on his face, staggered back against the wall. His body sagged and he slumped slowly to the floor.

In the shocked silence that followed Clutson handed the weapon back to Bertie. 'Thanks, pal,' he said simply.

CHAPTER XIV.

Von Stalhein is Annoyed.

The silence was next broken by Biggles from the far end of the room. 'You fool!' he rasped, clipping his words in his anger. 'You crazy fool!