Chapter 3

An unexpected encounter

After saying goodbye to Carruthers, Biggles and Ginger decided to while away the hour or so before dinner by having a drink, and looking out for other pilots from whom they might glean useful information. They settled down at one of the small tables at the far end of the entrance hall near the foot of the stairs leading to the upper floor, and Biggles called a waiter.

"I'll have a glass of beer - what do you want, Ginger?"

"Whisky."

Biggles frowned, and opened his mouth but what he intended to say was never spoken. A footfall sounded on the stairs, and a tall, slim man, dressed in a long coat as if he was going out and carrying a parcel under his arm, ran lightly down and stepped out onto the floor. From where Ginger was sitting he could not see the man's face, but he saw Biggles stiffen.

"Don't look now," he breathed to Ginger. "It's von Stalhein. Too late, he's seen us."

If the German was surprised to see the two Englishmen he did not show it. For a moment von Stalhein stood still, and then he raised a monocle to his right eye and approached them, but slowly, as if he was feeling his way cautiously to find out what sort of reception awaited him. Reaching their table, he clicked his heels and bowed stiffly from the waist. A faint sardonic smile curved his lips, but his blue eyes were as cold and hard as ever. He was unchanged since they had last seen him, save that his sunburnt face bespoke recent service in hot climates.

"My dear Major Bigglesworth, and, yes, it is our young friend with the difficult name - Hebblethwaite," said von Stalhein with more than a suspicion of a sneer, in his perfect English. "Our meeting here this evening was a happy coincidence. Otherwise I might not have known that you were in the country. That, you will agree, would have been a pity."

"We've met in some queer places, but I little thought that we should bump into each other here," returned Biggles evenly, selecting a cigarette from his case and tapping it on the back of his hand. "But there, I suppose it s only natural that we should so often find ourselves on the same job. Don't let us detain you, though, if you're in a hurry."

"As a matter of fact, I am rather busy. There are some urgent matters that need my attention," replied von Stalhein. "Goodbye - for now. We shall meet again, no doubt."

And with that he bowed again, and then strode swiftly towards the door. Biggles watched him go, with a curious expression on his face, while the waiter brought their drinks to their table.

"Pah! I don't know how you can be civil to that skunk von Stalhein," muttered Ginger bitterly, taking a gulp from his glass. "Whatever I've got to say to a Hun, I'll say with a bunch of guns - if it's all the same to you."

He added accusingly, "You practically told von Stalhein that we were here after the diamonds."

"There was no point in denying it. Von Stalhein knows perfectly well that there can be only one reason why we would be in Argentina. He as good as said so. At least we've learned one thing. It seems pretty clear that von Stalhein is using this hotel for the same reason we are – it's close to the airport. That tends to confirm Raymond's suspicions that the Boche are using aircraft for the diamond smuggling. Still, I'm sorry he's seen us. Now he knows we're on the job and he'll act accordingly. In effect it means he's scored the first point, as you might say. Now he must be wondering, and wondering hard, how much we know."

"What do you think he's doing here?"

"Attending this function at the German Embassy tonight, no doubt to keep an eye on del Vargos," conjectured Biggles. "Did you see that coat he was wearing? It's not cold enough for a coat like that - and I saw a flash of grey underneath. I'd say he's wearing his German uniform, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself, so he put the coat on over the top. His cap must have been in the parcel he was carrying."

"Hopefully he'll be too busy tonight to organise any unpleasantness. If he's going to the Embassy function, presumably he won't be back until very late."

"I wouldn't bet on that, but we had better get some dinner anyway," replied Biggles. "On jaunts of this sort it's sound policy to eat while you have the chance. From now on we may for some time be living out of cans. Let's find the dining room; it's on the ground floor past the reception desk."

Ginger looked at his watch. "We've time for another drink before dinner," he suggested.

Biggles gazed at him thoughtfully. "Are you still thinking about Jeanette Ducoste?"

Ginger glared. "Do you think I've forgotten her?" he demanded harshly. "I was absolutely crazy about her. She was the most marvelous thing. Yes, I was thinking about her, and her mother, and Tug Carrington's parents, and - oh - all the other helpless civilians that the Nazis have dropped their foul bombs on - the murdering swine!"

"Listen, laddie," said Biggles. "I really am sorry about Jeanette. It was a tragedy. But let us get this clear. You've known Algy and me for a long time. We don't brood and we don't booze, and frankly, we haven't got much confidence in a fellow who grabs a bottle when things get sticky."

Ginger flushed scarlet. "What would you know about it, Biggles?" he flared.

"That's no way to talk to your commanding officer," returned Biggles coldly.

He continued, more gently, "I understand how you feel, better than you know. I tried to drown something I wanted to forget in whisky once, when I was young, and got shot down. Never again. Take a word of fatherly advice. If you go on ginning-up you'll be no use to yourself or anyone else. We needn't say any more about it - but think it over."

Biggles stubbed his cigarette and got up. "Let's get going."

As they went into the hotel dining room, Biggles saw someone who he recognised - an American pilot by the name of Cyrus Lindsay whom he had met on a previous trip to the United States when he had test-flown some machines for the British Government with a view to purchase. Biggles asked him if he knew anything of flying conditions in southern Argentina. The American told him that he was now flying one of the big Pan-American clippers that operated up and down the coast from the United States to Argentina, but went no further south than Buenos Aires. However, he was meeting a friend who flew for the Argentine domestic airline, and invited the two British airmen to join them for dinner. A pleasant meal of the popular national dish of Cazuela de Ave - which turned out to be an appetizing casserole of chicken with mixed vegetables - was had, but Biggles and Ginger learned little of interest. Lindsay's friend told them only what they already knew; that the only regular aviation service south of San Julian was the Argentine Air Ministry plane that flew mail and dispatches to Rio Grande in Tierra del Fuegos. He mentioned that he had seen the machine regularly on the tarmac at San Julian on a Thursday morning, and it was a Dragon Moth with civil markings.

One piece of useful information that he gave them was that the southern Argentine coast was prone to violent storms and sudden fogs in early spring, which could blow up unexpectedly out of a clear sky and hang around for a day or so. He mentioned that from time to time this caused disruption to the airline's scheduled flights.

Biggles and Ginger did not make a late night of it, as they were intending to leave early the next morning, and it was well before ten o'clock that they made their excuses and said goodnight to the two Americans. Biggles and Ginger were the first to leave the dining room, and the only guests about as they started towards the central staircase which led from the ground floor to the upper floor. As they reached the foot of the stairs Biggles halted, and remarked casually to Ginger, "You go on up to the room. I want to get away first thing tomorrow, so I'll settle up our account now."

Biggles walked away in the direction of the reception desk, and Ginger started off up the stairs alone. He was about to move forward from the stairwell into the corridor, which was dimly lit by a handful of table lamps, when suddenly he saw a shadowy figure moving with furtive stealth towards the far end of the corridor where Biggles' and Ginger's room was located. Ginger froze, but it did not occur to him that the intruder was anything but an ordinary thief who was going through the rooms looking for valuables. He watched as the intruder paused in front of the door of their room, produced a bunch of keys and began trying various keys in the door. The door swung open and the man went in, closing the door behind him. A moment later a chink of light showed beneath the door.

Ginger hesitated for a moment, undecided as to whether he should call the hotel staff or attempt to deal with the situation himself. Then he made up his mind, and carefully tiptoed up the corridor. Reaching the door of their room, his hand closed over the old-fashioned china doorknob. 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 an open valise lying on one of the beds spun round, so that he and Ginger stood face to face. For a brittle second neither moved nor spoke. Then a squat automatic appeared as if by magic in the man's hand. At almost the same instant, Ginger heard a step behind him. Biggles' voice spoke sharply.

"What the devil's going on here?"

The man dashed to the window, which stood wide open, and went through it like a bird. There was a crashing noise in the bushes below the window, and then silence. With swift strides Biggles crossed the room to the window, and looked out.

"He's got away," he reported.

"I was never so pleased to see anyone," declared Ginger. "That fellow had a gun!"

"Did he, by Jove! What happened?"

"I saw him sneaking into our room, so I followed him. I thought I'd catch him red-handed. What brought you along so smartly?"

"The reception staff mentioned that a friend of ours - friend, eh? - had telephoned, inquiring about our room number. Let's see if our visitor has taken anything."

The Argentinian maps that Carruthers had brought were lying in plain sight, having obviously been discovered and handled.

"The money hasn't been touched," Biggles said slowly. "And look at these - skeleton keys! That fellow didn't have time to grab them before he bolted."

Biggles picked up the skeleton keys and examined them closely. "German manufacture," he said grimly. "I'd say that was a German agent."

"Was he sent to kill us?"

"Unlikely. That would be too risky, even for von Stalhein. He'd know we'd be armed, and if there was shooting the police would be called. They may not be under the influence of his Argentinian pals. There might have been a nice little mess. No, I think the fellow was only sent to search our room. Von Stalhein could have organised that as soon as he got to the German Embassy. We were lucky we finished dinner when we did - another five minutes, and that chap would have finished the job. By thunder, once von Stalhein knew we were here, he didn't waste any time doing something about it!"

"What do you think he was looking for?"

"Anything that would give von Stalhein a clue as to how much we know, and what our plans are."

"This has given me an idea. Why don't we search his room?" inquired Ginger. He was feeling belligerent, having recovered from his fright. "We've got the skeleton keys now."

Biggles sat on the edge of his bed and lit a cigarette. He shook his head. "No. For two very good reasons. The first is that we don't know which room is his. I don't fancy prowling around like a common hotel thief. The second reason is that von Stalhein wouldn't be likely to be careless enough to leave anything of interest lying around in a hotel room while he's out."

"We could make inquiries about him at reception."

"He won't be using his own name. No, I think a spot of blanket-drill is indicated. We shall have to be on the move as soon as it's daylight."

"All right, you win," agreed Ginger, starting to undress. "Let's get to bed."

Biggles dropped the skeleton keys into a pocket. "Still, I think I'll bring these along; they may come in useful. One never knows," he observed casually.

Dawn was creeping slowly into a world left colourless by the shadows of night when Biggles and Ginger rose, dressed and made their way back to the airport. Vaguely, Ginger noticed that there seemed to be more Messerschmitt 109s on the other side of the wire fence than there had been before. In particular, he couldn't recall seeing the one parked closest to the fence - which had a distinctive blue-painted propeller boss and tail fin - the previous afternoon. He was just about to remark on this to Biggles when a sharp cry from Biggles caused the matter to pass from his mind.

"What do you make of that?" asked Biggles, pointing to a sort of swelling on the Gosling's starboard rear exhaust pipes, which projected from the engine cowling. Moving nearer, Ginger observed that something had been bound onto one of the pipes with black adhesive tape, so that in the ordinary way it would not have been noticed. Biggles took out his penknife and opened the small blade.

"Stand well back, Ginger," he ordered curtly. Then, slowly and with infinite care, he raised the end of the tape and unwound it. A small metal tube came into view. Very, very carefully, in dead silence, he removed it, and with a deep breath, stepped back.

"I don't know what this is," he said in a hard voice. "But I can guess. It looks like one of those small gelignite demolition bombs that they issue to Commandos. The heat of the exhaust, when that engine was started, would, I imagine, have been enough to do all that was necessary. There would have been a loud bang. The aircraft would have disintegrated - and no-one would ever have known why."

"Who put that there - von Stalhein?" asked Ginger.

"I don't think that there's much doubt that he's responsible, although I can't think that he did the actual job," asserted Biggles. "I don't mind saying that this has shaken me a bit. To give the devil his due, he's efficient. First, the attempt to search our room last night - and now this. Well, it confirms what we suspected. He could only have got information that the Gosling is our machine through del Vargos pulling some strings with the airport staff. He wouldn't have time last night to find that out through his own inquiries, and arrange to have this bomb planted."

He continued, grim-faced, "At least we know where we stand. Argentina may be a neutral country, but this is war. I feel a lot more comfortable knowing that Algy and Bertie can keep us supplied with fuel. It wouldn't be safe to leave the machine for a minute at any of the official airports."

"We'll set von Stalhein a poser when he gets no reports of a Gosling landing anywhere. That should keep him guessing," declared Ginger.

"Probably not for long," Biggles replied. "He'll know that Algy must be around the place somewhere. Now, let's get airborne."

Five minutes later the Gosling was in the air, heading south-west, with the sun rising behind them. To starboard ran the coast of Argentina, and to port lay the open sea.