The Price of Gold
based on Capt. W. E. Johns’ Biggles series

The matter of the gold having been satisfactorily dealt with, Biggles was rather surprised to be called into Air Commodore Raymond’s office a few weeks later, not to receive instructions about a new case, but to be asked about what, to him, was an old and closed one.

“Sit down, sit down,” said Raymond in friendly tones.  “I shan’t keep you long.  I thought I should tell you that the Petrel arrived in Britain a week ago last Tuesday, and the Treasury has taken possession of its cargo.”

“Well, that ends the matter, I suppose,” Biggles said, and sat down in the chair opposite the desk.  “I don’t quite see why you called me in just to tell me that, though.  A phone call would have sufficed.”

“As far as that goes, you’re right,” Raymond agreed.  “Nevertheless, there is a matter on which I thought it advisable to consult you, since you probably know the man involved better than anyone.  You see, no one ever thought the Wyndham Star’s gold to be anywhere but the bottom of the ocean; so there was never any reward offered.  It has been decided, though, that ‘presents’—let us call them ‘presents’—should appropriately be given to those who assisted in the recovery.  From your report, those two botanists, Carter and Barlow, certainly deserve something for their trouble; and then there’s that Chilean chap, Vendez.”

“I agree,” Biggles put in.  “We could never have located the gold without their assistance.”

“Quite,” said Raymond.  “However, that leaves the matter of von Stalhein.  If it hadn’t been for him, we would have known nothing of Gontermann’s efforts to seize it.”

“Perfectly true,” Biggles admitted.  “I know you had your doubts:  he had nothing to support what he said, except his word.  But that was good enough for me.  I told you so at the time.  What’s the problem now?”

“His position here in England.  His past.”  Raymond hesitated, almost apologetically.  Then, in a firm voice, he continued, “There are those who feel that someone with his murky history should not receive the sort of award that respectable, law-abiding citizens merit for their assistance.”

“He was under no obligation to tell us anything at all!” exclaimed Biggles indignantly.  “You said yourself that he simply thought we might be interested.  Frankly,” he admitted, “when you first told me of his story, I wondered if he might be bargaining for some sort of payment; but you said not.  Nor did he mention anything like that when I talked to him myself.  He gave me all the information he had, such as it was.  Obscure, certainly.  He had no personal knowledge, only hearsay.  Still, the directions did lead us aright in the end.”

“We made no contract or agreement,” Raymond pointed out.

“Nor one with the botanists, as far as that goes,” Biggles retorted.  “So how is he less deserving than they are?”

Raymond leaned back in his chair and looked at him thoughtfully.  “On the whole,” he admitted, “I am inclined to agree with you, at least as a point of principle.  At any rate, it is an argument I can pass on to those who make such decisions.  The remaining question, of course, is this:  if they accept your position, how will von Stalhein react?  You said, if I recall, that you took his word because he was an officer from an old military family.  He offered the information freely—I give you my word on that, as an officer and a gentleman myself—so how will he react if he is now, as it were, offered ex post facto payment for intelligence he provided gratis?”

This took Biggles aback.

“Do you see my point?”

Biggles hesitated.  “Yes, I think I do.  It is a matter of honour.”  He leaned forward into his hands, fingertips each side of the bridge of his nose, thinking hard.  “To give offence to someone who is offering help, even in a matter he thinks trivial … if he takes it wrong, it could drive von Stalhein away.”  He lowered his hands.  “I don’t think he’d dare return to his previous employers; but he is all too familiar with the world of intrigue.”

“You know him,” Raymond ventured.

“You want me to sound him out?”  Biggles waited in vain for a response—which was, of course, an answer in itself.  “Yes, I suppose I might try.  I know where he lives.”  He sighed.  “No, a straightforward approach would be honest but, if you are right, unappreciated.  It needs something more … sideways and subtle.  Some interrogator’s trick to get him to let down his guard and talk informally.  I don’t like it; but I can do it.  It’s the sort of thing I’ve had to do before, after all.”

“Dinner?” suggested Raymond.

“Dinner?!” exclaimed Biggles.

“I can have my secretary make reservations.”

“I suspect von Stalhein will have reservations,” Biggles said dryly.  “I have myself.  However, I am quite capable of finding a suitable restaurant, if that is what you wish.”  He smiled slightly.  “Assuming I can convince him, of course.  Perhaps let him choose the establishment himself.  I don’t think I have the faintest idea where he would prefer to eat.”  His smile deepened.  “It could be seen as neutral ground, I suppose.  A place to parley.  The conversation will be interesting, I’m sure of that.”