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July Break Bingo: Sharing a Taxi
I just keep writing these. I might actually make a line!
Prompt: Sharing a Taxi or Wrong Apartment/House
800 words, Biggles & EvS pre-Hatchet, gen
It was late and softly raining, the street gleaming with puddles. Having just wrapped up the final errands of a successfully concluded case, Biggles hailed a cab and folded his umbrella. He slid into the backseat and was about to give the driver the Piccadilly address of the Royal Aero Club, when a figure carrying a briefcase loomed out of the rain, seized the door, and flung himself into the backseat so that Biggles was forced to move hastily over. There was a hat pulled down low over his eyes, dripping rain.
The new arrival began speaking in a crisp public-school accent to the driver. "I'll pay you twice what he's paying you for a trip to --" His tone altered. "You!"
"Me," Biggles returned, not speaking von Stalhein's name aloud, as he had no idea what the man was doing here or what name he was going by at the moment. "I wouldn't mind sharing."
"I would," von Stalhein retorted. "I want you out." Taking a breath, with a swift glance out the window, he gripped the door handle. "Or I will take the next one. Perhaps that's best."
"No trouble back there," the cabbie warned.
"It's a wet night, and there seem to be no other cabs around," Biggles said. "We'll go to your destination first; it's no trouble."
Von Stalhein glared at him, then reluctantly took his hand off the door handle and muttered an address that Biggles suspected was not the one he would have given otherwise. The driver shrugged and pulled away from the kerb.
They rode for a few minutes in silence. Von Stalhein tucked his briefcase on the side of his body away from Biggles, placed between himself and the door. He glanced frequently at the mirrors and out the window. There was mud on his sleeve. Noticing it, he wiped at it surreptitiously with his thumb.
Biggles would very much have liked a look in that briefcase, but didn't care for a tussle; instead he offered a clean, dry handkerchief. "You can clean up with this, if you like. It's quite unused."
Von Stalhein glared at him balefully, but after a moment, with a curt nod, he took it and mopped the rain off his face, then dabbed at his cuff.
"Ten thousand cabs in this city," he said, attention focused on scrubbing at the stain, "and I end up sharing yours."
Biggles smiled. "Perhaps it's fate."
"More like ill luck," von Stalhein retorted, and added under his breath, "As if I have any other sort."
In the flicker of passing street lights, he was rigid and weary-looking. Biggles said, "I was headed to the Aero Club, but I don't mind changing my destination if you don't -- to a restaurant, say?"
"So you can interrogate me at your leisure?" von Stalhein snapped.
"I have no interrogation in mind, I assure you. I haven't eaten yet and I was going to grab a bite at the club, but I don't suppose you'd care to go in as my guest." Von Stalhein's answer to this was a derisive snort. "As I thought. There's a nice little place I know not too far from here. Quiet."
"Brimming with police, no doubt."
"No," Biggles said quietly. "Just a quiet dinner, that's all."
It seemed to him that von Stalhein hesitated, not coming back with an immediate denial -- but just then the cab pulled over to the corner that von Stalhein had named as his destination. Von Stalhein sprang up and opened the door as if escaping from a trap. He did not speak, only leaped out into the rainy dark and strode swiftly away without a backward glance or a hesitation.
"Hope you're good for his fare," the driver said.
"Yes, of course," Biggles said absently. He watched the tall, slim figure limping swiftly away. He had half a mind to try to follow -- but he knew von Stalhein well enough to know that it would do little good.
The cabbie shrugged philosophically. "Where to now?"
Biggles started to give him the Aero Club address, but changed it to the Mount Street flat. He was tired, and he wanted only to go home. He could call in a report to his chief from there; von Stalhein would likely be well away by the time he had a chance.
Biggles looked out the rain-streaked window one last time, but the fast-moving figure had vanished into the dark and the rain.
He didn't recall the handkerchief until he found it in the morning, laundered and folded and tucked atop a loose brick just beside the post box.
"Oh, wonderful," Algy said as Biggles shook it out. "Are you expecting to find a note in there? Or perhaps the cab fare he stiffed you for?"
"I think the handkerchief is the note," Biggles said. He folded it and put it in his pocket.
"Absolutely barking," Algy sighed, and followed him down the steps.
Prompt: Sharing a Taxi or Wrong Apartment/House
800 words, Biggles & EvS pre-Hatchet, gen
It was late and softly raining, the street gleaming with puddles. Having just wrapped up the final errands of a successfully concluded case, Biggles hailed a cab and folded his umbrella. He slid into the backseat and was about to give the driver the Piccadilly address of the Royal Aero Club, when a figure carrying a briefcase loomed out of the rain, seized the door, and flung himself into the backseat so that Biggles was forced to move hastily over. There was a hat pulled down low over his eyes, dripping rain.
The new arrival began speaking in a crisp public-school accent to the driver. "I'll pay you twice what he's paying you for a trip to --" His tone altered. "You!"
"Me," Biggles returned, not speaking von Stalhein's name aloud, as he had no idea what the man was doing here or what name he was going by at the moment. "I wouldn't mind sharing."
"I would," von Stalhein retorted. "I want you out." Taking a breath, with a swift glance out the window, he gripped the door handle. "Or I will take the next one. Perhaps that's best."
"No trouble back there," the cabbie warned.
"It's a wet night, and there seem to be no other cabs around," Biggles said. "We'll go to your destination first; it's no trouble."
Von Stalhein glared at him, then reluctantly took his hand off the door handle and muttered an address that Biggles suspected was not the one he would have given otherwise. The driver shrugged and pulled away from the kerb.
They rode for a few minutes in silence. Von Stalhein tucked his briefcase on the side of his body away from Biggles, placed between himself and the door. He glanced frequently at the mirrors and out the window. There was mud on his sleeve. Noticing it, he wiped at it surreptitiously with his thumb.
Biggles would very much have liked a look in that briefcase, but didn't care for a tussle; instead he offered a clean, dry handkerchief. "You can clean up with this, if you like. It's quite unused."
Von Stalhein glared at him balefully, but after a moment, with a curt nod, he took it and mopped the rain off his face, then dabbed at his cuff.
"Ten thousand cabs in this city," he said, attention focused on scrubbing at the stain, "and I end up sharing yours."
Biggles smiled. "Perhaps it's fate."
"More like ill luck," von Stalhein retorted, and added under his breath, "As if I have any other sort."
In the flicker of passing street lights, he was rigid and weary-looking. Biggles said, "I was headed to the Aero Club, but I don't mind changing my destination if you don't -- to a restaurant, say?"
"So you can interrogate me at your leisure?" von Stalhein snapped.
"I have no interrogation in mind, I assure you. I haven't eaten yet and I was going to grab a bite at the club, but I don't suppose you'd care to go in as my guest." Von Stalhein's answer to this was a derisive snort. "As I thought. There's a nice little place I know not too far from here. Quiet."
"Brimming with police, no doubt."
"No," Biggles said quietly. "Just a quiet dinner, that's all."
It seemed to him that von Stalhein hesitated, not coming back with an immediate denial -- but just then the cab pulled over to the corner that von Stalhein had named as his destination. Von Stalhein sprang up and opened the door as if escaping from a trap. He did not speak, only leaped out into the rainy dark and strode swiftly away without a backward glance or a hesitation.
"Hope you're good for his fare," the driver said.
"Yes, of course," Biggles said absently. He watched the tall, slim figure limping swiftly away. He had half a mind to try to follow -- but he knew von Stalhein well enough to know that it would do little good.
The cabbie shrugged philosophically. "Where to now?"
Biggles started to give him the Aero Club address, but changed it to the Mount Street flat. He was tired, and he wanted only to go home. He could call in a report to his chief from there; von Stalhein would likely be well away by the time he had a chance.
Biggles looked out the rain-streaked window one last time, but the fast-moving figure had vanished into the dark and the rain.
He didn't recall the handkerchief until he found it in the morning, laundered and folded and tucked atop a loose brick just beside the post box.
"Oh, wonderful," Algy said as Biggles shook it out. "Are you expecting to find a note in there? Or perhaps the cab fare he stiffed you for?"
"I think the handkerchief is the note," Biggles said. He folded it and put it in his pocket.
"Absolutely barking," Algy sighed, and followed him down the steps.
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Anyway, your fic is wonderful, as always! More bittersweet than the last few, with Erich teetering on the edge of willing to give friendship a try, but needing just that little bit more space to screw up his courage and set aside everything he’s ever known (to get everything he’s ever wanted). He’s so *defensive* and wounded and suspicious and yearning.
Also ALGY 🥺🤣
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And thank you so much; I'm glad that Erich's state of mind comes through in this just from Biggles's observations! He is SO CLOSE but not quite there yet.
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