A commenter below suggested that EvS himself inserted the additional information, which is too wonderful, especially if he couldn't stand the idea of his best enemy being sad having the wrong idea for too long!
This implies that EvS was around in England when Biggles got the news and got to see his reaction firsthand... oh no I have to write this now:
The surge of energy and confidence that followed a victorious brush with death was dangerous, Erich knew. It was no good managing to be half a mile away driving an Algerian police jeep when the rest of the mercenaries were being put in the bag or worse, if he got himself arrested three days later for burgling Scotland Yard's offices.
But the new job he had taken required his presence in England, and his fluent English and knack for disguise were among the skills by which he made his living. And if he thought he might also enjoy the opportunity to get something past a certain Air Police inspector, that was nobody's business but his own.
As it happened, on the first day of his temporary assignment as a Scotland Yard archivist, the Special Air Police were absent on a job. He was not able to finish the work in a single day, and arrived early the following morning--and found himself entering the building only a few paces behind a slim, swift-moving figure. He did not dare react: he was just another office worker today, likely invisible to such exalted souls as DI Bigglesworth, unless he did something foolish like suddenly duck and bolt away at the sight of him. Instead he watched Bigglesworth stride into the building, greeting the doorman by name and with a few cheery words, and take the stairs up to his offices two at a time without once looking back.
The exhilaration that filled Erich at his own success at evading Bigglesworth here, on his own home turf, buoyed him up all morning as he dutifully filed reports and took careful photographs with a miniature camera of certain ones requested by his employer. At lunch he took the cheese and pickle sandwiches that fit his persona to the courtyard to eat, washed down with a mug of ordinary English tea from the canteen: the bread was in no way what he would have chosen, but he'd dined on worse. He sat on the far side of the courtyard, back to a solid wall, partly shielded by a bay tree growing in a pot at the side of the bench. It was a fine day and he was still filled with pleasure at his success when two men entered the courtyard bearing mugs of tea.
Bigglesworth looked like he'd aged ten years during the morning: his step was heavy, his posture slumped. The autumn sun still beaming down on them seemed like an insult: there should have been a crack of thunder, a bitter wind and a downpour. Lacey was with him, shepherding him towards a bench with anxious care. Erich's first thought was that one of the others must have died or been terribly injured, but Lacey's demeanour disabused him of that idea. Whatever sorrow weighed on Bigglesworth, Lacey did not share it.
They were looking at a piece of paper that Bigglesworth had been holding in his breast pocket. Erich recognised the shape of it even from his vantage point: he'd spent all yesterday filing similar documents. Some kind of news had come through, and caused Bigglesworth distress. Erich could not hear their words, but whatever Lacey said, it seemed to give Bigglesworth some little bit of animation. Then they both raised their mugs as if in toast, and returned inside, heading in the direction of the canteen.
This time Erich did not feel any particular satisfaction at having eluded their notice. Bigglesworth did not look as if he would have noticed if Erich had strolled over to where they were sitting and started playing the violin. Instead, finishing his sandwiches and tea without tasting them, he went back into the archives before his lunch break was over. Whatever news that had evinced this reaction from Bigglesworth, he needed to know.
Finding the file copies of reports circulated today to the Special Air Police was the work of ten minutes. He skimmed through them, and nearly dropped them at the sight of his own name in neat typewritten text, one of several in a list. He was so stunned by this that it took him a minute to parse the meaning of the document. It was a report of his death.
A shiver went over him, someone walked over my grave, the English said. It was an excellent development, he informed himself sternly. If the British authorities no longer sought him, he would be far safer in the future. He would no longer turn around and discover that Bigglesworth was on his trail again. This same falsehood had sheltered him for decades, before he had put an end to it by telephoning Bigglesworth. But that time, it had been Bigglesworth who had unmasked him, who had shot him down as he escaped, the story had been worthy of them both. This--some unmarked desert grave following a sordid job and an ignorant boss who had dismissed his warnings--was an ignominious ending for him even in fiction. When he was killed in truth, he wanted it to be in a worthy fight, against an enemy he could respect.
He had photographed all the documents he needed to, now. He took a photograph of this one too, for his own purposes. His job was done, there was no need to stay here in Scotland Yard another minute longer.
Bigglesworth's grieving face floated in his mind's eye, impossible to believe, equally impossible to forget. He sat at a typewriter, took a sheet of the office's headed paper and typed two sentences, then folded it. The camera with its precious films were safely in his breast pocket. Bigglesworth had been keeping the report of his death in his breast pocket, said an unwanted voice at the back of his mind. He strode out of the archives and up the stairs past the canteen. Bigglesworth and Lacey were in there, and Lord Lissie too, sitting around a table together, and Bigglesworth still wore that disturbing look of grief, only a little relieved by his friends. He carried on past the canteen, past the exit too, up the stairs two at a time exactly as Bigglesworth had climbed them this morning, and went to the office marked Special Air Police and knocked briskly.
Hebblethwaite's distinctive accent--one Erich could not replicate--called out, "Come in!"
The rush of adrenaline that went through his body as he entered seemed to fill him to the tips of his fingers. Erich went in casually, his walk easy as if he were not forcing himself not to limp, and said in his best English accent, "A message for DI Bigglesworth. Eyes only."
Hebblethwaite barely glanced at him. "He's at lunch, you can leave it on his desk."
The room was filled with the scent of Bigglesworth's cigarettes, mingled with leather and aviation fuel. Erich crossed to the indicated desk, noting the neatly squared-off stacks of paper, the used ashtray, the blotter pulled correctly over the open documents. He set his note on top, turned, and went out to a brief, "Thanks," from Hebblethwaite.
That afternoon he processed the film and left the photographs at the designated drop point, then returned to sit in the window of a pub half a street down from Scotland Yard, on the route back to Mayfair. A little before six, he saw a slim energetic figure leaving the offices, striding along briskly with his head high and a faint smile on his lips.
no subject
being sadhaving the wrong idea for too long!This implies that EvS was around in England when Biggles got the news and got to see his reaction firsthand... oh no I have to write this now:
The surge of energy and confidence that followed a victorious brush with death was dangerous, Erich knew. It was no good managing to be half a mile away driving an Algerian police jeep when the rest of the mercenaries were being put in the bag or worse, if he got himself arrested three days later for burgling Scotland Yard's offices.
But the new job he had taken required his presence in England, and his fluent English and knack for disguise were among the skills by which he made his living. And if he thought he might also enjoy the opportunity to get something past a certain Air Police inspector, that was nobody's business but his own.
As it happened, on the first day of his temporary assignment as a Scotland Yard archivist, the Special Air Police were absent on a job. He was not able to finish the work in a single day, and arrived early the following morning--and found himself entering the building only a few paces behind a slim, swift-moving figure. He did not dare react: he was just another office worker today, likely invisible to such exalted souls as DI Bigglesworth, unless he did something foolish like suddenly duck and bolt away at the sight of him. Instead he watched Bigglesworth stride into the building, greeting the doorman by name and with a few cheery words, and take the stairs up to his offices two at a time without once looking back.
The exhilaration that filled Erich at his own success at evading Bigglesworth here, on his own home turf, buoyed him up all morning as he dutifully filed reports and took careful photographs with a miniature camera of certain ones requested by his employer. At lunch he took the cheese and pickle sandwiches that fit his persona to the courtyard to eat, washed down with a mug of ordinary English tea from the canteen: the bread was in no way what he would have chosen, but he'd dined on worse. He sat on the far side of the courtyard, back to a solid wall, partly shielded by a bay tree growing in a pot at the side of the bench. It was a fine day and he was still filled with pleasure at his success when two men entered the courtyard bearing mugs of tea.
Bigglesworth looked like he'd aged ten years during the morning: his step was heavy, his posture slumped. The autumn sun still beaming down on them seemed like an insult: there should have been a crack of thunder, a bitter wind and a downpour. Lacey was with him, shepherding him towards a bench with anxious care. Erich's first thought was that one of the others must have died or been terribly injured, but Lacey's demeanour disabused him of that idea. Whatever sorrow weighed on Bigglesworth, Lacey did not share it.
They were looking at a piece of paper that Bigglesworth had been holding in his breast pocket. Erich recognised the shape of it even from his vantage point: he'd spent all yesterday filing similar documents. Some kind of news had come through, and caused Bigglesworth distress. Erich could not hear their words, but whatever Lacey said, it seemed to give Bigglesworth some little bit of animation. Then they both raised their mugs as if in toast, and returned inside, heading in the direction of the canteen.
This time Erich did not feel any particular satisfaction at having eluded their notice. Bigglesworth did not look as if he would have noticed if Erich had strolled over to where they were sitting and started playing the violin. Instead, finishing his sandwiches and tea without tasting them, he went back into the archives before his lunch break was over. Whatever news that had evinced this reaction from Bigglesworth, he needed to know.
Finding the file copies of reports circulated today to the Special Air Police was the work of ten minutes. He skimmed through them, and nearly dropped them at the sight of his own name in neat typewritten text, one of several in a list. He was so stunned by this that it took him a minute to parse the meaning of the document. It was a report of his death.
A shiver went over him, someone walked over my grave, the English said. It was an excellent development, he informed himself sternly. If the British authorities no longer sought him, he would be far safer in the future. He would no longer turn around and discover that Bigglesworth was on his trail again. This same falsehood had sheltered him for decades, before he had put an end to it by telephoning Bigglesworth. But that time, it had been Bigglesworth who had unmasked him, who had shot him down as he escaped, the story had been worthy of them both. This--some unmarked desert grave following a sordid job and an ignorant boss who had dismissed his warnings--was an ignominious ending for him even in fiction. When he was killed in truth, he wanted it to be in a worthy fight, against an enemy he could respect.
He had photographed all the documents he needed to, now. He took a photograph of this one too, for his own purposes. His job was done, there was no need to stay here in Scotland Yard another minute longer.
Bigglesworth's grieving face floated in his mind's eye, impossible to believe, equally impossible to forget. He sat at a typewriter, took a sheet of the office's headed paper and typed two sentences, then folded it. The camera with its precious films were safely in his breast pocket. Bigglesworth had been keeping the report of his death in his breast pocket, said an unwanted voice at the back of his mind. He strode out of the archives and up the stairs past the canteen. Bigglesworth and Lacey were in there, and Lord Lissie too, sitting around a table together, and Bigglesworth still wore that disturbing look of grief, only a little relieved by his friends. He carried on past the canteen, past the exit too, up the stairs two at a time exactly as Bigglesworth had climbed them this morning, and went to the office marked Special Air Police and knocked briskly.
Hebblethwaite's distinctive accent--one Erich could not replicate--called out, "Come in!"
The rush of adrenaline that went through his body as he entered seemed to fill him to the tips of his fingers. Erich went in casually, his walk easy as if he were not forcing himself not to limp, and said in his best English accent, "A message for DI Bigglesworth. Eyes only."
Hebblethwaite barely glanced at him. "He's at lunch, you can leave it on his desk."
The room was filled with the scent of Bigglesworth's cigarettes, mingled with leather and aviation fuel. Erich crossed to the indicated desk, noting the neatly squared-off stacks of paper, the used ashtray, the blotter pulled correctly over the open documents. He set his note on top, turned, and went out to a brief, "Thanks," from Hebblethwaite.
That afternoon he processed the film and left the photographs at the designated drop point, then returned to sit in the window of a pub half a street down from Scotland Yard, on the route back to Mayfair. A little before six, he saw a slim energetic figure leaving the offices, striding along briskly with his head high and a faint smile on his lips.