29 Biggles Fails to Return Read online

  Contents

  1 Where is Biggles?

  2 The Reasonable Plan

  3 The Road to Monte Carlo

  4 The Writing on the Wal

  5 Bertie Meets a Friend

  6 Strange Encounters

  7 Good Samaritans

  8 Jock’s Bar

  9 The Girl in the Blue Shawl

  10 Shattering News

  11 The Cats of Castil on

  12 Bertie Picks a Lemon

  13 Pilgrimage to Peil e

  14 Au Bon Cuisine

  15 Conference at Castil on

  16 Biggles Takes Over

  17 Plan for Escape

  18 How the Rendezvous Was Kept

  19 Farewel to France

  Chapter 1

  Where is Biggles?

  Flight Lieutenant Algy Lacey, D.F.C., looked up as Flying Officer ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite entered the squadron office and saluted.

  ‘Hel o, Ginger—sit down,’ invited Algy in a dul voice.

  Ginger groped for a chair—groped because his eyes were on Algy’s face. It was pale, and wore such an expression as he had never before seen on it.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked wonderingly.

  Before Algy could answer there was an interruption from the door. It was opened, and the effeminate face of Flight Lieutenant Lord ‘Bertie’

  Lissie grinned a greeting into the room.

  ‘What cheer, how goes it, and al that?’ he murmured.

  Algy did not smile. ‘Stop fooling. Either come in or push off,’ he said curtly.

  Bertie threw a glance at Ginger and came in.

  ‘I wasn’t going to mention this to you, Bertie, but as you’re here you might as wel listen to what I have to say,’ resumed Algy.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Ginger impatiently. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I’m very much afraid that something serious has happened to Biggles.’

  There was silence while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked out ten seconds and threw them into the past.

  ‘Is this—official?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what put the idea into your head?’

  ‘This,’ answered Algy, picking up a flimsy, buff-coloured slip of paper that lay on his desk. ‘I’m promoted to Squadron Leader with effect from to-day, and . . . I am now in command of this squadron.’

  ‘Which can only mean that Biggles isn’t coming back?’ breathed Ginger.

  ‘That’s how I figure it.’

  ‘And you had no suspicion, before this order came in, that—’

  ‘Yes and no,’ broke in Algy. ‘That is to say, I was not consciously alarmed, but as soon as I read that chit I knew that I had been uneasy in my mind for some days. Now, looking back, I can remember several things which make me wonder why I wasn’t suspicious before.’

  ‘But here, I say, you know, I thought Biggles was on leave?’ put in Bertie, polishing his eyeglass briskly.

  ‘So did we al ,’ returned Algy quietly. ‘That, of course, is what we were intended to think.’

  Bertie thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Biggles isn’t the sort of chap to push off to another unit without letting us know what was in the wind,’ he declared.

  ‘Let us,’ suggested Algy, ‘consider the facts—as Biggles would say. Here they are, as I remember them, starting from the beginning. Last Thursday week Biggles had a phone cal from the Air Ministry.

  There was nothing strange about that. I was in the office at the time and I thought nothing of it. When Biggles hung up he said to me—I remember his words distinctly—“Take care of things til I get back.”

  I said “Okay.” Of course, that has happened so many times before that I supposed it was just routine.

  Biggles didn’t get back that night til after dinner. He seemed sort of preoccupied, and I said to him, “Is everything al right?” He said, “Of course—why not?”

  ‘ Algy paused to light a cigarette with fingers that were trembling slightly.

  ‘The next morning—that is, on the Friday—he surprised me by saying that he was taking the week-end off. I was surprised because, as you know, he rarely goes away. He has nowhere particular to go, and he has more than once told me that he would as soon be on the station as anywhere.’

  ‘And you think this business starts from that time?’

  remarked Ginger.

  ‘I’m sure of it. Biggles can be a pretty good actor when he likes, and there was nothing in his manner to suggest that anything serious was afoot. He tidied up his desk, and said he hoped to be back on Monday—that is, last Monday as ever was. We need have no doubt that when he said that he meant it. He hoped to be back. In other words, he would have been back last Monday if the thing—whatever it was

  —had gone off al right. When he went away he looked at me with that funny little smile of his and said, “Take care of things, old boy.” Being rather slow in the uptake, I saw nothing significant about that at the time, but now I can see that it implied he was not sure that he was coming back.’

  Ginger nodded. ‘That fits in with how he behaved with me. Normal y, he’s a most undemonstrative bloke, but he shook hands with me and gave me a spot of fatherly advice. I wondered a bit at the time, but, like you, I didn’t attach any particular importance to it.’

  ‘It wasn’t until after he’d gone,’ continued Algy,

  ‘that I discovered that he’d left the station without leaving an address or telephone number. Knowing what a stickler he is for regulations, it isn’t like him to break them himself by going off without leaving word where he could be found in case of emergency. That was the last we’ve seen of him. I didn’t think anything of it until Wednesday, when I had to ring up Forty Squadron. It was their guest night, and Biggles was to be guest of honour. He had accepted the invitation. Biggles doesn’t accept invitations and then not turn up. When he accepted that one you can bet your life he intended to be there; and the fact that he didn’t turn up, or even ring up, means that he couldn’t make it. It must have been something serious to stop him. I began to wonder what he could be up to. Yesterday I was definitely worried, but when be up to. Yesterday I was definitely worried, but when this Group order came in this morning, posting me to the command of the squadron, it hit me like a ton of bricks. To sum up, I suspect the Ministry asked Biggles to do a job, a job from which there was a good chance he wouldn’t come back. He went.

  Whatever the job was, it came unstuck. He didn’t get back. It takes a bit of swal owing, but there it is. It’s no use blinking at facts, but the shock has rather knocked me off my pins. I thought you’d better know, but don’t say anything to the others—yet.’

  Ginger spoke. ‘If the Air Ministry has given you the squadron they must know he isn’t coming back.’

  Algy nodded. ‘I’m afraid you’re right.’

  Bertie stepped into the conversation. ‘But that doesn’t make sense—if you see what I mean? If the Ministry knows that something has happened to Biggles his name would be in the current casualty list

  —kil ed, missing, prisoner, or something.’

  ‘That depends on what sort of job it was,’ argued Algy. ‘The Ministry might know the truth, but it might suit them to say nothing.’

  ‘But that isn’t good enough,’ protested Ginger hotly. ‘We can’t let Biggles fade out . . . just like that.’

  He snapped his fingers.

  ‘What can we do about it?’

  ‘There’s one man who’l know the facts.’

  ‘You mean—Air Commodore Raymond, of Intel igence?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He won’t tel us anything.’

  ‘Won’t he, by thunder!’ snorted Ginger. ‘Afte
r al the sticky shows we’ve done for him, and the risks we’ve taken for his department, he can’t treat us like this.’

  ‘Are you going to tel him that?’ asked Algy sarcastical y.

  ‘I certainly am.’

  ‘But it’s against orders to go direct to the Air Ministry—you know that.’

  ‘Orders or no orders, I’m going to the Air House,’

  declared Ginger. ‘They’re glad enough to see us when they’re stuck with something they can’t untangle; they can’t shut the door when they don’t want to see us. Oh, no, they can’t get away with that.

  I’m going to see the Air Commodore if I have to tear the place down brick by brick until I get to him. Is he a man or is he a skunk? I say, if he’s a man he’l see us, and come clean.’

  ‘You go on like this and we shal al finish under close arrest.’

  ‘Who cares?’ flaunted Ginger. ‘I want to know the truth. If Biggles has been kil ed—wel , that’s that.

  What I can’t stand is this uncertainty, this knowing nothing. Dash it, it isn’t fair on us.’

  ‘I am inclined to agree with you,’ said Algy grimly.

  ‘Ours has been no ordinary combination, and Raymond knows that as wel as anybody. Let’s go and tackle the Air Commodore. He can only throw us out.’

  ‘Here, I say, what about me?’ inquired Bertie plaintively. ‘Don’t I get a look in?’

  ‘Come with us, and we’l make a deputation of it,’

  decided Algy.

  An hour later an Air Ministry messenger was showing them into an office through a door on which was painted in white letters the words, Air Commodore R. B. Raymond, D.S.O. Air Intelligence. The Air Commodore, who knew Algy and Ginger wel , and had met Bertie, shook hands and invited them to be seated.

  ‘You know, of course, that you had no business to come here on a personal matter without an invitation?’ he chided gently, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘This is more than a personal matter, sir,’

  answered Algy. ‘It’s a matter that concerns the morale of a squadron. You’ve probably guessed what it is?’

  The Air Commodore nodded. ‘I know. I was wondering how long you would be putting two and two together. Wel , I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but there is little I can tel you.’

  ‘Do you mean you can’t or you won’t, sir?’

  demanded Ginger bluntly.

  ‘What exactly is it you want to know?’

  Algy answered: ‘Our question is, sir, where is Biggles?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ returned the Air Commodore slowly, and with obvious sincerity.

  ‘But you know where he went?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wil you tel us that?’

  ‘What useful purpose would it serve?’

  ‘We might be able to do something about it.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question.’

  ‘Do you mean—he’s been kil ed?’

  ‘Do you mean—he’s been kil ed?’

  ‘He may be. In fact, what evidence we have al points to that. But we have no official notification of it.’

  There was a brief and rather embarrassing silence. The Air Commodore gazed through the window at the blue sky, drumming on his desk with his fingers.

  ‘Knowing what we have been to each other in the past, sir, don’t you think we are entitled to some explanation?’ pressed Algy.

  ‘The matter is secret.’

  ‘So were a good many other things you’ve told us about in the past, sir, when you needed Biggles to straighten them out.’

  The Air Commodore appeared to reach a decision. He looked round. ‘Very wel ,’ said he. ‘Your argument is reasonable, and I won’t attempt to deny it. I’l tel you what I know—in the strictest confidence, of course.’

  ‘We’ve never let you down yet, sir,’ reminded Algy.

  ‘Al right. Don’t rub it in.’ The Air Commodore smiled faintly, then became serious. ‘Here are the facts. About ten days ago we received information that a very important person whom I need not name, but who I wil cal Princess X, had escaped from Italy.

  This lady is an Italian, or, rather, a Sicilian, one of those who hate Mussolini*1 and al his works. Her father, wel known before the war for his anti-Fascist views, was kil ed in what was al eged to be an accident. Actual y he was murdered. Princess X

  knew that, and she plotted against the regime.

  Mussolini’s police found out, and when Italy entered the war she was arrested. Friends—members of a secret society—inside Italy helped her to escape.

  She was to make for Marseil es, where we had made arrangements to pick her up. Unfortunately, she was pursued, and in the hope of eluding her pursuers she struck off at a tangent and eventual y reached the Principality of Monaco, in the south-east corner of France, where she knew someone, a wealthy Italian business man, a banker, whom she had befriended in the past. She thought he would give her shelter. She reached his vil a safely, and got word through to us by one of our agents who was in touch with her, giving us the address, and imploring us to rescue her. By this time the hue and cry was up, and it would have been suicidal for her to attempt up, and it would have been suicidal for her to attempt to reach Marseil es, or a neutral country – Spain, for instance – alone. We were most anxious to have her here, and we realized that if anything was to be done there was no time to lose. We decided to attempt to rescue her by air. We sent for Bigglesworth, who has had a lot of experience at this sort of thing, and asked his opinion. He offered to do the job.’

  ‘You mean, go to Monaco, pick up the princess and bring her here?’

  ‘Yes. But the job was not as easy as it sounds—

  not that it sounds easy. The difficulty did not lie so much in getting Biggles there, because he could be dropped by parachute; but to pick him up was a different matter. That meant landing an aircraft.

  There is no landing ground in Monaco itself, which is nearly al rock, and mostly built over as wel . For that matter there are very few landing grounds in the Alpes Maritimes—the department of France in which Monaco is situated. It was obviously impossible for Biggles to fly the aircraft himself, because during the period while he would be fetching the princess—

  perhaps a matter of two or three days—the machine would be discovered. So we cal ed in a man who knows every inch of the country, a man who was born there, a Monégasque*2 who is now serving with the Fighting French*3. It was decided to drop Biggles by parachute and pick him up twenty-four hours later at a place suggested by this lad, whose name, by the way, is Henri Ducoste. Ducoste suggested a level area of beach just west of Nice, about twenty miles from Monaco, a spot that in pre-war days was used for joy-riding.’

  ‘Why so far away?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Because, apparently, there is nowhere nearer.

  Monaco is a tiny place. Al told, it only covers eight square miles. Almost from the edge of the sea the cliffs rise steeply to a couple of thousand feet, and, except for a few impossible slopes, the whole principality is covered with vil as and hotels. The fashionable resort, Monte Carlo, occupies most of it.

  The actual vil age of Old Monaco, and the palace, are built on a spur of rock. There is no aerodrome. In fact, there isn’t an airport nearer than Cannes, some thirty miles to the west.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ said Ginger.

  The Air Commodore resumed. ‘Wel , Biggles went. Precisely what occurred in Monaco we don’t know; it seems unlikely that we shal ever know, but as far as we have been able to deduce from the meagre scraps of information that our agents have col ected, what happened was this. Biggles walked into a trap. The Princess was not at the vil a. She had been betrayed by her supposed friend, presumably for the big reward that had been offered, and was in custody, in the civil prison, awaiting an escort to take her back to Italy. It seems that not only did Biggles extricate himself from the trap, but almost succeeded in what must have been the most desperate enterprise of his career. He rescued the Princess f
rom the prison, and actual y used an Italian police car to make his getaway. In this car he and the Princess raced to Nice, using that formidable highway that cuts through the tops of the mountains overlooking the sea, known as the Grande Corniche.

  The car was fol owed, of course, but Biggles got to the landing ground just ahead of his pursuers.

  Ducoste was there, waiting. The moon made everything plain to see.’ The Air Commodore paused to light a cigarette.

  ‘The story now becomes tragic,’ he continued.

  ‘What I know I had from the lips of Ducoste. Biggles and the princess left the car and ran towards the aircraft, closely fol owed by the Italians. To enable you to fol ow the story closely I must tel you that the machine was an old Berline Breguet, a single-engined eight-seater formerly used by the Air France Company on their route between London and the Riviera. As a matter of detail, this particular machine was the one in which Ducoste made his escape from France. The decision to use it was his own.

  Between the cockpit and the cabin there is a bulkhead door with a smal glass window in it so that the pilot can see his passengers. I’m sorry to trouble you with these details, but, for reasons which you wil appreciate in a moment, they are important. As I have said, Biggles and the princess, closely pursued, ran towards the machine. Ducoste, who was watching from the cockpit, with his engine ticking over, saw that it was going to be a close thing. Biggles shouted to the princess to get aboard and tried to hold the Italians with his pistol. We can picture the situation—the princess near the machine, with Biggles, a few yards behind, walking backwards, fighting a rearguard action. The princess

  got aboard, whereupon Biggles yel ed to Ducoste to take off without him. Natural y, Ducoste, who does not lack courage, hesitated to do this. What I must make clear is, the princess actual y got aboard. Of that there is no doubt. Ducoste felt the machine move slightly, in the same way that one can feel a person getting into a motor-car. He looked back through the little glass window and saw the face of the princess within a few inches of his own. She appeared to be agitated, and made a signal which Ducoste took to mean that he was to take off. I may say that al this is perfectly clear in Ducoste’s mind.

  He looked out and saw Biggles making a dash for the machine; but before Biggles could reach it he fel , apparently hit by a bul et. Ducoste, from his cockpit, could do nothing to help him. By this time bul ets were hitting the machine, and in another moment they must al have been caught. In the circumstances he did the most sensible thing. He took off. Remember, there was no doubt in his mind about the princess being on board. He had actual y seen her in the machine. He made for England, and after a bad journey, during which he was several times attacked by enemy fighters, he reached his times attacked by enemy fighters, he reached his base aerodrome. Judge his consternation when he found the cabin empty. The princess was not there.