by W E Johns
“It’s Bertie that worries me,” conceded Biggles, moodily. “As you say, if he doesn’t show up we shall have to go down, but it would be asking for trouble to go near those ships in broad daylight. It might be done after dark, as it soon will be. Give me a couple of minutes to think about it. I’ve left the glasses with Eddie. He’s watching.” Biggles lit a cigarette.
He finished it in a thoughtful mood and lit another. Ginger, aware that he was faced by a big decision, did not interrupt.
By the time the end of the second cigarette had been stubbed on a boulder the sun had set and the curtain of night was being drawn across the landscape, with a moon, nearly full, climbing out of the sea. Biggles rose purposefully. “We’ll go down,” he said. “As you say, we shan’t get anywhere sitting here; and if we’re going we might as well make a start while the moon is up to give us some light to see what we’re doing. Without it we’d have a job to find our way back to the machine. Let’s join Eddie.”
“What about Marcel?”
“He’ll have to wait.”
Together they walked to the spot where Eddie was lying in some wild lavender shrubs watching the harbour below, now sprinkled with lights.
“You’ve been a time,” grumbled Eddie.
“I had to do some thinking before taking a step that might start a war,” answered Biggles. “Anything doing?”
“Not a thing, except I saw some lights moving up the hillside as if they were coming this way. What are we going to do?”
“Go down, and for a start find out where that second ship has come from.”
“Okay. I’m all for it.”
“We can keep together now. To lose sight of each other wouldn’t help matters.”
They set off, in single file with Biggles leading, still following a wandering goat track that now showed more signs of being in regular use.
They had not gone far and were still perhaps half a mile from the village when from somewhere between them and the harbour a shot was fired. It was followed by shouts. Biggles stopped. “That sounds as if it might be something to do with Bertie,” he said, grimly. “We’ll go on as far as the main track that appeared to lead to those houses on the hillside and then wait a bit to see if there’s any indication of what that shot was about. We’re in no desperate hurry.”
In point of fact they didn’t quite reach the place Biggles had suggested. They were moving towards it, when from somewhere on the hillside below them, not far away, came the clatter of displaced stones as if caused by a man in haste. Presently his heavy breathing could be heard, and with it once in a while a curious whimpering moan.
Biggles drew his companions into the wild shrubs which covered the hill and everywhere lined the track. “Stand quite still,” he ordered. “He’s coming this way.”
Very soon the man appeared, running, stumbling and sometimes falling, gasping for breath and occasionally moaning softly. When only a few yards away he took a hard fall. It produced a grunt of dismay. Panting, he dragged himself to the side of the track, and getting into a sitting position stared wildly in the direction from which he had come. He was obviously distraught. His face, ghastly in the bright moonlight, could be seen clearly.
“Gee whizz! It’s Alfondez,” breathed Eddie. “What’s his game?”
“It’s no game,” whispered Biggles. “He’s in a bad way. That shot we heard may have been fired at him. If so he must have fallen out with the gang. That should put him on our side. I’m going to speak to him.”
“Are you nuts?” Eddie’s voice was almost a squeak.
“Could be, but sometimes being nutty has won me a trick,” answered Biggles, softly. “Alfondez is scared stiff about something. I’d say he’s in a state to talk to anyone. This may be our chance to find out what’s happening below. I’ll gamble on it. We’ve nothing to lose.”
So saying Biggles stepped out and took the few paces necessary to reach the sitting man. Alfondez must have heard him, for at the last moment he spun round with a stifled cry of terror.
“What’s your trouble?” asked Biggles quietly.
The man’s action alone would have revealed this. He threw himself at Biggles’ feet and clawed at them in an agony of terror. “Help me,” he choked. “Help me. They’re going to kill me.”
“Who’s going to kill you?”
“The Colonel. I’ve been shot. Look! Blood! Oh! Please help me.”
Never had Ginger seen a man in the grip of such abject fear; eyes wild, shaking as if struck with ague, incoherent, he was completely beside himself. Such stark cowardice hardly seemed possible.
“Do you know who I am?” asked Biggles.
“No.” With jaw sagging Alfondez stared at Biggles’ face. “Yes. I’ve seen you somewhere. It doesn’t matter. Will you save me?”
Biggles made no effort to hide his contempt. “Why should I save you?”
“You’re British. You wouldn’t see a man murdered.”
“That, coming from you, is pretty rich,” sneered Biggles. He listened, staring down the track. There wasn’t a sound. Turning back to Alfondez he went on: “Where are you wounded?”
“My hand. Look.”
Biggles glanced at what was no more than a graze and thrust the hand away. “That won’t kill you. Forget it. Why were you shot at?”
“They said I was a squealer.”
“Who said?”
“An Englishman we picked up out of the sea. Called himself a lord.”
Biggles seized Alfondez by the front of his collar and dragged him to his feet. “Pull yourself together and answer my questions or I’ll take you back down the hill, you miserable rat.”
“Yes. Yes.” Alfondez passed a hand over a sweating face. “I’ll tell you anything,” he offered eagerly, desperately.
“What happened after you picked up this Englishman?”
“Nothing. The skipper of the ship I was on—”
“The Saphos?”
“Yes. He radioed to the Colonel.”
“Who was here?”
“Yes. He lives here.”
“Go on.”
“When we arrived here the Englishman was taken to the Colonel.”
“Who is this Colonel you’re talking about?”
“Nicolinos.”
“Is he the boss here?”
“Yes.”
“Go on. Then what happened?”
“By that time Nicolinos knew the Englishman was a spy.”
Biggles stared. “How did he find that out?”
“Nicolinos had radioed his agent in London to find out all about this man who called himself Lord Lissie. The message came back it was true he was a lord but he was also a cop at Scotland Yard.”
“I see. Carry on.”
“Nicolinos asked Lissie how he had learnt about his hideout here. Someone must have told him, he said. Who was it? Lissie said I told him. That was a lie. I never told—”
“Just a minute. How do you know about all this?”
“The man who took Lissie before Nicolinos was my brother Ali. He was there all the time. He heard everything. He was sent to fetch me and I knew what that meant.”
“What did it mean?”
“I’d be shot. Nicolinos’ fear always has been a squealer. He’d have shot me himself. I’ve seen him kill—”
“I gather that what happened was this. When your brother was sent to find you he tipped you off.”
“Yes. Of course he told me. He’s my twin brother.”
“And knowing that you’d been put on the spot you bolted.”
“Of course I bolted. What else could I do? Let myself be shot? They came after me but I ran fast and got away. That’s the truth, as Allah is my judge. Please help me. I’ll tell you everything. This is an island. They’ll hunt me and catch me. I can’t get away.”
“How do you suppose I can help you?”
“Take me with you?”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Here I’m doomed.”
Biggl
es turned to the others. “I’d say he’s telling the truth, but there’s something about it I don’t understand. I can’t see Bertie telling this colonel fellow that Alfondez had spilt the beans. That isn’t like him. Why should he? Alfondez’ brother must have got it wrong—unless it was a deliberate double-cross.” He turned back to Alfondez, who was still on the verge of hysteria. “Where is Lord Lissie now?”
“Locked up in the monastery.”
“Where?” Biggles looked incredulous.
“The old monastery where the Colonel lives.”
“What about the monks?”
“They left years ago. The place is half in ruins. Lissie has until tomorrow to tell Nicolas’s everything—what he knows and how the police—”
“And if he doesn’t talk?”
“They’ll shoot him like a dog whether he talks or not.”
“Is this monastery where the heroin is made?”
Alfondez looked up. “You know about that?”
“Of course. Is it?”
“Yes. They make it there. You see, I’m telling you everything. Will you save me? They’ll kill me if—”
“You’ve said that before. What’s that big ship doing in the harbour?”
“It brings the opium.”
“From where?”
“China.”
“And the Saphos distributes the finished dope?”
“Yes. The Russian ship—that’s the big one—goes on to Odessa.”
“Does the captain of the Saphos know what he’s carrying?”
“Of course. He’s employed for that purpose. The Saphos belongs to him. He’s always been a smuggler.”
“Who employs him?”
“I don’t know. It doesn’t do to ask questions.”
Biggles turned to Eddie. “You weren’t far wrong.” Back to Alfondez he said: “Where exactly is this monastery?”
Alfondez pointed diagonally down the hillside. “There. You can’t see it because of the trees.”
“How far?”
“Perhaps one mile by the way I know.”
“Good. You can take us there. Lead on.”
Alfondez gasped. He looked stricken. “Me go? No—no. Not that. Not for all the money in the world would I go near that place.”
“In that case you may stay here. When I see Nicolinos I’ll tell him where you are.”
“But he will kill me.”
“I hope he does,” retorted Biggles, mercilessly. “It’s time someone did.”
“If I show you the way to the monastery will you take me away with you when you go?”
“I’m going to France. The French police will be delighted to see you.”
“Why?”
“You murdered Bronnitz, didn’t you?”
“That was under orders. If I don’t obey orders I die.”
“From what I can see of it you’re likely to die anyway. You can please yourself whether you stay here to be shot or go to France and face the guillotine.”
To Ginger’s disgust Alfondez sank down and burst into tears. “I don’t want to die,” he moaned.
“For Pete’s sake,” muttered Eddie, disgustedly. “What a specimen. Come on, Biggles. If they’re all like this what say we go down and clean the whole place up? I guess it should be easy.”
“Before doing anything else we must get Bertie out.”
“Sure. We’ll do that, pronto.”
Biggles looked down at Alfondez. “Well, have you made up your mind? Do you stay here or are you coming with us?”
Alfondez, still sobbing, got up like a man resigned to the worst. “I will show you the way to the monastery,” he said. “I know you won’t let them kill me,” he added, hopefully.
“Quit bleating, brother, or they may hear you,” grated Eddie.
The sobbing ended abruptly.
“Lead on,” ordered Biggles. “Any nonsense and I’ll shoot you myself.”
CHAPTER XII
THE MONASTERY
THEY set off down the rather steep, stony track, Alfondez, still choking back an occasional sob, leading the way. That he knew the locality well was clear from the confidence with which he crossed several intersecting tracks without hesitation and made detours round the isolated cottages to which presumably they led.
“Do the people who live in these houses work for Nicolinos?” asked Biggles, after passing one.
“They don’t want to but some have to.”
“Why, if they don’t want to?”
“They are afraid of him. He does what he likes here.”
“Do they know what’s going on?”
“I don’t think so. They are ignorant peasants who think only of their goats and olives for the making of oil which they sell in the village.”
The way now led through a grove of olives, their slim grey leaves silvery in the moonlight. Most of the trees were obviously of great age, their trunks warped and twisted into grotesque shapes by the relentless hand of time. Not a few had fallen, creating an impression of petrified prehistoric monsters.
“Say, these trees weren’t planted yesterday,” observed Eddie, during a brief pause.
“Nor the day before,” answered Biggles, dryly. “They could have been planted by Greek or Roman colonists anything up to two thousand years ago. Anyway, that’s what they’ll tell you on most of the Mediterranean islands where you’ll find plenty like this. Carry on, Alfondez. Why have we stopped?”
“We get close. I am afraid.”
The Egyptian, now moving more cautiously, crept forward to a slope of fallen boulders that had once been the wall of a terrace, and there, still some distance below, were the scattered lights that marked the position of the little harbour. Also below but much nearer rose the extensive pile of a tall building, shining almost white where the moon struck it and coal-black on the nearer side. A part of what had once been a bell tower had fallen and much of the rest appeared to be in ruins. Not a light showed anywhere. A few sounds came from the distant village but as far as the monastery was concerned the hand of death might have fallen on it. Rows of sombre cypresses thrust their tapering spires into the sky.
“What do you make o’ that?” asked Eddie. “It looks to be fallen down.”
“It probably is,” returned Biggles. “It has been there, or part of it has, for a long time. That may be why the religious order that occupied the place moved out. From those pillars at the end I’d say that originally there was a Greek temple here. The main building was put up later on the same site—much later. Those narrow windows with pointed arches are Gothic—say, the Middle Ages.”
“There doesn’t seem to be anyone about. You sure this chicken-livered polecat isn’t fooling us?”
“I wouldn’t think so. Why should he, knowing it wouldn’t take us long to spot it?”
“Why would Nicolinos choose a dump like this for his racket?”
“Why not? It’s off the map. A stranger wouldn’t come here once in a blue moon. It’s as quiet a spot as could be found anywhere in Europe today. But let’s get on. The place covers a lot of ground so finding Bertie isn’t going to be easy.”
“Alfondez may be able to tell us where he’s most likely to be.”
Biggles put the question to him.
The guide raised his hands, palms upward, in a gesture of helplessness. “How would I know?”
“Have you no idea?”
“I remember a prisoner was once kept in one of the cells where the monks slept.”
“You must know where Nicolinos lives.”
“That part is only to be reached from the courtyard. The entrance is on the far side, facing the village. The road ends there.”
“Is there no other way into the building?”
“I don’t know. I have never looked. Everyone uses the main entrance.”
“Where is the dope made?”
Alfondez hesitated.
“Speak up!”
“In the chapel. It is not a chapel any more,” blurted Alfondez, as if terrified
by what he was saying.
“Let’s get closer,” said Biggles.
He had started to climb down the boulders, but stopped when from somewhere not far away came the voice of a man singing. The words were in English, and to Ginger nothing had ever sounded more incongruous; for the mournful ballad was one once popular in the early days of war flying.
“Who cares to the dust returning;
Who shrinks from the sable shore;
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul shall be no more.”
“That’s Bertie,” snapped Biggles. “Come on. He must be reckoning we’re somewhere about.”
Jumping down to the next terrace, rounding fallen trees and ducking under low-hanging branches he hurried on, guided by the sound as the singer continued.
“So stand by your glasses steady,
This world is a world of lies,
A cup to the dead already
A glass for the next man who dies.”
When the building was reached the voice was coming from above, on the moonless side, where, some twelve to fourteen feet up a smooth stone wall could just be discerned a row of narrow apertures that were evidently unglazed windows.
“Bertie!” called Biggles, sharply.
“Hello, old boy,” came Bertie’s voice, cheerfully. “I was hoping you were in the offing; hence the warbling.”
“What’s stopping you from getting out?”
“Bars of iron, laddie, bars of iron. Two of ‘em, built into the stone. Can’t budge ‘em.”
“What about the door?”
“Locked. No use. Must weigh half a ton.”
“Docs Nicolinos know we’re on the island?”
“Not as far as I know. He didn’t mention it to me when we were nattering some time ago.”
“Have you any idea of how we could get you out?”
“Not a clue.”
Biggles surveyed the wall. There was not even a finger hold. “Not a hope,” he told the others. Then, to Bertie, “Why are they keeping you?”
“Nicolinos wants to know how I ran him to earth. He’s worried, I can tell you. I have an appointment with his firing squad in the morning.”
