29 Biggles Fails to Return

by Captain W E Johns

  ‘It doesn’t matter two hoots where they’re going,’

  observed Biggles thoughtful y. ‘But if they’re pushing off to-morrow it means that as far as we’re concerned to-night’s the night. What time are they going?’

  ‘I couldn’t find out. There seems to be some doubt about it.’

  ‘No matter. They’l hardly be likely to move before daylight, and by that time our show wil be over, one way or the other. Did you hear of any particular reason why they stopped here?’

  ‘François thinks it was something to do with fuel—

  at least he heard them talking about oil and petrol.’

  ‘Thanks, Bertie. You’ve done a good job. Now let us see how the show lines up. We’ve got quite a large party. Mario has decided to come with us, so that wil make nine al told. As far as the aircraft is concerned, that’s al right; a dozen people could pack into one of those Savoias. Our big difficulty wil be Henri. He’l have to be carried. Al the same, with reasonable luck I think we ought to be able to pul this off. The Italians are an easy-going lot—thank goodness.’

  Biggles thought for a little while, gazing at the floor.

  Then he looked up. ‘Al right,’ he resumed. ‘Listen careful y, everybody. This is my scheme, and success, as usual, wil depend on perfect timing. The moon is due to show just before three, so our best time for action wil be a trifle before that. What I mean is, we should have darkness when we want it, and afterwards, when a spot of light would be useful, we shal have the moon.’

  ‘We’re stil wearing Italian uniforms, don’t forget,’

  interposed Ginger. ‘How does that work in?’

  ‘So much the better for the scheme I have in mind.

  Our two most useful assets are Mario’s ambulance and François’ boat. I’m adapting the show to use them both. Mario tel s me he is al right for petrol.

  This is my idea, bearing in mind that we shal need the two fittest men in the party—that’s you, Algy, and Bertie—to carry Henri. At twelve midnight Mario wil drive Ginger and me to just this side of Monaco, to within reasonable walking distance of the harbour. It would be dangerous for him to go right into the town in case they are on the look-out for him. Our job wil be to get the aircraft. Mario wil return to Castil on, where Algy wil be in charge. The whole party wil get into the ambulance, which wil then proceed to Cap Martin. Run along to the end of the cape and take cover in the trees, where the party wil wait until François arrives with the boat. I shal arrange that with him. I gather he knows al about us, Bertie?

  Remember to tel me just where he lives.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he knows al about you,’ put in Bertie.

  ‘Good. I shal ask him to try to be at the point of Cap Martin at two-thirty precisely. When he arrives, Algy’s party wil abandon the ambulance and go to the boat, taking with them Mario’s spare can of petrol, and my uniform, which I shal need. Is that clear so far?’

  ‘Perfectly clear,’ confirmed Algy.

  ‘The point about the can of petrol is this,’ went on Biggles. ‘François wil come in under sail, and if he is al right for time he may not need the petrol. On the other hand, if there is a delay, the petrol can be used to speed things up. Put it in the tank, anyway. The boat wil then proceed to a point about two miles off the tip of Cap Martin, where, if we are not there, it wil wait. The time is now, shal we say, a few minutes to three, and the moon wil be coming up. We shal aim to get away with the Savoia in order to arrive at the same time. In short, the rendezvous is two miles off Cap Martin at three o’clock. You’l probably have to use the engine to come alongside—if we try to come to you we may swamp you. Both parties wil have to make every possible effort to be on time. I think that’s al —except if the aircraft doesn’t show up by that’s al —except if the aircraft doesn’t show up by three-fifteen you’l know we’ve come unstuck, in which case François wil take you back to Cap Martin, from where Mario wil drive you to Castil on.

  That’s only in the event of failure. Should it happen, Algy, in charge of the party, wil have to devise some other means of getting home. Is that al absolutely clear?’

  ‘Yes, it seems perfectly straightforward,’ agreed Algy. ‘You’ve landed yourself, as usual, with the dirty end of the stick. Have you any idea of how you are going to get hold of this aircraft?’

  ‘More or less. We shal simply swim out to it, cut the cable and start up. Whether we taxi to the rendezvous, or take off, wil depend on the circumstances—it’s only five or six miles from the harbour to Cap Martin. Looking at the thing now, there appears to be nothing to prevent anyone from doing that, but as a result of past experience we know jol y wel that some snag usual y turns up to upset things. Anyway, that’s the scheme, and we shal stick to it as long as nothing occurs to bust it up.’

  ‘Assuming that al goes according to plan, and we get the machine, where do you propose to make for?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘I shal try to run straight through to England.

  Natural y, that wil depend on how much fuel we find in the tanks, and the wind, if any. I’ve left the wind out of my calculations because the weather seems settled.’

  ‘What about Lucil e?’ asked Ginger. ‘I’ve got very fond of that little moke.’

  ‘Algy can turn her loose; she’l browse on these hil s til someone picks her up. Maybe she’l find her way home. Any more questions?’

  Nobody answered, so the plan, as outlined, was accepted. It was now late in the afternoon. The others were cal ed up from the cel ar and informed of the decision.

  The princess smiled. ‘But this is most romantic.

  My ancestors would be chuckling in their graves if they knew. Until recent times, for hundreds of years this sort of thing went on up and down the coast, fighting, rescues, princes at war with each other, and the Saracens making raids everywhere.’ The princess sighed. ‘What days they were.’

  ‘We’re not doing so badly ourselves,’ Ginger pointed out, glancing at Jeanette.

  The princess intercepted the glance and smiled. ‘I think you are doing very wel ,’ she observed. ‘When the war is over you must visit my home near Palermo

  —that is if Jeanette wil let you. The Sicilian girls are very good looking.’

  Jeanette blushed. The princess laughed. Ginger grinned sheepishly. Bertie shook his head sadly.

  Mario produced some food. Nobody asked where he had got it from, but it was a welcome diversion.

  After that they sat and discussed the plan in al its aspects while the sun went down in a blaze of gold and crimson behind the long arm of Cap d’Antibes, far to the west. Princess Marietta went back to the cel ar and returned to say that Henri seemed slightly better. His mother was stil with him.

  ‘Which reminds me,’ said Algy, addressing Biggles. ‘Do you real y feel up to this show to-night?

  You haven’t been on your feet very long.’

  ‘I couldn’t do it if there was likely to be much violent exercise,’ admitted Biggles. ‘But as far as one can foresee, that isn’t likely to arise. Bar accidents, I should be okay.’

  Algy did not pursue the subject, and after that there was little to do except wait for the time to pass until zero hour.

  Just before midnight, after a handshake al round, Biggles, Ginger and Mario, in accordance with the arrangement, went to the ambulance which, not without difficulty, was coaxed back to the road. At Biggles’ suggestion they al sat on the front seat, where their uniforms would be seen if they were stopped, and so made their way, slowly, for the night was dark, to Mentone. Turning right, Mario went on to the outskirts of Monte Carlo, the ambulance taking its place in a considerable convoy going in the same direction. At a convenient spot it stopped. Biggles and Ginger got out. Mario turned the car and disappeared up the road on the return journey.

  Biggles and Ginger walked on towards the harbour.

  There were a number of Italian military cars, guns and tanks, parked beside the road, and a fair number of soldiers were moving about, but none had anything to
say to the two officers who walked along as though they were out for a strol before turning in.

  Without once being accosted they reached the harbour, where a few soldiers, presumably late arrivals, were having a midnight bathe. In a few arrivals, were having a midnight bathe. In a few minutes they were outside François’ little house, knocking on the door.

  It was opened after a short delay by the old boatman in his nightshirt. He looked startled when he saw his uniformed visitors, but Biggles soon put him at ease by explaining who they were. ‘May we come in?’ he concluded.

  ‘ Oui, oui, messieurs, enter,’ invited François cordial y.

  They went in and closed the door.

  In the tiny parlour Biggles explained why they had come to see him. ‘I know that you wil be wil ing to help us, because by helping us you wil be helping France,’ he went on. As he spoke Biggles took from his pocket his rol of French notes, and in spite of François’ protests he pressed it into his hand. ‘I can’t take the money with me,’ he pointed out. ‘I shal have no means of carrying it in the water; if I tried it would only get wet, and spoiled.’

  François demurred, but in the end accepted the money—a big sum for a man in his position.

  Biggles then went on to describe just what he wanted him to do, that under the pretence of looking at his lobster pots he should sail along to Cap Martin, pick up the refugees, and take them to the rendezvous. Without hesitation François expressed his wil ingness to do this. He went quietly upstairs and returned ful y dressed.

  ‘I wil go now,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you had better start right away to be on the safe side,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Whatever happens, you must be at Cap Martin by half-past two.’ He looked at his watch. ‘You should manage it; there isn’t much breeze, but you’ve got nearly two hours.’

  ‘If the wind goes I use my oars,’ said François.

  ‘What about your wife? Is she awake? Does she know about this? I ask because we shal have to stay here for a while.’

  ‘No, she sleeps,’ answered François. ‘It is better not to tel her. And so you wil remain here?’

  ‘Yes, if you don’t mind,’ replied Biggles. ‘We had to come early in order to explain everything and give you a chance to get Cap Martin. We wil just sit here quietly.’

  ‘ C’est bon. Au revoir, messieurs .’ François departed.

  ‘Now we’ve got to kil time,’ Biggles told Ginger, standing where, through the open window, he could watch the harbour. It was too dark to see very much, but splashing indicated that some of the troops were stil bathing. ‘I hope they’l stay there,’ went on Biggles, referring to the bathers. ‘It wil be supposed that we are in the party when we take to the water if we are seen. By the way, I propose to take the C.O.’s machine—it wil probably be the best of the bunch. It means a swim of about a hundred yards.

  We’l land on the buoy, and pul the machine up to it.’

  ‘What about these uniforms?’

  ‘I was thinking about that. It’s an awkward business swimming in clothes. I shan’t need mine after I leave here because Algy is bringing my own uniform along. I can put it on later in the machine.

  What about you? If you leave your Italian outfit here, where are you going to wear later on?’ Biggles smiled. ‘You’l find it a bit parky, flying in your birthday suit!’

  ‘You don’t suppose I’m going to join the party looking like Adam, do you?’ answered Ginger coldly.

  ‘There are ladies, don’t forget. I’l dump my tunic, but stick to the slacks, also my shirt. We shal have to abandon our shoes.’

  Nothing more was said for a little while. Then Biggles remarked, ‘This waiting is a tedious business, but it couldn’t be avoided. Mario had to get back and we had to give François time to do his stuff.’

  Not until twenty to three did Biggles move. Then he stripped off his uniform, retaining only his vest, pants and belt. Through the belt he pushed his automatic, and a sheathed stiletto which he took from his pocket.

  ‘Where on earth did you get that knife?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Borrowed it from Mario.’

  ‘What’s the idea? Are you going to start stabbing people?’

  ‘Not yet. It’s to cut the mooring rope. We can’t waste time untying wet knots. Got your gun?’

  ‘It’s in my trousers pocket. My torch is in the other if you need it.’ As he spoke Ginger discarded his tunic and shoes.

  ‘Al right. Let’s get along,’ proposed Biggles.

  ‘We’d better take these uniforms with us and dump them in the drink; it won’t do to leave them here in case there’s a row, and a search, in which case case there’s a row, and a search, in which case François would get it in the neck.’

  Picking up the now unwanted clothes, they went out and closed the door softly behind them. One or two swimmers stil lingered on the quay, otherwise the harbour was quiet. The water lay placid under the stars. Some distance out the silhouettes of the aircraft could just be seen, looking like prehistoric monsters tethered to rocks. Faintly across the water strains of music came from the customs house, where a radio was playing a waltz. Vague shadows could be seen moving against the light of a half-open door.

  Biggles lowered himself gently into the water and jettisoned his uniform. Ginger did the same. Ripples spread from the spot, reflecting the cool light of the stars.

  Without a word, using a steady breast stroke, they began swimming towards their objective.

  Chapter 18

  How the Rendezvous Was Kept

  Nothing of interest occurred during the short swim, which was carried out with greater regard for quiet than for speed. Biggles and Ginger breasted the water together, leaving an ever-widening V to mark their passage across the tranquil face of the harbour.

  A silvery flush spreading upwards from beyond the distant Italian alps proclaiming the approach of the moon; reflected in the water, it caressed the ripples as they receded diagonal y on either hand to lap at last against the quay.

  Reaching their objective, they pul ed themselves up on the rusty buoy to rest for a moment to listen, and wring the brine from their hair and eyes. Then Biggles grasped the mooring rope, and bracing himself, drew the big aircraft gently towards him. The rope coming within his reach, Ginger also pul ed, hand over hand, until the cabin was level with the buoy.

  ‘That’s it, hold her,’ breathed Biggles, and reached for the door.

  As he did so a medley of sounds occurred on the shore. They began with a shout, which was fol owed by a number of short blasts on a whistle. Footsteps could be heard, running. Someone rapped out orders in brittle Italian.

  Ginger looked with askance at Biggles. He could think of only one reason for the alarm—that they had been seen. ‘They’ve spotted us,’ he said in a low voice.

  Biggles looked around and then focussed his attention on the customs-house, where a number of men could be seen assembling as if for a parade.

  Lights appeared, both moving and stationary.

  ‘No, it isn’t us,’ he said. ‘Those fel ows are not carrying rifles. It must be some sort of guard turn-out.

  Listen.’

  Someone appeared to be shouting names. An order was given. The party turned to the right.

  Another order, and the men began marching along the Quai de Plaisance. By this time sounds of activity could also be heard on the Quai de Commerce opposite.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ muttered Ginger. ‘What is there on the Quai de Commerce?’

  ‘Coal bunkers and gas-works mostly. It’s the commercial side of the port. I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think it has anything to do with us. Let’s keep going. Give me your torch.’

  Biggles opened the door of the aircraft and stepped inside. He switched on the torch, and deflecting the beam downwards, started to make a survey of the cabin. The light moved only a short way, then stopped.

  Ginger, entering the aircraft behind Biggles, saw a sight both unexpected and disconcerting. Using an It
alian Air Force tunic as a pil ow, on a bunk lay a man, dressed in trousers and a shirt. He was awake.

  He had half raised himself on his elbow and was blinking into the glare. He had obviously been sleeping; awakened by the door being opened, he looked dazed at what must have seemed a strange intrusion. Suddenly he appeared to realize that he was in danger, for, letting out a yel , he started to get off the bunk.

  Two swift strides took Biggles to him, gun in hand, whereupon the man, evidently a member of the crew, sat down again, stiff with fright.

  Biggles tried him first in French, then in English, but the man apparently knew neither language. With a ghost of a smile he murmured to Ginger, ‘Snag number one.’

  ‘What are you going to do with him?’

  ‘You keep an eye on him while I have a look at the cockpit,’ answered Biggles. ‘I shan’t be a minute.’

  He went forward.

  Ginger made signs to the Italian, by tapping his gun, that he would be wise to remain quiet. He could hear someone shouting, but who it was and what it was about he did not know.

  Presently Biggles came back. ‘I think everything’s al right,’ he said. ‘We’d better get rid of this chap—

  we don’t want any more passengers.’ He looked at the Italian and indicated the door.

  The man needed no second invitation. He was out like a shot, making for the shore at a fast overarm stroke. Biggles cut the cable. As he came back into the cabin and closed the door a searchlight was switched on. The beam did not fal on the aircraft, but swept across the water near the harbour mouth.

  ‘It was that fel ow shouting that did it,’ muttered Ginger savagely.

  ‘Possibly,’ answered Biggles calmly. ‘Come on, let’s get away.’ They went through to the cockpit and took their places.