40 Biggles Works It Out

by Captain W E Johns

  Canton smiled. "Nor me. I was thinking of flying."

  "Doing what? Flying some silly old josser from one place to another? Not me. That isn't in my line. I like excitement in nice big doses."

  "Maybe I could provide that, too," said Canton, half-jokingly.

  "Now you're talking," declared Bertie.

  "Ever fly a Hurricane?"

  "Many a time, laddie—many a time. Have you got one you want taking somewhere?"

  "I know someone who has. There would be risks, of course."

  "How can you have fun without risks?" inquired Bertie.

  "And having started you'd have to go on, whether you liked it or not."

  "Why should I want to stop?"

  "The job isn't all lollipops. It might turn out to be something different from what you thought."

  "Then let's have a look at it. I shall jolly soon know." "It would mean starting right away."

  "That's how I like things. No messing about. What happened to the chap who was doing the job?"

  "He had an accident," said Canton grimly.

  "And what about the rate of pay—if you see what I mean? I hate to raise the question, laddie, but I should have to eat sometimes."

  Canton hesitated. "As a matter of fact, the final decision in this appointment doesn't rest with me. I work for the same man as you would, if you got the job. But why are we standing here? Let's go to the buffet and have a drink."

  "I say, that's jolly decent of you," asserted Bertie. "My tonsils are aching for a bath, positively clamouring for something wet."

  They went to the buffet. Nothing was said on the way. Canton appeared to be thinking.

  He ordered drinks. "Look, Smith," he said, as if he had reached a decision. "You wait here while I go and have a word with my boss on the 'phone. I'll only be a couple of minutes."

  "Nothing would move me," declared Bertie.

  He watched Canton go. His brain had not been idle, either. As soon as the man was out of sight he emptied his pockets into his handkerchief, went to the consigne and put the bundle on the counter. The woman in charge gave him a receipt. He asked for an envelope. The woman brought one. Into it he put the receipt. He addressed it quickly, to Algy at the hotel, and giving it to the woman with what small change he had left in his pockets asked her to post it. He would have written a note, but there was no time for that.

  Canton might be back at any moment. As it was, he had only just got back to the bar when Canton reappeared.

  "Okay," said Canton briskly. "You're to come with me—that's if you're still serious about the job. The boss wants a word with you. I take it you've got your flying-licence on you?"

  "No, I haven't," said Bertie.

  "He'll want proof that you can fly."

  "I'll soon give him that."

  "How?"

  "Should I be such a clueless clot as to get into an aircraft and try to get it off the ground if I couldn't fly?" "True enough," conceded Canton.

  "I hate to mention it," said Bertie casually, "but I haven't any papers on me of any sort."

  "Where's your passport?"

  "Some swipe pinched it out of my pocket, with the rest of my things, while I was having a bathe."

  Canton frowned, and for a moment looked disconcerted. "That's awkward," he muttered.

  "You seem to be in a nice mess one way and another."

  Bertie admitted freely that he was.

  "All right. Drink up and let's go," said Canton. "I've a car outside."

  Having finished the drinks, he led the way to a blue sports car and drove off in the direction of Nice. Without stopping in the city he took the Middle Corniche road towards Monaco. Before reaching the Principality, however, at Eze he turned sharply to the left, and presently, honking his horn, stopped at the gates of a private drive lined with cypresses. While the gates were being opened Bertie read, on the pillars which supported them, the name: "Villa Hirondelle."

  For a little while Canton left him sitting in the car outside the front door. Then he returned, and two or three minutes later Bertie was being ushered into the presence of the man who, judging from his bearing, and the quality of the appointments of the room, was the boss.

  Even before the man spoke Bertie was aware of a commanding personality. Men who are in a position of power, and are conscious of it, exude something. This man did. He looked at Bertie with steady, purposeful grey eyes, as a boy might look at a captured beetle. Bertie, on his part, saw a tall, heavily-built, broad-shouldered man of about sixty years of age who carried his corpulence with the dignity of those years. His face was square, and his features so ruggedly prominent that they might have been hacked out of wood. Little bags under the eyes, and jaw muscles beginning to sag, suggested a life of self-indulgence, or at any rate, a lack of physical exercise. He was immaculately dressed in a dark suit. The general impression Bertie formed was, here was a man who, in any walk of life, would have to be reckoned with. There was no clue as to his nationality. No name was mentioned. At the introduction Canton had simply referred to him as The Count.

  The Count, who was standing, invited Bertie, with a wave of the cigar he was smoking, to be seated. He himself continued to stand. Bertie knew why, for this is a minor stratagem often practised. A standing man looks down on one seated, and so tends to dominate the situation, even if all other things are equal.

  The Count opened the conversation. "I understand you are a pilot, out of work, looking for a job?" He spoke in a voice in proportion to his size, with a pronounced, though not unpleasant accent. It was the voice of an educated man.

  Bertie agreed.

  "You have no papers on you?"

  "No money?"

  "Where are you living?"

  "The Hotel de Paris, Monte Carlo."

  "How can you stay there without money?"

  "I haven't paid my bill."

  "Are your things there?"

  "What few I brought with me. I didn't expect to stay long. I came to have a fling in the casino. I knew it wouldn't be long before my luck settled things one way or the other."

  "Have you ever been in trouble with the police?" Bertie hesitated.

  "Well—er----not yet," stammered Bertie.

  "What exactly do you mean by that?" "Well—er—you see, the money I brought down to gamble with wasn't entirely my own."

  "So!" A ghost of a smile appeared for an instant on the Count's face.

  "Are you a good pilot?"

  "I survived the war."

  "Good at navigation?"

  "I can usually find my way."

  "You have flown a Hurricane, I understand?" "Yes."

  "In combat?"

  "Yes."

  "And you'd be prepared to do that again?"

  "Who am I expected to fight? I've heard nothing about a war anywhere."

  "You may not have to fight anybody. I employ a Hurricane merely as a precautionary measure to protect certain interests I have in a rather out-of-the-way place I have in Africa. Are you prepared to go there?"

  "I'll go anywhere and do anything if the pay packet makes it worth while."

  "Have you ever flown big planes?"

  "Yes—I've flown all types."

  "Good. I asked because when we know you better, your work, and your range of operations, might be extended."

  "That suits me."

  "In the matter of money you will have no cause to complain," said the Count quietly. "

  Here's something to go on with." He opened a drawer of his desk and took out a wad of French notes. All were brand new, Bertie noticed.

  "You understand that once you have taken my money you are in my employment?" went on the Count. "Naturally."

  "I dislike using threats, but I must warn you that my interests are widespread. Should you ever work against them it would be known to me at once, in which case it would be a serious matter for you."

  "That's fair enough," agreed Bertie.

  "Are you prepared to go to Africa forthwith? One of my machines will be
going very soon."

  Bette looked surprised. "Why . . . yes. But what about my things at the hotel?"

  "You needn't trouble about those. I will arrange all that. Canton is going to Africa. You will go with him. You may find the climate rather trying, but that is what I pay well for—among other things. You may not have to stay there long. I have other work for pilots besides protective patrols."

  "I think I should be told what I'm supposed to do." said Bertie.

  "That is a fair question. I have reason to suppose that someone is taking an interest in my property in Africa." The Count's calculating grey eyes found Bertie's, and held them. "It has been reported to me that a member of the French Police has been making inquiries about my business. We do not like the police—but you will have gathered that. Your work will be quite simple. The machine you will fly is fitted with guns. You will discourage visitors by air in the most effective way possible. No one will see what happens.

  "

  "I understand," said Bertie. Then he smiled. "There shouldn't be any difficulty about that."

  "I hoped you would see it in that way," replied the Count seriously. "Very well. For the time being you will consider yourself on probation. Promotion will depend on your willingness and efficiency. That's all. Don't leave the house in case I need you. Canton will show you

  the quarters here which I have put at the disposal of my pilots. I think you will find them comfortable." The Count waved a hand to show that the interview was over.

  Outside the door, Canton looked at Bertie and smiled. "You're okay," he said. "Now you'

  re in it's money for jam."

  "You're going to fly me out to Africa from here?" "From Nice."

  "In the Mosquito?"

  "Yes. Don't worry though. Without a war load she's equipped to carry enough petrol to take her to Cape Town, if necessary. Come and have a drink. The Count lays everything on in a big way."

  Wondering if he had been wise to commit himself so definitely, Bertie followed his new colleague to a lounge, where, as Canton had boasted, everything in the way of luxury had been laid on.

  Ix

  ALGY LEARNS THE ANSWERS

  ALGY returned to the South of France with a commission nearly as vague as the previous one. He had found the man minus a button; now he was to watch the house where he lived, or at any rate where he visited—the Villa Hirondelle. Aside from that, he entertained a slight hope that he might see Bertie, for in spite of Marcel's convictions he still found it hard to believe that Bertie could so quickly have been switched to the Sahara. Still, he reasoned, if he had gone there he might come back just as quickly.

  He flew to Nice Airport, where he left his machine, a brand new Auster which had just been allocated to the

  Police Service. In Nice he hired a car, a fast Renault, to drive himself. In it he went on to Eze, where, posing as a tourist, he found accommodation in the Golf Hotel. After filling up with petrol he parked the car in the extensive Place, and as the day was drawing to a close he had some food and prepared to keep his objective, the Villa Hirondelle, under observation.

  The difficulties confronting him were obvious, and, as he strolled up the road, brought a frown to his forehead. With the Alsatians on the prowl he did not feel inclined to break into the grounds, even if he found a way. He did not see how he could watch the gates in daylight without being remarked by the lodge-keeper; that is, if he remained close enough to serve any useful purpose. By watching after dark he would dare to go nearer; but then his ally, darkness, would make it difficult for him to see anything definite, such as the faces of the people who were using the villa. Everyone came, and went, by car, as was only to be expected considering the position of the house. The local tradespeople, making their deliveries, did not get past the gates, he had observed. They simply rang a bell and handed their parcels to the lodge-keeper. Not much was to be learned by posing as a tradesman, therefore; not that he seriously considered it, because while he spoke French reasonably well, his accent would give him away. He had given some thought to the black van. What did it bring? Obviously, it brought something. or took something away. Where did it come from? When, and where, did it go after it had served its purpose? This was about the only definite factor that he had to work on, and he resolved to follow it at the first opportunity.

  The opportunity came that night. He took up a position in the hedge as near to the gates as he dare risk, and there he sat, without anyone coming or leaving, until nearly ten o'

  clock, when, hungry and thoroughly browned off, he made his way back to the hotel for something to eat. The dinner hour being long past, all he could get was some coffee and a plate of cold ham,

  which, with crisp French rolls and butter, suited him well enough. It was a fine night, warm and still, so he had the food served on one of the small iron tables outside, a position from which he could watch the road. He did not seriously expect to see anything.

  It is at such times, of course, that something happens. He had barely finished his meal, when from the direction of the villa came a vehicle that he recognized at once. It was the small black van. In a moment he was on his feet, hurrying to his car, which stood near at hand. As it turned out, this haste was unnecessary, as the van pulled up at the petrol-pump for fuel. Algy sat in his car, with the engine running, waiting for the van to move off, thankful that here at last there was something he could do. Had he known what lay ahead, his satisfaction would have been somewhat damped.

  He was not surprised when the van took the road for Nice. He supposed, without any particular reason, that it was going to the airport. It did not. Leaving the airfield on the left, it carried straight on. It might, thought Algy, be going to Antibes, or possibly Cannes. It passed through these towns without stopping, still travelling fast, as if it still had some way to go.

  Algy began to wonder where the chase was going to end. However, having started, he settled down to follow the van however far it might be going.

  His wonder mounted as the van drove on, and on. At Frejus they left the sea, but still headed westwards. All Algy knew of the country now was what he could remember from maps. Through villages the van swept on, to Brignoles, and on again towards Aix.

  Aix reached, still the car did not stop.

  Algy began to get concerned about his petrol. Fortunately he had started with a full tank, but he had not been prepared for a run like this. The van must, he decided, be going to Marseilles, or to its big airport some way beyond, at Marignane. They had been on the road four hours, and he was beginning to feel the strain, when the van, instead of turning south to Marseilles, held on almost due west. Algy gave it up. Guessing was obviously futile. He looked at his watch, and the petrol gauge, more often. The thought that the van might outlast him with its fuel supply made him sick with mortification. He knew the country a little better now, or the general lay-out of it, because he had often used the airport at Marignane. He was driving mechanically, when at four o'clock in the morning the van gave the first sign that it was nearing its destination. It steadied its pace and presently took a narrow side turning to the left. For some time cultivation had been getting sparse, with fewer trees, except for long straight rows of cypresses that had been planted for protection against the mistral, the hot wind that in summer blows from the south. On all sides now, in the moonlight, rolled flat, open country, given over to flocks of sheep that somehow managed to exist on a little dry grass.

  Algy switched off his lights, which the driver of the van, if he looked back, might regard with suspicion. They were not really necessary, anyway. Soon afterwards the van dowsed its lights, too, but Algy could still see it, a black spot in a world of loneliness. He knew now where they were, for there was only one place in Europe like it. He had seen it often from the air. They had reached the Plaine de la Crau, a vast, stony plain, eighty square miles as flat as a cricket pitch carpeted with nothing but pebbles of all sizes. In the centre of it nothing grows. It is just a stony, sterile wilderness in the most lit
eral sense.

  The track, which had for some time been getting worse, gave out altogether at the ruins of what had once been a cottage. A line of ragged, wind-bent cypresses and a heap of grey stones in some parched grass were all that remained. Beyond that there was only stones, nothing but stones. Algy understood now the reason for the extra wide tyres on the van. He tried to go on, but had to give up when his wheels sank in the pebbles.

  Actually, he could make a little slow progress in first gear, but with the water in his radiator already boiling, he dare not

  risk going on. Moreover, on the open plain the driver of the van would only have to look round to see him. Stiff and weary, he put the car between the ruins of the cottage and the cypresses, and considered what next to do.

  In the clear moonlight he could still just make out the van, perhaps half a mile ahead; and as he watched it he saw a light show for a moment a little way beyond it. Was it, he wondered, a signal? Had the van at last reached its destination? He decided to find out.

  He could no longer see the van, but he began walking quickly in the direction it had taken. He hated to think how far he might have to go, but was reluctant to admit defeat in the last lap, as he felt sure this must be.

  He was right. He had walked less than a mile when a building, or some buildings, became silhouetted ahead against the sky. At first he could not make out what these were. They seemed big. Striding on, he discovered why. The buildings were the skeletons of a line of hangars, put up presumably during the war and now abandoned. He found nothing surprising in this, for if ever an area of ground was a ready-made airfield—apart from the surface—this was surely it. When, soon afterwards, he struck a concrete runway, his opinion was confirmed. He recalled what Biggles had said about the world being littered with abandoned airstrips. Gazing ahead as he walked on he watched the buildings harden in outline. The remains of the airmen's quarters, or administrative buildings, were still there too, he noted. There was no cover of any sort, so he could only hope that he would not meet the van coming back. Drawing near, he saw it standing outside a corrugated-iron bungalow that appeared to be in better repair than the rest.