Biggles - Foreign Legionnaire

by W E Johns

  “I can’t see either Marcel or Voudron,” asserted Ginger.

  “Have you any idea which way Voudron went?”

  “He didn’t go into the bar, so I think he must have gone into the kasbah.”

  “That seems most unlikely. What would he want there at this time of night? If he has, it’s no use trying to find him in that rabbit warren. What happened to Marcel, anyway? It’s still too early for the appointment. Ten to nine.”

  “He must have gone into the Pigale to wait for nine o’clock.”

  “Let’s see.”

  They went on to the bar, a confused babble of voices meeting them at the open door. Through a haze of pungent tobacco smoke they could see Marcel talking to the proprietor. He saw them enter but gave no sign of recognition.

  “He probably looked in to see if we were here before going into the grove,” Biggles told Ginger, looking round. “I don’t see Voudron so goodness knows where he went. Perhaps it doesn’t matter. He’s not likely to be in the grove. There’s no need for us to stay in this fug. Let’s get outside. We’ll see Marcel when he leaves.”

  Leaving the bistro they took up a position in a narrow archway on the opposite side of the road, from where they would see Marcel when he emerged; and they had only been there for a few moments when Ginger caught Biggles by the arm. “There’s Voudron,” he said tersely. “Just coming out of the kasbah with two Arabs.”

  “What’s he doing with that nasty-looking pair of cutthroats?” muttered Biggles.

  Watching, they saw the sergeant, followed closely by the two Arabs, walk to a nearby doorway and take up positions as if they, too, were watching the Bar Pigale.

  “What goes on?” breathed Ginger. “There’s something about this set-up I don’t like.”

  They did not have to wait long for the answer. Marcel appeared, and walked towards the grove with the obvious intention of keeping the appointment. This brought a frown to Biggles’s forehead, for the awkward position arose that they could not move without being seen by Voudron. But the situation was saved when the two Arabs followed Marcel, and Voudron, crossing the road, went into the Pigale. Biggles at once set off after Marcel, and the Arabs who were obviously following him.

  Not for a moment did it occur to Ginger that the Arabs were trailing Marcel with the intention of doing him bodily harm. He thought Voudron had merely set them to watch him, and the question at once arose, how were they to have a conversation with Marcel without having the matter reported to the sergeant? In the event, however, the problem solved itself. Instead, they were presently involved in a situation much more alarming.

  Neither he nor Biggles had ever actually been inside the grove, having had no occasion to go that way; but they knew where it was. They also knew that its real purpose was what it had always been; to provide shade and a rough grazing ground for the goats and donkeys belonging to the Arabs in the kasbah. They were well aware of its ugly reputation, of course, for it had often been discussed in barracks. Destin had several times warned them to keep clear of it. Fights between legionnaires had occurred there so often in the past that there had been talk of putting it out of bounds; but this had come to nothing, following the general practice of allowing the troops to do as they pleased in their own time.

  The place turned out to be not so large as they had expected, covering, as far as they could judge in the moonlight, about an acre of ground. It was neither a pretty nor pleasant place, considered from any angle. It was simply an area of waste ground from which arose a stand of ancient date palms. There was no undergrowth or herbage. The palms sprang straight from the dusty earth. Aside from anything else the place stank to high heaven, and this alone would have discouraged Ginger from entering had he no particular reason for doing so.

  It was dark under the trees, although here and there slants of moonlight, casting fantastic shadows on the sand, did no more than enhance the sinister atmosphere of the place. A sultry, unhealthy hush hung in the stagnant air.

  At first they could see no one, neither Marcel nor the Arabs, although they knew they must be there. In the ordinary way Biggles would have whistled, but the circumstances demanded silence. Then, as they stood there, eyes probing the gloom, hesitating to advance, a match flared, and they saw Marcel standing under a palm a short distance away in the act of lighting a cigarette. That he was waiting for them was evident.

  But still for the moment Biggles did not reveal himself. He stood staring into the grotesque shadows, first on one side then the other. Ginger knew what he was looking for. Where were the Arabs? There was still no reason to suppose that they intended any physical harm. But they were obviously acting as spies for Voudron, and Biggles dare not take the risk of having a clandestine meeting with Marcel reported; for should the sergeant learn that they had met Marcel by appointment he could hardly fail to draw correct conclusions.

  Ginger, too, was staring. A movement caught his eye. Had a shadow flitted across a patch of moonlight about twenty yards from the tree against which Marcel stood? He wasn’t sure. He focused his eyes on the spot. Another ghostlike figure followed the first—swift, silent, furtive.

  Without moving his eyes Ginger touched Biggles and pointed. He was still not sure what it was he had seen. He had not forgotten that the place was used by animals. Even if the vague shapes he had seen were men there was no indication that they were not on business of their own, for, after all, the grove was public property. But he could not shake off a feeling that something felonious was going on.

  But when he made out two figures creeping towards the tree against which Marcel stood all doubts were banished, and the truth struck him like a ton of bricks, as the saying is. Moonlight glinting on an object in the hand of one of the men confirmed his worst fears, and the warning cry that broke from his lips was instinctive rather than calculated.

  “Prenez garde, commandant,2” he cried shrilly, and darted forward.

  * * *

  1 French: bar.

  2 French: Look out, commandant.

  CHAPTER IV

  SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT

  THE Arabs reached the tree first. Steel flashed. Marcel, who had jumped clear of it, lashed out with the swagger cane1 he carried. Then Biggles and Ginger arrived on the scene with a rush. Even so, the Arabs were not prepared to abandon their onset, which concentrated on Marcel.

  Neither Biggles nor Ginger carried a weapon of any sort. Marcel apparently had only his light cane. The Arabs had daggers, ugly curved blades which they knew how to use. Ginger darted in behind the nearer, who was pressing Marcel hard, and slammed home a fist in a vicious kidney punch that brought a gasp to the man’s lips. Marcel lashed him across the face. Biggles tripped the other, and before the man could recover knocked him flat and then stamped on the hand that held the dagger. Deprived of his weapon the Arab scrambled up and bolted. His companion, seeing him go, followed. In a moment they were lost to sight in the intricate pattern of the palms and their shadows.

  No attempt was made to pursue them. The attack had failed in its purpose, which, clearly, was murder, and that was all that mattered. To follow the men into the honeycomb of the kasbah would have been suicidal, as they were all aware, wherefore, breathing heavily from shock and exertion, they looked at each other while they recovered their breath.

  “Name of a dog!” panted Marcel. “What happens?”

  “Those two rascals were out to get you, and it wasn’t just robbery they intended,” Biggles told him seriously. “Voudron put them on to you. He fetched them from the kasbah. We happened to be watching. They stalked you. We stalked them. You’re a marked man, so watch your step.” After a swift glance round he went on: “Why did you ring Joudrier?”

  “I didn’t. He rang me from Paris.”

  “What did you say? Voudron must have heard every word.”

  “He merely rang up to find out how I was getting on, and to ask if there was anything he could do.”

  “Did you mention us by name?”

  “No.
”

  Biggles gave a little sigh of relief. “That’s something, anyway.”

  “What do you know about Voudron?” asked Marcel.

  “He’s spoken to Ginger about flying. He’s seen our records. He didn’t make any suggestion about desertion but he paved the way for it. He’s the monkey in the woodpile here. His eavesdropping pretty well confirmed it. This last affair, the object of which was murder, proves it. He knows what you’re doing here, and tonight he was ordered to liquidate you.”

  “By whom?”

  “I have reason to believe by a lawyer named Jules Raban, who lives at the Villa Mimosa. We watched Voudron go to the villa an hour or so ago. We saw him talking to Raban. Afterwards he went to the kasbah and produced those two thugs. Raban is in the ring; we needn’t doubt that; and he’s put you on the spot, so my advice is carry a gun and keep out of dark corners. Get Joudrier to find out all he can about Raban. He may have a police record.”

  “But what about Voudron? Shall I—”

  “Leave him alone. Let him carry on. He’ll lead us—”

  “Watch out!” broke in Ginger tersely. “Here he comes.”

  “Let us know how and where we can report developments,” Biggles told Marcel under his breath. “We must have a line of communication.”

  There was no time for more. Nor was it possible to leave the grove without being seen by Voudron, who was already close and coming towards them.

  He strode up. “Has there been trouble here, mon commandant?” he enquired, looking from one to the other.

  Biggles answered. “Monsieur le commandant was attacked by Arab thieves. We were walking past the grove and heard a cry for help. Rushing in we saw the commandant being attacked by two Arabs. When we went for them they ran. That’s all.”

  “Is anyone hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Mot de Cambronne!” exclaimed Voudron. “It comes to something when this kasbah scum dares to attack an officer. I, too, heard someone call out, just as I was leaving the Pigale, so I came to investigate; but in the dark for a time I could see nothing.”

  Ginger smiled at this glib explanation, which was a palpable lie. Voudron was either looking for Marcel’s body, or had been told by the Arabs that the attack had failed.

  “I would say,” went on Biggles thoughtfully, “that in the darkness those Arabs didn’t see that the man they intended to rob was an officer. More likely they thought it was some fellow who had been behaving as if he had money in his pocket.”

  “True,” agreed the sergeant. “All the same, it’s time this stinking hole was laid flat. It has always been a hide-out for thieves and cutthroats.” He turned to Biggles and Ginger. “If you take my advice you’ll get back to barracks and stay there. Those Arabs may have seen your faces. If so, as you made enemies of them, they’ll be after your blood.”

  “Yes, sergeant.” agreed Biggles obediently.

  Voudron spoke to Marcel. “I’d better walk back to the camp with you, monsieur, in case those brown devils are still hanging about.”

  “I don’t need an escort,” answered Marcel stiffly. “Bon soir.2” He walked away.

  The others strolled on to the road. “Are you coming home with us, sergeant?” enquired Biggles innocently.

  “No. I’m not going back just yet,” answered Voudron. “I’ve got a date with my girl,” he explained, as if he felt that an explanation was necessary.

  “Entendu,3” replied Biggles. “We’ll get along. Bon soir, mon sergent.” So saying, with Ginger by his side, he set off up the road towards the barracks.

  They walked a little way in silence. Then Ginger said: “That was a nice how-do-you-do. Voudron apparently thinks nothing of murder. As a type he’s even lower down the scale than I thought.”

  “The whole picture is now pretty plain,” returned Biggles. “Voudron, having heard Marcel talking to the Sureté, must know he’s a police spy put in for a purpose; and a guilty conscience will probably tell him what that purpose is. As soon as he could get away he went and reported his discovery to Raban, whom we may suppose is the local member of the gang from whom he takes his orders. Raban must have told Voudron to deal with Marcel, whereupon he went to the kasbah and hired a brace of Arabs to do the dirty work. From the fact that he knew just where to find them at short notice I suspect he’s employed them before. At all events, he must be known in the kasbah or he wouldn’t dare to go in after dark. I don’t know any kasbah anywhere that’s really safe for a white man after dark. The Arabs must have been delighted to see Marcel go into the grove. That made the job simple. Otherwise they would have knifed him on the road back to the camp, no doubt. They may have wondered why he went into the grove but they couldn’t have known it was to keep an appointment with us, so that leaves us in the clear.”

  “Voudron was hanging about to hear if his thugs had done the job.”

  “Of course he was. Now, I imagine, he’s gone to them to find out exactly what happened. I don’t think that need worry us. It could all have happened just as we said. There was nothing extraordinary about us being near the grove. If we saw an officer being attacked, or a comrade for that matter, we should naturally go to his assistance. Voudron has absolutely no reason to suppose we had an appointment with Marcel. Incidentally, it was lucky for Marcel that we were dead on time, or he’d have had it. The unfortunate part about the whole thing is, his connection with the police will soon be known to the gang for whom Voudron is working, and that puts him out of the business as far as his usefulness here is concerned. If he isn’t very careful he’ll end up in one of those old wells in the kasbah. Voudron will have to tell Raban that the attempt to murder him failed because a couple of stray legionnaires happened to come along. Raban’s reply to that will be to tell him to try again, and keep on trying until he succeeds. For which reasons I shall advise Marcel at the first opportunity to pack up and have himself sent back to Paris. Joudrier will be able to organize that, of course.”

  “If the gang suspects what Marcel was doing here they’ll know their racket has been rumbled, and even if Marcel goes back to Paris they’ll be on the watch for others on the same job.”

  “I’m afraid you’re right. They’ll tighten things up. We shall have to go warily. The gang is clever, ruthless and efficient, and even now we may not guess how far its ramifications extend. We shan’t be able to trust a soul. What we’ve seen so far is proof of that.”

  “But we’re still in the clear.”

  “I think so. In a show like this one can never be sure, though. We shall soon know. The way Voudron behaves tomorrow may tell us.”

  They walked on up the moonlit road towards the camp.

  * * *

  1 A short cane or stick carried by officers when walking out.

  2 French: Good evening.

  3 French: I see.

  CHAPTER V

  SERGEANT VOUDRON OPENS UP

  Thu next two days passed without incident. The dull routine of drill and route marches went on, giving Ginger a curious feeling that he was living two lives, one as a soldier and the other as—well, he didn’t know quite what. His normal life in London began to seem remote. When he thought of Algy and Bertie it was as if they were in another world—which in some respects they were.

  They saw Marcel frequently. He made no attempt to speak to them, nor did they approach him. He had apparently decided to carry on, regardless of the perilous position in which the unfortunate telephone conversation with the Sureté had placed him Voudron, too, was often about, both on and off the parade-ground. His manner was curt, but not exactly unfriendly. Not once did he refer to the affair in the grove. As far as he was concerned it might never have happened. More than once they watched for him to leave the camp, but if he went out they did not see him go. It seemed as if he, too, was being careful.

  In a word, it was as if a sudden storm had passed, leaving everything tranquil. But Ginger was not deceived. This calm, he felt, was false, and would not persist for long. What form the
next storm would take he did not know, but that it would come he felt sure. In particular he was uneasy on Marcel’s account.

  On the morning of the third day Biggles received a letter through the post. The address was typewritten, and until he opened it he had no idea of whom it was from. The envelope yielded a single flimsy sheet of paper. There was no address or superscription. The message consisted of one paragraph, also typed. It was signed with the solitary letter M. But the context explained everything.

  Biggles read the letter and handed it to Ginger without a word.

  “The name of the man in whom you are interested is an alias,” read Ginger. “Formerly a criminal lawyer in Paris he left after the war on being denounced as a collaborator during the Occupation. He then went to Marseilles where he assumed his present name and practised successfully as a defence counsel in shady cases. He defended, among others, a man named Voss. He has offices at Tangier and Casablanca and travels from one to the other. Present address is his country home during the heat of Summer. M.”

  Ginger passed the letter back to Biggles who put a match to it and reduced it to ashes.

  “So that’s Monsieur Raban,” murmured Biggles. “He defended Voss, the deserter, who flew for the gang. We needn’t be surprised at that. His offices are, I imagine, merely a cover for more lucrative transactions. The gang would have lawyers and he’s one of them—a step higher up the ladder than Voudron. We’ll keep an eye on his villa in our spare time. The snag is, we don’t get enough spare time. The villa should be watched constantly, both for visitors and to see where he goes when he makes excursions. That might lead us to the next man above him. We’re still only at the bottom of the ladder.”

  “Why not get Algy over to watch him? I mean, as an ordinary tourist.”