by W E Johns
‘But here, I say, you know, I thought Biggles was on leave?’ put in Bertie, polishing his eyeglass briskly.
‘So did we all,’ 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 call 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 till 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 till after dinner. He seemed sort of preoccupied, and I said to him, “Is everything all 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 weekend 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 all 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 on 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. Normally, 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 a 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 this Group order came in this morning, posting me to 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 swallowing, 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 – killed, 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’ll know the facts.’
‘You mean – Air Commodore Raymond, of Intelligence?’
‘Yes.’
‘He won’t tell us anything.’
‘Won’t he, by thunder!’ snorted Ginger. ‘After all 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 tell him that?’ asked Algy sarcastically.
‘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’ll see us, and come clean.’
‘You go on like this and we shall all finish under close arrest.’
‘Who cares?’ flaunted Ginger. ‘I want to know the truth. If Biggles has been killed – well, 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 well 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’ll 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 well, 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. Well, I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but there is little I can tell 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.’
‘Will you tell 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 killed?’
‘He may be. In fact, what evidence we have all 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 goo
d 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 well,’ said he. ‘Your argument is reasonable, and I won’t attempt to deny it. I’ll tell you what I know – in the strictest confidence, of course.’
‘We’ve never let you down yet, sir,’ reminded Algy.
‘All 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 will call Princess X, had escaped from Italy. This lady is an Italian, or, rather, a Sicilian, one of those who hate Mussolini1 and all his works. Her father, well known before the war for his anti-Fascist views, was killed in what was alleged to be an accident. Actually 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 Marseilles, 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 eventually reached the Principality of Monaco, in the south-east corner of France, where she knew someone, a wealthy Italian businessman, a banker, whom she had befriended in the past. She thought he would give her shelter. She reached his villa 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 to reach Marseilles, 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 all rock, and mostly built over as well. 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 called in a man who knows every inch of the country, a man who was born there, a Monégasque2 who is now serving with the Fighting French3. 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. All 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 villas and hotels. The fashionable resort, Monte Carlo, occupies most of it. The actual village 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. ‘Well, Biggles went. Precisely what occurred in Monaco we don’t know; it seems unlikely that we shall ever know, but as far as we have been able to deduce from the meagre scraps of information that our agents have collected, what happened was this. Biggles walked into a trap. The princess was not at the villa. 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 from the prison, and actually 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 followed, 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 followed by the Italians. To enable you to follow the story closely I must tell 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 small 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 will 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 rear-guard action. The princess got aboard, whereupon Biggles yelled to Ducoste to take off without him. Naturally, Ducoste, who does not lack courage, hesitated to do this. What I must make clear is, the princess actually 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 all 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 fell, apparently hit by a bullet. Ducoste, from his cockpit, could do nothing to help him. By this time bullets were hitting the machine, and in another moment they must all 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 actually 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 base aerodrome. Judge his consternation when he found the cabin was empty. The princess was not there. The cabin door was open. Poor Ducoste was incoherent with mortification and amazement. The last thing he saw before he took off was Biggles lying motionless on the ground, and two Italians within a dozen yards, running towards him. The last he saw of the princess she was in the machine.’
Algy drew a deep breath. ‘And that’s all you know?’
‘That is all we know.’
‘No word from Monaco?’
‘Nothing.’
There was a brief silence.
‘Ducoste has absolutely no idea of what happened to the princess?’ asked Ginger.
‘None whatever, although the obvious assumption is that she fell from the aircraft some time during the journey from the South of France to England. What else can we think?’
‘No report of her body having been found?’
‘Not a word.’
‘What an incredible business,’ muttered Algy. ‘As far as Biggles is concerned
, the Italians must know about him from their Nazi friends. One would have thought that had he been killed the enemy would have grabbed the chance of boasting of it – that’s their usual way of doing things.’
‘One would think so,’ agreed the Air Commodore. ‘But it seems certain that if he wasn’t killed he must have been badly wounded, in which case he would have been captured, which comes to pretty much the same thing. But I don’t overlook the possibility that it may have suited the enemy to say nothing about the end of a man who has given them so much trouble. From every point of view it is a most unsatisfactory business.’
‘Tell me, sir; how was Biggles dressed for this affair?’ asked Ginger. ‘Was he in uniform?’
‘Well, he was and he wasn’t. I know he has a prejudice against disguises, but this was an occasion when one was necessary. He could hardly walk about Monaco in a British uniform, so he wore over it an old blue boiler suit, which he thought would give him the appearance of a workman of the country.’
‘And you don’t expect to hear anything more, sir?’
‘Frankly, no. There is just one hope – a remote one, I fear. I had a private arrangement with Biggles. Realising that there was a chance of his picking up useful information which, in the event of failure, he would not be able to get home, he took with him a blue pencil, the idea being that we could profit by what he had learned should he fail, and should we decide to follow up with another agent. He said that should he be in Monaco he would write on the stone wall that backs the Quai de Plaisance, in the Condamine – that is, the lower part of Monaco in which the harbour is situated. If he were in Nice he would write on the wall near Jock’s bar, below the Promenade des Anglais. His signature would be a blue triangle.’
‘Have you checked up to see if there is such a message?’ queried Algy.
‘No,’ admitted the Air Commodore.
‘Why not?’
‘The place is swarming with police. In any case, there seemed to be no point in it, because whatever Biggles wrote before the rescue would be rendered valueless after what happened on the landing ground. Right up to the finish he must have hoped to get home, and after that time it seems unlikely to say the least that he would have an opportunity for writing.’
