18 Biggles In Spain

by Captain W E Johns

  There was a sheaf of documents, but he was not concerned with them. In any case, he knew that any written matter would be in Spanish, and therefore unintelligible to him. He repressed the grunt of satisfaction that rose to his lips as he found what he was looking for in one of the narrow compartments—a few spare sheets of writing paper. The fact that they bore a printed heading was all the better for his purpose. He took out the paper, laid it on the portfolio, and passed it to Goudini.

  `Write what I tell you,' he said. 'Write in Spanish, of course.'

  `What do you think to do ?'

  `You are going to do it, not me. You are going to write an order for the release of my friends.'

  Goudini laughed shortly. 'Do you think that the commandant would be such a fool as to hand two prisoners over just like that ?'

  Ginger pursed his lips. 'Very well ; say they are to accompany me to your office.'

  `You think he would not remark that it was strange for two prisoners to be given to an escort of one man—yes ?'

  Ginger groped in his mind for an alternative. He realized that G oudini was right. 'Then you

  shall write a letter authorizing me, as an interpreter, to visit the English prisoners for the purpose of interrogation,' he said.

  `Has it occurred to you that, since you cannot read Spanish, the message that I write might differ considerably from the one you dictate ?' Goudini's manner was one of slightly amused tolerance. It was apparent that he thought not all the advantages of the strange game they were playing lay with Ginger.

  `The message you write will be the one I dictate,' returned Ginger grimly. 'To prevent—

  cr—accidents, perhaps I had better make my intention plain to you. I shall, of course, take the letter straight to the commandant of the prison ship, hoping—as you will have supposed—that I shall then be able to find a way of releasing my friends, by which time my success will be as important a matter to you as to me; for before I go I shall tie you securely and leave you in some place I have yet to decide upon—probably the stone farm building over on the left. This tying up business is as distasteful to me as it will be to you

  ; it is sort of cheap drama; but to be quite frank, I can't think of any alternative. If my mission is successful I shall at once come back here to release you. I need not enlarge upon the consequences of failure to achieve my object; you will probably die a miserable death from hunger and thirst. Now you know just what I mean when I say that your prayers

  should be for my success. In your own interest you will give me all the help you can.

  Now write the letter. Word it as you like, but the gist of it will be that I am to be given access to my friends.

  Ànd if I refuse ?'

  'I shall shoot you here and now. Your disappearance will probably help my cause by giving your pet sleuths something else to think about than me and my friends. Go ahead and write.'

  Goudini looked at Ginger curiously for a moment, and then wrote rapidly on the top sheet of paper. He signed it with a flourish, and handed it to Ginger.

  Àddress the envelope and mark it "Personal" and "Urgent",' ordered Ginger.

  Goudini obeyed.

  Ginger laid the two documents on the back seat of the car for the ink to dry. 'Now get out,' he said.

  The sardonic smile still played about the corners of the Spaniard's lips as he opened the door on his side of the car, and got out on to the roadside. Ginger followed.

  Now apart from the fact that the action of getting out of a motor-car demands a certain amount of attention, as well as some minor contortions of the body, it may have been that Ginger's original suspicious alertness had been somewhat dulled by Goudini's submissive attitude. However that may be, Ginger was quite unprepared for what happened as he slid out of the car, feet first, in the most natural manner. He still held the automatic in his right hand, but at the moment of his emergence it was resting against the inside of the door frame to steady his descent. It was at that moment that Goudini leapt at him, his dwarf, misshapen body moving at a speed that could not have been suspected.

  Ginger saw the gleam of moonlight on steel as Goudini's arm swung upward and down in a vicious half circle. Instinctively he flung up his arm to shield his body—his right arm, that being the side from which Goudini had launched his attack. The immediate result of this was that, losing his support, he fell backwards; which was, actually, to his advantage, since the fall was away from the knife. The weapon, therefore, swept short of his body, but struck his forearm.

  Ginger did not consciously pull the trigger of the automatic. His entire faculties were concentrated on avoiding the knife. His grip may have tightened on the pistol instinctively, or the blow may have been responsible for his fingers tightening convulsively. Anyway, the pistol exploded. Ginger went over backwards. He twisted sideways as he fell, and was on his feet again in an instant, crouching, panting, staring at Goudini, who lay moaning feebly on the white road. As he watched, the moans died away to silence.

  Ginger felt a wave of nausea sweep over him.

  The moonlight faded to a swimming blackness, and for a horrible moment he thought he was going to faint. He nearly did. But he managed to reach the running board of the car, and squatting down on it, allowed his head to sag between his knees—which was the best thing he could have done.

  The nausea passed. He sat up, but he still felt weak and shaky. His legs had no strength in them, and he knew that he was unable to stand. He felt something hot running over his hand; looking down, he saw blood dripping from his fingers, forming a little pool, black in the moonlight, in the dust of the road. He looked at Goudini. He was lying quite still, his face buried in his arms. Pulling himself to his feet by hanging on to the side of the car, Ginger stood for a moment fighting another wave of sickness, and then went over to him. He turned him over. The body was horribly limp. The Spaniard's face was ashen.

  Ginger kicked the knife aside and, bending down, felt for the fallen man's heart. It was beating. 'Thank God, he isn't dead,' thought Ginger. 'Poor devil, I ought to do something for him. I can't leave him here to die.'

  The shock having passed, his strength began to come back quickly. He took off his coat and examined the wound in his arm. It was not very long, but it was deep, and bleeding copiously. He knew that he would have to stop it.

  It took him some time to adjust a bandage, using Goudini's handkerchief for a wad, and his own to tie it on. With no medical appliances available, there was nothing more he could do. He picked up the automatic, which still lay where it had fallen, and put it in his pocket. Then he returned to the Spaniard with the intention of lifting him into the car.

  What he was going to do with him he did not know. He only knew that he could not leave him there. Then, to his consternation, he found that single-handed he could not lift the limp body.

  He stood staring down at the white face. He was on the point of giving up altogether. He felt sick and weak, and was deadly tired. I le wanted to creep away somewhere and sleep, and then awake from what was becoming more and more like one of those nightmares that seem to go on indefinitely without leading anywhere. The situation was getting beyond him.

  He was still staring at the fallen man when the jangle of a bell made him look up in the direction whence it came. Coming towards him over the brow of a hill a few hundred yards away was a line of mules with men walking beside them.

  Ginger scrambled into the car in something like a panic. To stay was to be accused of murder, or attempted murder, by men whose language he could not speak; he would not be able to explain —not that explanation was likely to benefit him.

  The new-comers would have to look after Goudini. There was nothing else for it. Not without difficulty, for the road was narrow, he managed to turn the car. Another moment and he was tearing back towards Barcelona.

  CHAPTER XIII

  A MEMORABLE NIGHT

  GINGER never forgot that drive. His arm ached unmercifully; his eyes burned in their sockets as if he were in a
fever; he was racked by fears arising from the uncertainty of his plans, and anxiety for Biggles. But he had passed the stage of being excited. He was calm, and his movements were made with the cold deliberation of something not far from despair. True, he had the letter Goudini had written : it was the one ray of hope in an inky sky; but he did not attempt to deceive himself as to just how feeble that ray was.

  But of one thing he was certain : either he would effect the rescue or die with the others; in short, he had arrived at a condition of desperation where he was prepared to do anything, regardless of consequences, for—as he reflected, gloomily—whatever happened, things could hardly be worse than they were already.

  The city was silent and deserted when he reached it, for the hour was long after midnight.

  He drove straight down to the harbour where, somewhat to his surprise, Jock's car was still standing just as he had left it He did not know why he was surprised; there was no particular reason why any one should move the car; yet things had gone so awry during the last few days that he fully expected to find it gone.

  He parked Goudini's car beside the other and, with the letter in his pocket, walked briskly to the edge of the quay. No purpose would be served by delay. Indeed, he realized that if Goudini recovered consciousness there was a chance that he might start a hue and cry either by sending a messenger or by using a distant telephone. The prison ship lay as she had been when he last saw her; there were fewer lights on board, that was the only difference. The first question was how to get to her. There was no small boat available where he stood, so, remembering the dinghy, he walked along the edge of the quay towards the place where Goudini had come ashore. He was not surprised to find steps leading down to the water; and at the bottom of them the dinghy floated on the black water. He looked about for the boatman, but he was nowhere to be seen. Ginger had rather booed that he would be there; it would have given his visit a more authentic touch.

  However, he had to do without him.

  He got into the boat, cast off, and rowed as quickly as his wounded arm would allow towards where the black hull of the prison still rose high against the starry sky. The last thing he wanted was that his approach should appear furtive. He could not hope to get on board without being seen, so his only chance lay in sheer open-handed bluff. At a distance of forty or fifty yards he

  let out a hail, which was answered immediately from the deck; somebody called out something in Spanish, but as he did not understand he took no notice, but went on rowing towards his objective.

  He had almost reached the ship's side when a small searchlight stabbed the darkness, flooding him and the dinghy with blinding white light. It lasted only for a few moments, at the end of which time the operator, thinking probably that there was nothing to fear from a single man, switched the light out.

  Ginger, seeing that the dinghy now had enough way on her to reach the ship, pulled his oars in, and looking round, saw, as he expected, a companion-way leading from the deck clown to a mooring raft. Unhurriedly he made the dinghy fast, and then walked evenly up the steps to the deck, where he was halted by two sentries with rifles and bayonets fixed.

  `Speak English ?' inquired Ginger as he took Goudini's letter from his pocket.

  Ènglish—no comprendo,' replied one of the men.

  The other took the letter and held it near a light so that he could read the address. He said something to his companion, and leaving his rifle leaning against the bulwark, walked away down the deck.

  Ginger affected a yawn, purely for effect. He was quite cool, although he realized that if Goudini

  had written anything but what he, Ginger, had dictated, then he was spending his last night on earth. The thought did not worry him unduly. He was past caring about himself.

  If he was arrested he would at least be able to lie down and sleep.

  The sentry, who, like most Spanish sentries, appeared to take his duties easily, offered him a cigarette.

  Legionnaire—si?' smiled the sentry, tapping Ginger's uniform.

  Ginger nodded. 'Si,' he replied, stiffening a little in spite of himself as he heard the footsteps of the other sentry returning along the deck. A bunch of keys jangled in his hand.

  He tapped Ginger on the shoulder, and, picking up his rifle, beckoned him to follow.

  Ginger followed his escort down the deck. His heart was beginning to thump now at the prospect of success. He felt that the sentry would not treat him with such indifference if the letter had aroused suspicion. So he followed his guide down a companion-way and along a narrow corridor with doors on either side—doors which normally would have given access to the ship's state-rooms. On each door a number had been crudely written in red chalk.

  The sentry stopped before the one numbered fourteen, put the key in the lock, and pushed the door open. The room was in darkness. The sentry stepped across the threshold, and reaching up with his hand, switched on an electric light.

  Then he stood aside. Ginger stepped forward.

  Biggles and Algy, still in legionnaire uniforms, had both been lying down on rough mattresses on the floor. Now they were resting on their elbows, looking towards the door as if seeking the cause of the intrusion. Both stared speechlessly at Ginger.

  `Go steady,' snapped Ginger. 'The sentry doesn't speak English, but don't let him see you know me. He thinks I've come to interrogate you. I'm trying to get you out.'

  But as he spoke Ginger's heart had gone down into his boots, for he saw that both the prisoners were handcuffed to a chain fastened to the wall. This was something he had not reckoned on. However, he kept his head, and playing his role, walked across and stared down at Biggles. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the sentry leaning against the door.

  Ì didn't reckon on chains ; what shall I do ?' he snapped at Biggles belligerently, realizing that he would have to make a pretence of asking questions. As he spoke he pointed an accusing finger.

  Biggles's answer nearly took Ginger's breath away. 'The key is on the bunch the sentry is holding,' he muttered sullenly.

  Ginger drew a deep breath. 'I see,' he said, and then bent down and stared at Biggles's wrists as

  though there was something remarkable about them. Then, affecting alarm, he looked back at the sentry and beckoned to him to come over. The sentry came quickly. Ginger pointed to Biggles's wrists. The sentry leaned forward. The butt of Ginger's automatic crashed down on the back of his head and he slumped forward with a grunt across Biggles's feet. Ginger darted to the door and closed it quietly. The whole incident had occupied perhaps ten seconds.

  By the time Ginger got back to the others Biggles was swiftly going through the keys on the sentry's bunch, seeking the right one. It was typical of him that he wasted no words on thanks or congratulations that might turn out to be premature.

  `What's the position outside ?' he asked. 'You can tell me while I'm doing this.'

  Àll quiet,' whispered Ginger. 'One sentry only at the gangway. There's a dinghy below.'

  Biggles by this time had found the right key. He laid his shackles aside on the bed and then, working swiftly but quietly, released Algy. They both stood up.

  `What's our best plan?' asked Biggles. 'Any idea ? You know the layout of the place better than we do.'

  `We'll all go to the head of the companion,' answered Ginger. 'You wait there while I go back and stick up the sentry. He knows me by sight,

  so he won't be alarmed when he sees me. He might be if he saw us all. If there's trouble, then we'll have to fight it out.'

  `That suits me,' returned Biggles in a low voice.

  Ginger gave him Goudini's revolver, which he still carried in his pocket. Then he crossed over to the door and listened. All was as silent as a tomb. `Come on,' he whispered.

  Algy picked up the unconscious man's rifle. Then in single file they crept noiselessly along the corridor and up to the head of the companion-way. Ginger put out his hand for the others to halt. `Come when I cough,' he whispered. Then he went on alone.
<
br />   The sentry did not move when he saw him coming, but went on puffing at his cigarette.

  He smiled a sleepy greeting, but the expression on his face changed like magic when Ginger, mouth set and eyes glittering, thrust his automatic into his face. 'Don't move,' he hissed.

  The sentry may not have understood, but Ginger's expression must have been enough to convey his meaning.

  Ginger jerked the rifle from the sentry's hands. Then he coughed. A swift patter across the deck and the others joined him. 'What shall we do with this fellow ?' he asked. 'He'll raise the place if we leave him here.'

  `Take him with us,' replied Biggles promptly, and taking the matter into his own hands, with the

  muzzle of his revolver he urged the now terrified sentry down the steps into the dinghy.

  All was silent on the ship. Algy untied the painter and pushed the dinghy clear. Biggles picked up the oars and under Ginger's guidance rowed towards the quay steps.

  `By gosh, we've done it!' whispered Ginger exultantly. He felt that he could have laughed aloud.

  `These things either go like clockwork or else they go all to blazes,' grunted Biggles.

  Ginger's chuckle made Biggles look at him sharply. 'Are you all right ?' he asked.

  `Right as rain—except I've had a knife in my arm,' replied Ginger weakly.

  `Keep your eyes on him, Algy,' ordered Biggles, redoubling his efforts.

  They soon reached the steps, and hurrying to the top, Ginger pointed to Jock's car. "That'

  s ours,' he said.

  Biggles whistled softly. 'You have certainly done the job properly,' he said.

  They took the sentry with them as far as the car, where they decided that they could do nothing else but let him go, reckoning that by the time he could call assistance they would be some distance away. A yell that floated across the water from the ship told them their escape had been discovered, anyway. So leaving the sentry to make his way back to the ship, they got quickly into the car and started the engine.

  Biggles took the wheel. 'Do we go anywhere in particular ?' he asked Ginger. 'We've been out of touch with things lately.'