by John Pearson
Algy nodded.
‘All the same,’ he said regretfully, ‘it does seem a confounded waste. She was a very pretty woman.’
‘Algy, Algy, will you never learn?’ said Biggles. ‘Now, let’s get going. I think we’ll leave the Countess and her three friends to the Italians. They can do whatever’s necessary. I’ve had enough of your island of the Lily, thank you very much — and we’ve still got six whole days in Monte Carlo.’
Five minutes later, the biplane took off with a roar and headed back to France.
6
Gone to Timbuctoo
‘Just can’t think what the trouble is with Biggles,’ said Algy wearily. ‘Crotchety, bad-tempered, off his oats. Nearly bit my head off yesterday just because I lent the Bentley to Deborah. Dammit, Ginger, Deborah’s a spiffing driver and it is my blinking motor-car!’
Ginger nodded sympathetically.
‘Well, you know what the old boy’s like. He’s very set in his ways and has been counting on you to drive him over to Mahoney’s for the old Squadron reunion. These things mean a lot to him, and we had to take a taxi in the end. Apart from the expense, I think he’d hoped that you’d be there.’
‘But Ginger, it’s ridiculous. I’ve got to be allowed some private life. And all this sentimental dwelling on the good old days — frankly it bores me rigid!’
‘Now, now, Algy, that’s not fair,’ said Ginger loyally. ‘Biggles is a great believer in esprit de corps, and with Mahoney back from Kenya it was obviously important to him. I think you should have gone as well.’
‘Jeepers!’ exclaimed Algy. ‘Now you’re turning against me too. You know what I think, Ginger? We’re all getting old. There’s Biggles coming up for his thirtieth birthday next month. The old brain-box is softening with age.’
He tried to laugh, but Ginger cut him short.
‘Now listen, Algy,’ Ginger said, wagging an admonitory finger underneath Algy’s nose. ‘I want to hear no more of this. Whatever you and Deborah get up to is your own affair, but I won’t hear anybody criticising Biggles. And frankly, Algy, it comes Very ill from you of all people. Biggles has had a lot of worries lately and it’s up to us to rally round. Remarks like that don’t help at all.’
Algy looked suitably sheepish at the Yorkshireman’s plain speaking.
‘Sorry, Ginger! Just forget I spoke. But all the same, it is dashed difficult for a chap.’
Deborah Carstairs-Lomax was a lovely girl. Of that there was not the slightest doubt. Six feet tall, and golden-haired, she managed to combine the profile of a Roman goddess with the strongest female forehand drive in the Home Counties. Biggles had christened her ‘the Valkyrie’, and from the start had been considerably in awe of her. It wasn’t just her size, although she did over-top him by a good half of her splendid head, and Biggles always had been touchy on the subject of his lack of inches. She was also one of the ‘new women’ of the Twenties. She had a mind of her own — and spoke it at the slightest provocation. She was independent, and God help anyone who tried to stop her doing as she pleased. She knew exactly what she wanted — and she wanted Algy Lacey.
‘Just can’t think why,’ Biggles had remarked to Ginger in the course of one of their slightly worried conversations on the subject. ‘It’s not as if our Algy’s very keen on tennis, or literature, or any of those “interests” she’s always banging on about.’
‘Sex is very strange,’ said Ginger solemnly.
‘Sex, my old Aunt Fanny! I can’t believe that Algy’s ever had a chance of you-know-what with that young lady. Ice from the navel downwards! No, old chap, that lady’s set her sights on one thing and one thing only — becoming Lady Lacey.’
‘You really think so, Biggles?’ replied Ginger, as if such a notion in a woman was quite inconceivable.
‘Think so? I’m certain, dear old boy! A title’s a very funny thing, and some women will do anything to end up with a handle to their name. Can’t understand why poor Algy doesn’t see it too. The poor chap’s being kicked around like a blasted football. Not interested in flying any more. No time for any of his old chums. Dreadful, Ginger, simply dreadful how a stalwart bloke like Algy can succumb! But you realise what it’ll mean if it goes on?’
‘No, Biggles, what?’ asked Ginger.
‘The end of the old firm, of course. Biggles and Co. just won’t survive with that young lady in the woodwork.’
Biggles’ words shocked Ginger Hebblethwaite, not least because he had recently been thinking much the same himself. The mid-twenties had been good to Biggles and his friends. None of them had felt like settling down and they had managed to achieve that life of constant flying and adventure which had been their aim when they set up Biggles and Co. after the First World War. There was hardly a corner of the globe they had not visited. Early in 1923 they had been working on retainer for an oil exploration company in British Guiana and had dabbled in the gold prospecting business in the hinterland of that extraordinary country. They never made their fortunes, but they had more than covered their expenses and by the following year had moved on to Bolivia, where for several months they worked in conjunction with Wilkinson, an old friend from the R.F.C. who was currently instructing the newly-formed Bolivian Air Force. While in Bolivia, they had a brush with bandits who had captured the daughter of the President, and, after rescuing her, moved on to the forests of the Amazon in search of a legendary blue orchid. After this they witnessed revolution in Colombia, mayhem in Panama, and warfare in Brazil. Early in 1925 they were in the islands of the Pacific, searching for enormous pearls. They visited Formosa and Japan. For several months they had been piloting a sea-plane up the cannibal-infested Sepik River, again in search of gold, but they failed to find it. They had spent several months intriguing against a Russian spy called Nikitoff in India, and had made their adventure-packed return to England via Persia and the Middle East. The details of these wandering years are given in the pages of Biggles Flies Again by Capt. W. E. Johns.
Throughout these years of travel and adventure Mrs Symes had faithfully maintained the Mount Street flat for them, whilst Algy’s Bentley had been laid up awaiting their return in a corner of the hangar down at Brooklands. But none of them had dreamt of settling down, and even after Biggles and Co. returned and set up base in Mayfair once again, the assignments and adventures continued to arrive so thick and fast that no one really had a chance to think about the future. Smyth, their inimitable mechanic, finally succumbed to matrimony, but his wife — a Lyons Teashop manageress from Peckham — was an independent-minded lady who intended to continue her career, and hardly seemed to notice when her spouse was absent. Ginger was happy wherever he could find an aeroplane to fly, while Biggles asked for nothing out of life except that the adventures should continue. The fortune that he dreamed of finding was still eluding him, but this was possibly just as well. Great riches would have worried him, and he was perfectly content to leave the financial affairs of the company to Algy. Women appeared to concern him even less these days. He never spoke of Marie Janis, but Ginger’s theory was that the shock of her defection to von Stalhein had turned him permanently against the female sex in general. This was not entirely true. Biggles was susceptible to women, but he was also very cagey and discreet and probably preferred the cockpit to the boudoir. Any permanent relation with a woman, as he knew only too well, would spell the end of the sort of life he loved, and this was simply not a sacrifice he was prepared to make. But Algy was different. He was inclined to fall in love, and long before the glamorous Miss Carstairs-Lomax was on the scene there had been several very narrow squeaks — the dashing daughter of the Bolivian President, a teenage widow in Brazil, a nubile Japanese from Okinawa. With each of them it had appeared as if his end had come, but every time a fatherly talk from Biggles and a few hours’ flying had done the trick. Algy was one of those lucky individuals who can fall out of love as easily as they fall into it — and he was always vulnerable to Biggles’ mockery on the subject — until now. In the old
days, the idea of a real row between the chums would have been inconceivable, particularly over the subject of a woman. But recently they had come dangerously near it, for the business of the Bentley was by no means the only friction caused by Algy’s lady love. When Biggles had referred jokingly to ‘the Valkyrie’, Algy had said tersely, ‘Biggles, I’d ask you not to refer to Deborah like that.’ When Colonel Raymond had requested help with an Interpol investigation which involved flying to the north of France, Algy had finally backed out because Deborah was in the finals of the Sussex Ladies’ Tennis tournament at Hastings. There had been further trouble when Algy had refused to go with Biggles to the Hendon Air Show on the grounds that ‘Deborah just wasn’t all that interested in aeroplanes’.
Tact had never been Biggles’ strongest suit, and whilst he would do anything for Algy when in trouble, he expected absolute devotion in return. Indeed, the truth was that Biggles was an autocrat who couldn’t bear the idea of anybody challenging his authority over his little group of friends — and this was where the real trouble lay. But for Ginger’s constant efforts to smooth things over, Biggles and Co. would certainly have broken up that spring — and even now the Yorkshireman was having his work cut out ‘just keeping the show on the road’, as he referred to it.
Biggles’ approaching birthday suddenly appeared a godsend — and Ginger made his mind up to exploit it to the full.
‘Listen, Algy,’ Ginger said conspiratorially, ‘it must all come as a great surprise.’
‘If you say so, dear old chap,’ replied Algy, stifling a yawn,’ but birthdays never have been Biggles’ cup of tea. To tell the truth, they always used to bore the old thing stiff.’
‘But this is different! Biggles will be thirty and it’s a sort of milestone in a fellow’s life. I really think we owe it to him to do something that will soften the shock of growing old.’
‘Tempus fugit and all that, Ginger! Yes, I suppose I see your point. I’ll ask Deborah to choose him a new tie from Liberty’s. She’s got simply splendid taste and it’s time we had a change from that Old Maltonian one he always wears.’
Ginger shook his head.
‘No, Algy, that just won’t do. We must do this properly.’
‘Not a tie, old sport? Perhaps some socks then. The little woman bought me a very dashing pair the other day to go with my plus-fours. They’d be just the job for Biggles.’
Once again Ginger shook his head.
‘Well what the heck then, Ginger? Gentleman’s Relish, cocktail biscuits, or how’s about a bottle of his favourite Bollinger champagne?’
‘Algy,’ said Ginger, looking profoundly serious, ‘you don’t seem to realise that this is an occasion we should celebrate in style. A chap’s only thirty once in his life, and we really must do something to show Biggles how much we appreciate him.’
‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Algy dubiously.
‘I’m not too sure, but I do feel we should really push the boat out.’
‘You mean a jolly old party? What about the Café Royal? They do one very well, and Biggles rather looks upon the place as a sort of home from home. We could have lashings of champagne, all his old chums and the surviving members of the family. Might cheer him up a bit.’
Ginger shook his head. ‘Algy, for goodness sake,’ he said. ‘You should know Biggles better than that. It would embarrass him to death. Speeches, great hordes of people — that’s not his thing at all.’
‘Well I don’t know then,’ Algy replied, snorting with exasperation. ‘Why don’t we take him off to Timbuctoo?’
Ginger paused thoughtfully before replying.
‘You know, Algy,’ he said finally, ‘I really think that that could be a frightfully good idea.’
Once the idea of Timbuctoo was mooted, Ginger began to work on it with his customary dedication. Algy, of course, had no glimmering of what his essentially facetious suggestion had begun, and would probably have been quite put out if he had. But luckily for everyone, his romance was taking up almost all his tme and Ginger had the field to himself. His main conspirator in the project was the invaluable Nobby Smyth, and before long the whole extraordinary plan started taking shape.
The essence of it all was that it had to take the form of a surprise, so everything was done in secret — provisions for a fortnight’s expedition were carefully laid in at Brooklands, the Cormorant was overhauled, the latest air charts of the Sahara obtained. Ginger was the most methodical of men and was determined that nothing should go wrong. An afternoon was spent at the Army and Navy Stores, purchasing mosquito nets, water-purifying pills, and a patent toilet set for travellers. A bakery in Curzon Street prepared a birthday cake — in the shape of an aeroplane, with thirty candles. As part of French Sudan, Timbuctoo was administered by the French. The French Consulate raised no objection to the trip, and was helpful over the question of accommodation.
‘No,’ the French Consul-General explained to Ginger, ‘there is unfortunately no real hotel in Timbuctoo, but we have what we call a campement — a sort of rest house in the city built to accommodate occasional travellers. I’m told it’s somewhat primitive, but if you’re really set on going, you can at least be sure that all of you will find a bed.’
‘That’s all we need,’ replied Ginger cheerfully. ‘It sounds the perfect place for what we want.’
‘But what exactly do you want, monsieur?’ asked the puzzled diplomat.
‘A place to hold a birthday party,’ Ginger answered, pulling a somewhat rueful face. ‘You see sir, I have a friend, a rich, eccentric Englishman, who’s made a bet that he will celebrate his birthday out in Timbuctoo. And so you see ...’
‘Ah-hah!’ replied the Frenchman, brightening at once. ‘A bet, monsieur. I understand.’
‘A telegram?’ groaned Biggles with his mouth half full of kidneys and fried bread. ‘Really, Mrs Symes. You might have waited until after the repast. Always trouble, telegrams! And trouble’s very bad for the digestive juices — particularly at this unearthly hour of the morning.’
He pulled a face and opened the yellow envelope with the butter knife.
‘Well, old chap, what is it?’ asked Algy inquisitively from the far side of the breakfast-table. ‘Tell us the worst. Your mother’s coming up to stay?’
‘Not that, thank God,’ said Biggles quietly, as a look of deep preoccupation spread across his face. ‘No, this sounds rather interesting. It’s from our old friend, Jacques Nisberg from the Paris Sûreté. He’s in the Southern Sahara of all incredible places.’
‘What on earth’s he doing there?’
‘Investigating some expedition that has disappeared in the desert. It seems he wants help.’
‘Good grief,’ said Algy, nobbling The Times while Biggles’ attention was diverted. ‘These Frenchmen really are the bitter bottom. Next thing they’ll be asking us to blow their noses for them. The Sahara’s their responsibility, so why the heck pick on us?’
‘Because, old fruit, the bally expedition’s British. Don’t like the sound of it at all.’
‘Oh come now, Biggles,’ exclaimed Algy. ‘Surely you can’t be seriously considering going? You’ve never liked the desert — and besides, it’s your birthday tomorrow.’
‘Birthday be blowed,’ said Biggles angrily. ‘When have I ever let a birthday interfere with what is obviously our duty? Algy, old lad, our countrymen are probably dying of thirst or being massacred by tribesmen, and you talk of birthdays.’
‘I can’t help that,’ said Algy, ‘I’ve promised Deborah to drive her down to Hurlingham.’
Biggles was momentarily aghast.
‘You’ve what?’ he asked incredulously. ‘You sit there stuffing toast and marmalade and refuse to come on an adventure just because you’ve promised that young lady that you’ll take her down to Hurlingham? What are you, Algy Lacey? Man or mouse?’
‘But she’d be furious, Biggles,’ said Algy in a tortured voice.
‘Then brave her fury like a man. For God’s sa
ke, Algy, we won’t be away for long. A week at the maximum, and absence makes the heart grow fonder.’
‘Not with Deborah, old chap. Not with Deborah.’
When Ginger sent the telegram in Nisberg’s name, he had not been prepared for quite as positive a reaction as it got from Biggles, but luckily he and Smyth were ready. The Cormorant was packed and fuelled, the documents in order, and by lunchtime they were in the air and flying at a steady 200 m.p.h. on the first leg of their journey south.
‘Can’t think how you managed it so quickly, dear old boy,’ said Biggles breezily as he handled the controls. ‘You and old Nobby here must have worked miracles to get us off on time. Anyone would think you planned the jolly trip yourselves.’
Ginger and Nobby Smyth were sitting in the rear two seats, and at this Ginger felt an elbow nudge him in the ribs. Normally Ginger would have suffered from the pangs of conscience at the way he had deceived his friend, but he told himself that nobody enjoyed a practical joke more than Biggles, and knew quite well that once they got to Timbuctoo all would be forgiven. Already Biggles was looking happier than he had for months. His eyes were sparkling and he had that look of boyish concentration that he manifested only at the controls of a machine. Even Algy had recovered from the fit of sulks that followed a particularly stormy scene with Deborah when he announced the trip. The slightly hunted look about the eyes had gone already, and by the time they landed at Bordeaux the love-sick swain had been replaced by the Algy they had known of yore.
‘Just like old times to be off like this again,’ he chortled as he gunned the engines and the chocks were pulled away. ‘Biggles, old lad, you were quite right to make me come. When I think of those poor devils in the desert, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself if I’d left them to it simply to enjoy myself.’
The old Cormorant was flying beautifully, for all the world as if she too was bent upon a holiday. The sky was flecked with feather-like strands of cirrus clouds, the waters of the Bay of Biscay glittered in the summer sun, and soon the sunbaked landscape of Castile was steadily unrolling beneath them.
