Biggles

by John Pearson

  ‘Phew!’ said Biggles when they were safely in the ante-room. ‘I’m sorry about that, sir, but there are some things a man can’t take from anyone.’

  ‘Quite so. All the same, it was a pity that they had to come from him. You know who he was, of course?’

  Biggles shook his head.

  ‘Elberton. Lord Elberton. They say he’s the richest man in England.’

  Algy had just returned from an evening with a Venezuelan divorcee at the 400 Club, and was in predictably high spirits when Biggles arrived back at the flat in Mount Street. The irrepressible Ginger Hebblethwaite was there as well, preparing a night-cap of his patent hot rum punch.

  ‘Gorgeous little creature,’ Algy was remarking. ‘Says that she’d like a spin in the old kite. Any objections, Biggles, if we flip across to Paris for the weekend?’

  ‘Do as you please,’ said Biggles glumly.

  ‘Steady on now,’ Algy said, swinging his long legs off the battered sofa. ‘What’s up, old scout?’

  ‘Oh nothing!’ Biggles replied irritably, but Algy wasn’t having that.

  ‘Can’t have this sort of thing. Trouble with that blasted bank manager of yours again? I’ll skin his hide and use it to repair the Cormorant’s fuselage.’

  ‘Not such a bad idea,’ replied Biggles, grinning now despite himself. ‘No, it’s not old money-bags this time. There was an oaf who picked on me tonight at the Blazers’ Club with Colonel Raymond, and I rather lost my rag with him. Dashed embarrassing. I wish it hadn’t happened.’

  Algy smiled at this. ‘Is that all? For a moment you really had me worried. Thought that we were just about to lose our precious overdraft. Who was this frightful bounder?’

  ‘Somebody called Lord Elberton. Quite the most offensive man I’ve ever met.’

  Algy’s habitually placid countenance was suddenly aghast.

  ‘Biggles, old man, you must be joking!’

  ‘Not at all. A frightful hound.’

  ‘But didn’t you know about Elberton before?’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘What was there to know, except that I can’t stand him?’

  ‘Lord Elberton, dear boy, is a great pal of the Pater’s, and we are relying on him to back us for our entry into the race to Singapore and back. Or rather, we were.’

  ‘Great screaming seacows!’ Biggles said limply. ‘Somebody should have told me.’

  The aerial race from London to Singapore and back was being billed as the most exciting race in history. It had been sponsored by a London paper, with a prize of £50,000, and already several entries had been made from Europe and America.

  Biggles and Co. had been amdng the earliest to enter – partly for the fun of it, and partly too from sheer necessity. The rich days of the twenties were behind them. The Slump had come. Their life of high adventure had been marvellous, but for several years now it had failed to pay the bills. The occasional commissions Biggles got from Colonel Raymond were done from a sense of duty, not for cash, and but for Algy’s now distinctly shrunken legacy, it is hard to see how Biggles and Co. could possibly have survived.

  It was small wonder therefore that the prospect of the race had appeared as something of a chance of real salvation to them all. However, there were certain problems if they were to have any hope of winning. Most of them, as usual, involved money, or the lack of it. Apart from the inevitable expenses of entering the race — food, fuel, landing fees, and a hundred-and-one incidentals which the layman never thinks of — there was also the question of an aircraft. The Cormorant was ancient — and looked it. She had seen service now in every quarter of the globe, and was undoubtedly what Biggles called her when he was feeling pleased with life — ‘a very fine old bus indeed’. But fine old buses don’t win races, and the fact was that the Cormorant was obsolete and past her prime — hence Algy’s efforts in the last few days to find a wealthy backer who would help finance a new machine.

  Easier said than done. Backers that autumn were as rare as four-leafed clovers, and nothing but the direst desperation could have impelled Algy to discuss the matter with his father. For Lord Lacey had been growing more eccentric and more difficult with every year that passed. The failure of the critics to appreciate his life-work on the wild flowers of Sussex had embittered him, and he and Lady Lacey were both anxious now to get Algy to adopt a settled calling, find himself a suitable young bride, and act as was expected of the heir to a distinguished title. (Biggles’ mother was still trying to persuade her son in the same direction, but with even less success.)

  To Algy’s considerable surprise, Lord Lacey had been more than helpful, and had actually introduced him to Lord Elberton during a family weekend at Lewes. For some reason the cantankerous old man had taken quite a shine to Algy, who had used all his charm and talked enthusiastically about the vital role of flying for the British Empire. Elberton, who owned the second largest aircraft factory in the land, had all but promised to entrust the company’s hush-hush, long-range, twin-engined monoplane to Biggles and Co. for the race.

  ‘All we can hope,’ said Algy, ‘is that the old boy fails to realise that Biggles and Co. has anything to do with the man who threatened to punch him on the nose at Blazers’.’

  ‘He might,’ said Biggles.

  But he didn’t. Next morning, scarcely was breakfast over, than the telephone was ringing in the hall.

  ‘Someone wants you Biggles,’ shouted Ginger. ‘Sounds pretty urgent.’

  ‘Can’t a fellow finish The Times crossword puzzle in peace without being pestered by the blasted telephone?’ Biggles grumbled, leaving an unfinished slice of toast and Coopers on his plate. ‘Yes? Who is it?’

  ‘Lord Elberton’s secretary here. His Lordship asked me to convey his compliments to Major Bigglesworth and to say he’d like a word with him about the air race as soon as possible. Could you manage this afternoon?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Biggles. ‘Yes, I can.’

  Elberton House was just behind the Ritz, and Biggles had a final pink gin in the Rivoli Bar with Algy to keep his spirits up.

  ‘Remember how you used to feel when faced with a pack of Halberstadts?’ said Biggles as he drained his glass. ‘Well, that’s how I feel now — only rather worse.’

  ‘Good luck, old scout!’ said Algy. ‘Do your best. You can’t do more.’

  ‘I’ll try, old bean, but don’t expect too much. I did threaten to punch the blighter on the nose.’

  But when he was finally led in to meet the millionaire, no reference was made at first to their argument the night before. The little man looked more than ever like a gnome as he perched behind a vast desk with a view across the park.

  ‘So, Major Bigglesworth,’ he said, ‘you are the friend of young Algy Lacey who wants to enter for the race to Singapore?’

  Biggles nodded.

  ‘And you wish to fly my aeroplane and have my full financial backing?’

  Biggles felt tongue-tied and could only bring himself to nod again.

  ‘I see.’ The old man smiled to himself and peered at Biggles with extraordinarily sharp eyes. ‘A bit unfortunate in the circumstances that you spoke to me the way you did last night. No, don’t apologise, it’ll do no good. But tell me Bigglesworth — what would you do if you were sitting here in my position?’

  ‘Rather a tough question, sir,’ answered Biggles turning very red.

  ‘It’s meant to be.’ He tapped reflectively against the desk, then lit a large cigar.

  ‘If I remember rightly, Major Bigglesworth, you started our, er, conversation at the Club last night by saying that you’d like a challenge. Well, Major, I feel inclined to give you one.’

  ‘That’s very decent of you, sir,’ said Biggles hurriedly.

  ‘Now not so fast. Hear me out, young man. I said a challenge, and I mean exactly what I say. I’m quite prepared to stick to my part of the bargain, and back you both, on one condition.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘That we have a little bet,
just you and me. If you win, you and Lacey take everything — £50,000 prize money, and to make it more exciting, I’m prepared to double it.’

  ‘But if we don’t?’

  ‘Ah-ah!’ replied Lord Elberton, rubbing his bony hands together. ‘I gather, Major, that you and Lacey are joint owners of a small company which you call Biggles and Co. Am I right?’

  Biggles nodded, and Lord Elberton continued.

  ‘Its assets, correct me if I’m wrong, include two aircraft, somewhat past their best, a Bentley motor-car, a lease on a flat in Mount Street, and a part share in a hangar down at Brooklands aerodrome.’

  ‘Your Lordship is extremely well informed,’ said Biggles, somewhat shaken by the old man’s accuracy.

  ‘A practice to which I owe what small success I’ve had in life,’ replied the old man, smiling like a cheerful toad. ‘Now, what I would suggest is this. Against my offer you would stake your company. Win the race and you get £100,000. Lose it, and I get Biggles and Co. What d’you say now, Major? At least I’m trying to make life just a bit more interesting for you.’

  ‘Extremely kind of you, I’m sure,’ said Biggles tactfully, ‘but you must realise that I can’t possibly take a decision like this on my own account. There’s Algy Lacey to consider, and our old pal, Ginger Hebblethwaite — not to mention our mechanic, Smyth. They’re all involved.’

  ‘So much the better,’ said the millionaire, who was grinning wickedly by now. ‘Very well, then. I’m quite prepared to wait for your decision till tomorrow at noon. If I don’t hear from you by then, the whole deal’s off. Good day to you, Major Bigglesworth.’

  ‘If pigs could fly,’ mused Algy, ‘I’d send a flock of them right over Elberton House, old chap.’

  ‘Might improve the place no end,’ replied Biggles, ‘but since they don’t, what are we going to do? I feel dashed bad about it all. It really is my fault.’

  ‘Fiddlesticks!’ exclaimed Algy. ‘I’m beginning to wish you’d punched the old windbag on the nose and had done with it. It might have improved his manners. What’s your opinion of his offer, Ginger?’

  ‘Well,’ said the Yorkshireman, frowning with concentration, ‘I don’t see what we’ve got to lose. If things go on as they’ve been going lately, Biggles and Co. will have ceased to exist a year from now anyway.’

  ‘But what about this flat?’ asked Biggles gloomily. ‘If we don’t win we’ll be out on our collective ear. We’ll lose our home — and poor old Algy’s Bentley.’

  ‘A risk we have to take,’ said Algy cheerfully. ‘I’m quite easy about it all, and I must say I agree with Ginger. We really haven’t any choice. Besides, in a ghastly way, old Elberton’s quite right, It is a challenge — and it will stop you getting bored.’

  Two days later, all the personnel of Biggles and Co. were gathered on the tarmac of an aerodrome near Winchester, gazing excitedly at the sleek green monster which a group of Lord Elberton’s mechanics had just wheeled out of his aircraft company’s secret hangar.

  ‘So that’s the Swallow,’ exclaimed Algy. ‘Not so dusty. You must certainly hand it to old Elberton, he knows how to build aeroplanes, and no mistake, What’s her speed, Biggles?’

  ‘They’re claiming something like 280 m.p.h. for her,’ said Biggles cautiously. ‘I’d like to test her for myself.’

  ‘And range?’

  ‘Two thousand miles between each refuelling stop. Again, that’s what they claim.’

  ‘Jehosaphat!’ said Algy. ‘You realise what that means, Biggles, if the claims are right? There’s not an aircraft in the world to equal her. As long as we get to Singapore and back we’ll keep the Bentley yet. When do we get a chance to fly her?’

  ‘Any minute now. His Lordship wanted to be here in person when we tried her out. And unless I’m much mistaken, this is the unpleasant old gentleman now.’

  As Biggles spoke an enormous black Rolls-Royce purred along the tarmac. It stopped, and Lord Elberton got out.

  ‘Ah Bigglesworth! Lacey! Well, what d’you think of my latest toy?’

  ‘Looks jolly good, sir,’ Algy replied enthusiastically.

  ‘Can we try her out?’ asked Biggles briskly. ‘We’d love a chance to see how she performs.’

  ‘Of course, of course. But I’ve got news for you. The entries to the race are hotting up. I was lunching in the House of Lords with Lord Carbury, whose paper’s running it, and he tells me more than twenty entries have now arrived. Some of them look like giving you a good run for your money — or rather, for mine.’

  ‘Any news of who they are?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Several from America, and half a dozen or so from France, including Lamartine who flies for Breguet. Doesn’t he hold the record to Brazil and back?’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Splendid flier. Knew him in the war. We’ve got real opposition with him around. Any news from Germany?’

  ‘Interesting that you ask. Carbury seemed a little vague about the Huns, but thinks the German government was backing someone flying a revolutionary aircraft built by the Heinkel Company. There are a lot of rumours about it, and the government is making it a matter of national prestige to win. Sure you don’t want to back out while you’ve got the chance?’

  ‘D’you think we’re likely to, sir?’ replied Biggles.

  ‘Frankly, Major Bigglesworth, I don’t’

  ‘Not bad, eh?’ shouted Biggles over the roar of the slipstream as he pulled the Swallow out of a power-dive and sent the machine hurtling across the aerodrome at fifty feet.

  Algy’s freckled face grinned back in boyish enthusiasm as he gave the thumbs up from the seat beside him. This was excitement such as neither had experienced since combat flying in the war. The controls were perfect, and after the faithful Cormorant, Biggles felt like a driver who had just exchanged an old Ford for a racing car. He took the aircraft up to 14,000 feet then opened up the throttle to the maximum. The dial on the dashboard was quivering around 300 m.p.h. as the English coastline disappeared behind them and the wave-flecked waters of the’English Channel beckoned them to France. The Swallow seemed to fly herself, and Biggles would have cheerfully flown on to Istanbul, but he knew that Elberton was waiting, and reluctantly turned the Swallow’s elegant nose for home and brought her in to land with the sort of three-point landing he had made his trademark.

  ‘Well?’ said Lord Elberton, grinning like a very old malicious dwarf. ‘And what’s your verdict on my aeroplane now, Major Biggles worth?’

  ‘Words fail me, sir, and that’s a fact!’ said Biggles, whose nerves were still tingling with excitement.

  ‘Come now, Major. Reticence is all very well, but I do expect a clear report from my associates. Is the Swallow up to scratch?’

  ‘I’d like to fly her round the world,’ said Biggles.

  ‘Just get her out to Singapore ahead of everybody else. That’s all I ask,’ replied Lord Elberton.

  The beginning of the race was still a week away, and Biggles and Algy had last-minute preparations to complete, when disturbing rumours reached them. The first was from America — a report in the New York Herald Tribune that Charlie Bray, the stunt-man from Milwaukee, had signed up with the Cessna Corporation to fly their latest long-range aircraft in the race.

  ‘Not the Charlie Bray?’ exclaimed Algy with alarm. ‘The man’s a flaming lunatic, and a frightful bounder. He’s generally drunk. When he gets in the cockpit, anything can happen.’

  ‘Admittedly he’s not a gent — but then, who is these days?’ said Biggles in reply. ‘But Charlie’s not a loser. When he flies he flies to win, and with him at the controls of the latest Cessna we’ll have our work cut out, Algernon my boy.’

  ‘Oh, we can cope with Charlie,’ said the ever-optimistic Ginger Hebblethwaite. ‘It’s the Huns who worry me. Do we know yet who is piloting the Heinkel that Lord Elberton was so concerned about?’

  Biggles shook his head.

  ‘The old boy’s been trying everything he knows to get the details of their team,
but Berlin’s suddenly clammed up. Not a dicky-bird,’ Algy explained.

  ‘Somehow I don’t like that,’ said Biggles. ‘I never trust our sauerkraut-loving friends when they start getting secretive. I wonder just what they’re concealing up their grimy sleeves?’

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Algy with a grin. ‘We’ve licked them before and I’m quite confident that we can lick ‘em now. Let’sjust concentrate on the Swallow. That’s all that should concern us now.’

  As it soon transpired, Algy spoke more accurately than he realised, for barely half an hour later, as the friends were relishing Mrs Symes’s bacon, sausages and chips, the telephone pealed through the tiny flat.

  ‘One day I’ll throw that confounded instrument straight through the window!’ grumbled Biggles. ‘For Pete’s sake answer it, Ginger, there’s a good fellow. Oh, and Algy, easy with the tomato ketchup! That’s all there is.’

  Algy pulled a face, and Ginger dutifully went off to deal with the telephone. He was gone a long time and when he returned his face was grave.

  ‘Ginger, my dear old chap, what is it?’ ejaculated Biggles. ‘You look as if you’ve seen the ghost of Christmas.’

  ‘I only wish I had,’ said Ginger. ‘That was the Duty Officer from the airfield. Someone has sabotaged the Swallow.’

  Less than five minutes later, the Bentley was thundering along the road to Winchester, with Algy at the wheel.

  ‘You never know,’ bawled Algy in his usual optimistic vein, ‘it could easily be nothing very much. Once Smyth gets going on the damage, I’m sure he’ll have the old bus shipshape in no time at all.’

  ‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ shouted Biggles in reply. ‘It sounded pretty bad to me. With only six days left before the race begins, it’s really serious.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see,’ said Ginger reasonably.

  But as it turned out, Biggles was, as usual, right. As they reached the barbed-wire fence of the small airport, a fire-engine was just leaving, and a hideous stench of burning greeted them. By the Swallow’s hangar, Smithson, the Duty Officer, greeted them, grim-faced with misery.