by John Pearson
But that autumn, there was a stormy interview at Whitehall when Biggles flatly refused to take part in another of Raymond’s plots against von Stalhein — who by then was totally recovered and was the brain behind German Intelligence in Berlin. Algy, as usual, patched things up between the two men by telling Raymond the true facts about the death of Marie Janis, and it was really as a result of this that Squadron 666 resumed its role as an active service squadron stationed out of Britain. They fought in North Africa in 1942 (described by Captain Johns in Biggles Sweeps the Desert), and at the end of 1944 saw service in the Far East (a period which has been chronicled by Johns in Biggles in the Orient).
It was not until the war in Europe drew towards its close that 666 was back in England, covered with battle honours and with Biggles finally promoted Wing-Commander. It was a splendid squadron, fighting together as ‘a band of brothers’, and its members played a most distinguished part in the Normandy invasions and the subsequent attacks on Nazi Germany.
But Biggles always bore the scars of Marie’s death, and for the remainder of his life she and she alone would be the woman he loved, and had lost; nobody could ever take her place.
10
Biggles and the Mafia
‘Of course I’m glad it’s over!’ exclaimed Biggles sharply. ‘Only a homicidal maniac could possibly want the war to continue, but atom bombs, and those poor devils in Hiroshima blasted to kingdom come ... I know the Japs had asked for it, but what a way to go!’
‘Still,’ said Algy, ‘they’ve surrendered now, and that’ll save an awful lot of lives in the long run.’
‘Oh, I know, I know,’ said Biggles. ‘But, good grief Algy, we can remember how it all began! It seems like only yesterday that I was chucking Mills bombs over the side of a stringbag onto the Hun cavalry on the Western Front, and now it’s come to this — one bomber flying in at 20,000 feet, a single bomb that floats down on a parachute, and 30,000 simple citizens go up in a blinding flash. If that’s what fighting in the air has come to, I’m glad I’m out of it.’
It was three days after the Japanese surrender, and Biggles and Algy had given themselves a day off from their duties with their Squadron, and driven across from Tangmere to have lunch at English’s celebrated oyster bar in Brighton. They had called in to visit Algy’s parents on the way. Both were now very old, but as spry and tiresome as ever. Lady Priscilla was in charge of the local branch of the Women’s Voluntary Services, and his Lordship had several brand-new bees buzzing within his antiquated bonnet — including a plan for growing soya beans on the home farm at Lewes, and a campaign against the use of chemical insecticides, which he insisted were endangering the wild flowers of his beloved Sussex Downs. Nothing else seemed to worry him — not even the news that his sister, Biggles’ mother, was now bedridden in a nursing home in Hove — and after an hour of insecticides and soya beans, the two chums were grateful to escape to Brighton.
Perhaps it was the sight of what he called ‘those two old fogeys’ — as much as the thought of Hiroshima — that had put Biggles in the dumps, and certainly the lunch itself did little to improve his humour. He still had tender memories of English’s from before the war, but war had changed things drastically. Oysters were creatures of the past; instead, they were served a dried-egg omelette, followed by a fish called snoek which tasted, in Algy’s memorable phrase, ‘like seaboot fried in engine oil’.
But, as Algy knew quite well, the true cause of his cousin’s discontent was his feeling that an era in the air was over. Ever since the ending of the war in Europe the Squadron had been starting to run down, and Biggles knew that he would soon be facing what the other ranks called ‘Civvy Street’.
‘But you can’t give up flying, just like that!’ said Algy, as he bravely tackled a synthetic-cream meringue. ‘Flying’s in your blood. Good grief, man, vou’d go off your head without a crate to’
Biggles looked up sharply. Age had not dealt unkindly with those boyish features, and at forty-six he still looked ten years younger — this in spite of the fatigue and tension lines around his eyes.
‘But what on earth can I fly, old boy? Be reasonable. It’s not like after the last war when we set up Biggles and Co. together. We were so much younger then, mere boys when you come to think of it, and dear old Smyth could keep the aircraft going with fuse wire and a pair of pliers. Remember Brooklands in those days, and how easy it all was? Now you need a form to brush your teeth, and as for Brooklands, well it’s finished. No, old chap, it’s very kind of you to be concerned, but I have no illusions. I’m too old, Algy, and there’s nothing more pathetic than an old pilot trying to keep up with the boys.’
‘Nonsense, Biggles!’ Algy interjected. ‘You have what all the young whipper-snappers lack entirely — a lifetime of experience.’
‘Exactly Algy, and often it feels like a lifetime too. No, I’m retiring, dear old boy. As long as you have no objections, I think that I’ll withdraw my bit of capital from the account of Biggles and Co. and find myself a little place to settle down. Dorset or Somerset perhaps. I rather like the country, and I’ve been thinking lately that I wouldn’t mind a crack at writing. Old Bill Johns seems to do all right at the writing game — particularly with my exploits — so I honestly don’t see why I shouldn’t have a go myself. There’s still an awful lot of good material.’
‘But Biggles, that’s ridiculous,’ said Algy. ‘Writing’s a dog’s life, and the majority of writers are as poor as church mice. If you’re interested in books, for God’s sake be a publisher at least.’
‘Well, I don’t know, Algy. Possibly you’re right. You know, I’m going to miss the Squadron terribly when we’re demobilised.’
‘And how d’you think I feel, old bean?’ said Algy solemnly. ‘I’m not such a moody sort of cuss as you, but my future’s pretty bleak as well, unless I feel like growing soya beans. I had thought of setting up a little air charter firm but, stone the crows, the costs are astronomical.’
‘What’s astronomical?’ chimed in a familiar voice behind them. ‘The cost of Gordon’s gin, or Biggles’ thirst?’
The chums spun round, and there behind them, a dapper figures in a houndstooth check, stood Air Commodore Raymond.
‘Caught you both, eh?’ he beamed. ‘Playing hookie from the Squadron? It’ll never do, you know. Dreadful example for the other officers.’
‘Well, I suppose I could say the same for you, sir,’ replied Biggles, brightening at once. ‘But since the war’s over, Algy and I were treating ourselves to what one might term a celebration lunch.’
‘Splendid!’ said Raymond breezily. ‘That makes three of us. I’m celebrating too, but not just the ending of the war. The Home Secretary’s offered me a fascinating job, and to tell the truth I’m feeling just a little bucked.’
‘Congratulations, sir!’ said Biggles. ‘You must tell us all about it, or is it too hush-hush for the likes of us?’
‘Good heavens, no,’ said Raymond with a grin, ‘but first we must have a bottle of something suitable to celebrate.’
‘You’ll have a job, sir,’ replied Algy wryly. ‘Nothing in the bar except wartime gin and pale ale.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Raymond stroking his moustache, ‘I’m something of an habitué here, don’t you know, and Fred the barman’s an old friend of mine. Fred!’ he cried, signalling to a burly character behind the bar. ‘Could you come here a minute, please?’
Fred lumbered up and frowned lugubriously.
‘Sir?’ he groaned.
‘Fred, you must cheer up,’ said Raymond. ‘Happy days are here again, and my two friends and I require a bottle of champagne. What would you recommend? Veuve Clicquot, Bollinger, Dom Perignon? Price no object.’
‘You’re joking, sir, of course’ replied the gloomy barman.
‘Well, possibly, but do the best you can, there’s a good fellow.’
The barman muttered something and made off, but soon returned bearing, incredibly, a bottle of quite pa
ssable champagne.
‘That’s a good omen, sir,’ said Biggles, sipping the first champagne that he had had for several years. ‘Now what exactly is this job that all the excitement is about?’
‘Something completely new,’ the Air Commodore replied. ‘At least in theory, although in fact it’s not a great deal different from the sort of work that you two characters were doing for me long before the war. You see, the government are worried by the possibilities of air crime in the future. As you probably both know, there’s already been a lot of smuggling by aircrews from abroad. Only a month or so ago, a transport pilot based in Germany had the nerve to bring in a complete Mercedes car by air. Just goes to show what can be done. But most of the crime’s concerned with smaller stuff that’s much more difficult to spot — gold bullion, diamonds, currency. It’s quite an industry.’
‘One hears about these things,’ said Algy drily. ‘I can’t say that I approve, but on the other hand one can’t exactly blame the fellows. They’ve been fighting while the chaps at home have all been doing very nicely thank you.’
‘That’s not the point,’ said Raymond sharply. ‘And what’s really worrying isn’t what’s happening now, but what’s going to happen if the trend continues. Already, the airlines are starting up their peacetime routes, and very soon there’ll be a crime explosion in the air, unless we do something positive about it.’
‘I take it that’s where you come in, sir,’ interjected Biggles.
Raymond nodded.
‘Right as usual, James. Yes, the Home Secretary has asked me to take charge of a small department at New Scotland Yard, dealing exclusively with airborne crime. Officially, of course, I’ll be responsible to the Commissioner of Police, but in fact I’ll be very much my own master. Luckily, I think I know the ropes, but I’ll be building up the whole confounded shooting-match from scratch. Hell of a task, but quite exciting in its way.’
‘I’ll say,’ said Algy. ‘I rather envy you.’
‘Do you indeed?’ replied Raymond dividing the remainder of the bottle into the empty glasses. ‘Then perhaps you can give me some advice. My biggest problem’s simply personnel. Devil’s own job to pick the right chaps for this sort of show, and everything depends on that. But your ordinary police detective’s not much good and, frankly, the money’s not sufficient to attract ambitious youngsters from the services.’
‘I shouldn’t have thought the money was too big a problem,’ said Biggles thoughtfully, ‘but what sort of fellows do you really want?’
‘Well,’ replied Raymond with a smile, ‘without trying to flatter you too much, I’d say characters not unlike your own good selves — experienced fliers, no obvious criminal record, housetrained, reasonably healthy and able to hold their liquor like gentlemen. If there are any fellows in your Squadron you can recommend, for Lord’s sake let me know.’
‘We will, sir,’ answered Biggles. ‘But I’d say you’ll have your work cut out trying to find anyone like us. Algy and I are quite unique. Aren’t we Algy?’
‘I like to think so, but we’ll do our best.’
‘Excellent!’ said Raymond, beckoning for the bill. ‘We’ll be in touch then. You can get me at the Yard. Same old number as before.’
The flat in Mount Street hadn’t changed perceptibly during the years of war — except to become a little shabbier. Some of the windows had been broken in the bombing, and the sitting room ceiling still bore the scars of an incendiary bomb that nearly set the place alight, but otherwise it all remained as familiar and chaotic as ever. Biggles and Algy had kept it on throughout the war, although they rarely saw it while they were serving with the R.A.F. The indomitable Mrs Symes, now widowed, had moved in. Friends used it for odd nights when they were on leave in London, the rent was paid each month by banker’s order, and that was that.
But for Biggles and Algy, Mount Street was home. It was where they kept their old civilian suits, their souvenirs and all the clutter of a lifetime, and now that the war was over, it was to Mount Street that they automatically returned, since their service with the R.A.F. was coming to an end. Officially they were both on ‘demobilisation leave’, but in effect they were both free men and were glad to be away from Tangmere and the gloomy business of disbanding their beloved Squadron.
At first, the days passed swiftly. They had old friends to see and were occupied getting the flat in order. But post-war London was a somewhat dreary place. Restaurants were bad, theatres packed, and pubs impossible. There was no petrol, so the famous Bentley stayed where it had been throughout the war — on blocks in the coach-house down at Lewes. Algy was trying to keep up a desultory romance with a W.A.A.F. called Anthea. She was another of his large, blonde amazons, and worked as a coding clerk at the Air Ministry in Whitehall, but she too had been affected by the ending of the war. Her eyes were clearly set on marriage, and Algy’s were becoming shifty.
‘Nice girl, Anthea,’ he’d say to Biggles, ‘but for some bally reason she keeps nagging me to take her down to Lewes. Wants to meet the parents. For the life of me I can’t think why.’
(Finally, the problem solved itself when Anthea transferred her favours to a man called Smith who owned a garage on the Kingston by-pass.)
Within a week or two it was obvious that the cousins were getting on each other’s nerves. Algy was restless. Biggles still talked about his cottage down in Dorset, but did nothing about it. Both of them drank too much, and there were several minor rows.
There had been no news from Air Commodore Raymond since they had seen him down at Brighton. Biggles had taken him at his word, and recommended half a dozen names of likely members of his Squadron, but without acknowledgement.
‘Drat him!’ said Biggles. ‘The old devil could at least have telephoned.’
‘Forget him,’ counselled Algy. ‘He must be furiously busy and there’s no earthly reason why he should now be bothered with the likes of us.’
But Algy was wrong, and the very next morning an official-looking letter turned up on the breakfast table inviting them both to dinner two days later at the Blazers’ Club.
‘Ah, James, Algy, quite like old times, what!’ exclaimed the Air Commodore as he met his guests in the pillared entrance hall of his exclusive London club. But he was being over-optimistic, for the Blazers’ Club, like most of London, had patently seen better days. The walls were dingy and unpainted, and old Tatham, the legendary head-porter (once described by the Prince of Wales himself as ‘the discreetest man in London’) had died, so it was said, of drink. Raymond, too, was looking distinctly the worse for wear — quite different from the ebullient individual the chums had seen in Brighton just a month before.
‘And a great treat to be back here, sir,’ said Biggles brightly. ‘Both of us have been looking forward to it since we received your invitation, haven’t we Algy?’
He nodded ‘How’s the new job going, sir? We’ve often thought about you.’
‘That’s decent of you, Algy,’ the Air Commodore replied, with a somewhat weary smile. ‘I feel in need of all the sympathy that I can get.’
‘Difficult?’ asked Biggles.
‘Diabolical!’ replied Raymond with a fleeting frown. ‘Still, I mustn’t burden you two with my troubles. Come and have a drink.’
Two pink gins and twenty minutes later, the friends were seated in the famous Adam dining-room, their taste buds quivering in keen anticipation of the treat in store.
‘Well now, let’s see,’ said Raymond as he screwed his monocle in place with a well-remembered gesture, and turned his attention to the menu.
‘Rather good, tonight! We even have a choice. Rissoles or shepherd’s pie. Frankly, I think I would advise against the rissoles. Never quite sure what goes into them. There are rumours...’
‘Quite,’ said Biggles, doing his level best to hide the disappointment in his heart. ‘I always have been one for shepherd’s pie, ever since I was a boy. Good old nursery food. Can’t beat it!’
‘Absolutely,’ echo
ed Algy sadly. ‘Shepherd’s pie for me sir, if you please.’
‘Capital,’ said Raymond. ‘And with any luck the wine waiter might be able to produce something suitable to go with it.’
‘The Moroccan red, Air Commodore?’ inquired the Club sommelier respectfully.
‘I think so, VVarburton. And please make sure that it’s at room temperature.’
‘Of course, Air Commodore,’ replied the old retainer.
The shepherd’s pie fulfilled their worst forebodings — ‘I think they must have put the poor old shepherd and his blinking dog into it,’ said Algy afterwards — and the Club Moroccan, even when beautifully decanted, looked and tasted like red ink. It hardly helped the conversation, and the first half of the meal passed in dismal silence, interspersed with ill-directed shafts of Algy’s so-called wit. Finally, Biggles could bear the atmosphere no longer.
‘What’s up, sir?’ he asked as gently as he could. ‘What exactly has gone wrong with this new job of yours? It sounded absolutely corking when you told us all about it down in Brighton.’
Raymond pushed the grey remains of the shepherd’s pie away and shook his head.
‘Afraid I spoke too soon, James my boy. A weakness I suppose I’ve always had. No, it’s turning out to be an absolute fiasco, and it’s really my own fault.’
‘Why on earth?’ said Biggles, with quite genuine amazement.
‘I can only suppose I’m losing my grip, James, or perhaps I’m just too old a dog to learn the new tricks that the job requires. Truth is, there’s an awful lot of jealousy at Scotland Yard — I’m telling you all this in strictest confidence, of course.’
‘Of course,’ said Biggles. ‘But who’s being jealous?’
‘Most of the senior officers. Quite incredible, you know, that grown men could behave like so many silly spinsters, but it appears that there is considerable resentment at the way I was appointed over their heads. Never had to deal with this sort of thing before and I’m not very good at it. Also, politics comes into it. The airlines are anxious to have their own security organisation and have done their best to keep me out. Can’t find the personnel I need, and the long and short of it is that the whole confounded shooting match looks like becoming a disaster.’
