Biggles

by John Pearson

  ‘Of course, Biggles my old friend,’ replied the Brigadiere with sadness in his voice. ‘My wife keeps telling me I eat too much. What can I do for you? All the men at my command are yours.’

  ‘Extremely kind of you,’ said Biggles quickly. ‘Now first, I want a man arrested.’

  ‘Is that all, my friend?’ the Brigadiere replied with an enormous grin. ‘You mean we’re giving up our dinner just because of that? Who is this cretino who is so important?’

  ‘A British airline steward by the name of Burt, Charles Burt. His plane will be landing at the airport in forty minutes’ time. He will be staying here one night, and tomorrow morning flying back to London, then on to the United States. He is said to look rather like me, and I would like him brought here straight away, then guarded safely for the night and put back on his plane tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No trouble,’ said the Brigadiere, ‘but what has he done, this Charles Burt of yours?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Biggles, ‘but it’s because of what I know he will do if he’s left free in Rome tonight that I want him safely under lock and key. You see, Luigi, I intend to take his place, and from then on my life will be entirely in your hands.’

  By the standards of the Via Veneto, the Jockey Club appeared distinctly dull when Biggles entered it just before eleven o’clock that evening. Outside, there was a neon sign with a horse’s head in bright mauve lights, but the actual bar was down a flight of steps, and rather dimly lit. Not surprisingly, Biggles felt distinctly ill at ease in his airline steward’s uniform as he picked himself a table and beckoned to the barman for a drink. Burt was a thinner man than Biggles, and the trousers pinched uncomfortably around the waist, but apart from this he made a reasonable-looking British airline steward, and in the dim light of the Jockey Club, no one would notice the deception.

  The bar was fairly full, and Biggles had to wait some time for his Scotch and soda. He sipped it slowly and looked carefully around him. He was the only person there in uniform and most of the customers appeared to be tourists or good-time girls. Somebody played a Frank Sinatra record on the juke-box — a singer Biggles particularly disliked — and he was just about to drown his irritation in another drink, when a voice said, ‘Mr Burt?’

  Biggles looked up to see a short bald man of extraordinary girth grinning at him from the entrance to the bar. Biggles nodded and the fat man ambled over.

  ‘Can I join you for a drink?’ he asked.

  ‘Please,’ said Biggles affably.

  As the fat man lowered himself into his seat, Biggles’ eyes were drawn to his hands. They were large and very white, and the left hand was v/ithout its second finger.

  ‘I must introduce myself,’ the fat man said. ‘I am known as “the Barber”.’

  ‘And so you see,’ concluded Biggles an hour and several whiskies later, ‘I’m just not risking it. My old pal Hinds told me it would be all right, and that I’d get $100 for my trouble, but he’s in prison. It’s not good enough.’

  The Barber smiled like a humorous blancmange and shook his head.

  ‘You are too nervous, Mr Burt. There is no danger. Your friend Hinds was a fool. He took unnecessary risks, but even so he will be well looked after. We are a powerful organisation, Mr Burt.’

  ‘That cuts no ice with me, and $100 is ridiculous. You’ve heard the rumours?’

  ‘What rumours?’ asked the Barber softly.

  ‘That the new British Special Air Police are on to this. They’ve got two men in Rome at the moment. I even know their names.’

  ‘Who are they, Mr Burt?’

  ‘Now, not so fast,’ said Biggles quietly. ‘I need money. A lot of money. Far more than SI00. And you can tell the people that you work for that if I don’t get it, I am going to this Special Air Police and giving them everything I know.’

  ‘That would not be wise, Mr Burt,’ said the fat man with a gentle smile.

  ‘Wise or not,’ replied Biggles, ‘I need money, and I know enough about the people that you work for to know that you can pay me properly. A thousand dollars for the names of the men from the Special Air Police, or you’re in for trouble.’

  The fat man shook his head and sighed.

  ‘Somehow, I don’t think that we’re the ones who are in for trouble, Mr Burt,’ he said.

  Biggles was certain he was being followed as he left the Club, and made a point of keeping to the brightly lit main thoroughfares as he began walking back to his hotel. He was aware of the danger he was in. Indeed, he had purposely created it, but he was counting on the gang’s anxiety to find out all about the Special Air Police to stop them killing him — for the time being, at any rate.

  All the same, he could not be sure. Perhaps the Barber, or his bosses, would decide to annihilate him without more ado. Perhaps a shot from a passing car, or a blow on the back of the head — anything. It was not the situation for a squeamish individual.

  But Biggles had been in tougher scrapes than this before, and if there was one thing he was used to it was the art of taking a calculated risk with his life. He gave no sign of fear, but strolled from the Via Veneto down the hill towards the Piazza Barberini. Late though it was, the street was fairly crowded, and he had almost reached the main piazza when a car screeched up behind him, somebody leapt out, and something hard was thrust against his ribs.

  ‘Into the car before we plug you, mister,’ said an Italian voice with a strong Brooklyn accent. Biggles made no effort to resist. Someone already in the car grapped his arms, then the door slammed, and the car roared off into the Roman night.

  A hood was thrown over his face, but he judged that the journey lasted half-an-hour or so, and just before the car stopped, there was a drumming noise as if they were driving over cobble stones.

  ‘Get out,’ barked the same voice when the car had skidded to a halt. The hood was still held firmly round his head. Someone kicked him, and he nearly fell. Then, with men each side of him and his arms twisted painfully behind his back, he was dragged into a house and up some stairs. He heard a door slam heavily behind him, then a thin voice with a harsh Italian accent said, ‘Remove his hood!’

  Biggles blinked, both with surprise and at the unaccustomed light, for he was standing in an enormous ballroom. Chandeliers sparkled from the ceiling and were reflected in the gilt and the mirrors on the walls. Straight in front of him stretched a long table, with perhaps a dozen men seated around it. The man who had ordered the removal of his hood seemed to be presiding, and it was he who now began the questioning.

  ‘What do you know about the agents from the British Air Police who are now in Rome?’

  Biggles bit his tongue and shook his head.

  ‘Come now, Mr Burt, if that’s your real name, don’t play the fool with us. I give you just one chance to speak.’

  Once again Biggles shook his head.

  ‘Very well. Aldo — hurt him, just a little.’

  Biggles tensed, and then as someone wrenched his arms behind his back, pain seemed to sear his body like an electric shock.

  But he knew that at all costs he must spin things out, until Algy and the Brigadiere arrived. It had been carefully worked out that they would shadow him — then follow his abductors to their destination. Right now, they should be closing in on the house.

  ‘Why should I tell you anything?’ he said defiantly, gritting his teeth and staring his interrogator in the eye. He was a grey-faced skeleton of a man with closely cropped white hair and a nervous tic that distorted the left-hand corner of his mouth.’

  ‘Aldo! Again please, but a little harder!’

  This time the pain was more extreme and an involuntary groan burst from Biggles’ lips.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll talk, but tell your thug to let me be. And I’d like a chair to sit on please, for this is going to take time.’

  The skeleton allowed himself a ghostly smile.

  ‘Such British arrogance — I find it rather pleasing! Aldo, a chair for the gentleman. And now
sir, let us hear please what you have to tell us — but quickly. My friends and I have business to attend to and we can’t stay here all night.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Brigadiere,’ shouted Algy, as the army-green Alfa Romeo hurtled past the Colosseum in the rain, ‘we can’t have lost them just like that.’

  ‘Patience, Signor Lacey! Patience!’ the Brigadiere replied. ‘They must have a racing driver in that car of theirs to have given us the slip like that, but never fear! Our other cars will pick them up, now that they have the car’s description.’

  ‘They’d better,’ answered Algy grimly. ‘While we’re looking for them, they could be doing anything to Biggles.’

  ‘Somehow I think that Signor Biggles can look after himself quite well. Ah, this sounds like something now.’

  As he spoke, the high-pitched squawk of the police radio filled the car, and the two armed carabinieri in the seats behind them muttered something Algy failed to catch.

  ‘The car’s been sighted heading down the Via Appia Antica, and two of our squad cars are following.’

  He switched the radio to transmit and gabbled an order in Italian.

  ‘There,’ he said. ‘I’ve told them to see where the car goes, but not to close in till we arrive. We haven’t lost much time, Signor. Biggles will be all right and we can catch the whole gang as he intended. We must get moving!’

  Saying this, he put his foot down hard and the powerful car sped like a bullet through the deserted streets of the ancient city. Another message came across the radio.

  ‘We’re in luck, Signor Lacey,’ said the Brigadiere. ‘They’ve taken Biggles to a big house in the country just beyond the airport, and we’ve already got the place surrounded. Also, we know who owns the house.’

  ‘Who’s that?’ asked Algy.

  ‘A Neapolitan called Don Gesualdo. He’s very rich and quite notorious. As a young man he was in America with the Chicago Mafia, and for years he was one of Lucky Luciano’s top men. Just before the war, the Americans deported him back to Italy, and while we’ve known that he was running a lot of the black market here in Rome, we’ve not been able to pin anything on him. I’m not surprised he’s-mixed up in narcotics. It all makes sense — and thanks to your friend Biggles, we can catch him and his gang red-handed.’

  He shouted something in Italian to the men behind him, and Algy heard the deadly click of sub-machine-guns being cocked. Then came the racket as the car hit the cobbles, and a few minutes later they screeched up beside a long white wall. The Brigadiere leapt out, and raced towards the big steel gates that led to the house. There was a small microphone beside them in the wall, and he bellowed, ‘Open up! Carabinieri here!’ There was no reply, but all the lights suddenly went out in the house beyond. He beckoned to one of the carabinieri and pointed at the gate. The man fired a short burst at the lock, and the big gates suddenly swung open.

  By now, a dozen or so more Carabinieri had joined them, and at a cry from the Brigadiere they stormed the house. As they did so, gunfire rattled from an upper window. One of the carabinieri fell, but some of them were firing back, and the rest rushed on, Algy with them.

  It didn’t take them long to clear the house. Someone found the mains switch and the lights went on. They found the ballroom with the tables and the chairs in place, and soon Algy saw a dozen or so grim-faced gangsters with their hands above their heads being herded out into the courtyard. But, to his horror, there was no sign of Biggles.

  ‘Where is he? Where’s Biggles?’ he called to the Brigadiere.

  ‘No sign of him anywhere,’ the Brigadiere replied, with the beginnings of alarm in his voice. ‘We can’t find Don Gesualdo either.’

  There was a pause, then someone shouted in Italian from the far end of the house, and a spotlight from one of the police-cars jabbed the darkness. Three figures had emerged and stood there silhouetted in the light. One was fat, another very thin. Both of them held guns, and they were shielding themselves with a familiar stocky figure — Biggles.

  ‘Give yourselves up! You can’t escape!’ shouted the Brigadiere.

  ‘If you come any nearer,’ croaked the thin man in his high-pitched voice, ‘we shall be obliged to shoot the Englishman.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Don Gesualdo,’ shouted the Brigadiere. ‘You can’t get away.’

  ‘Oh yes we can,’ came the reply. ‘I require one of your cars, and we’re taking the Englishman with us hostage. Any nonsense from you and he dies.’

  Silence followed, and Algy could see the obvious emotion on the Brigadiere’s face as he struggled to decide exactly what to do. It was a hideous decision for a man to have to take, and for a moment Algy thought he would refuse. But finally, he nodded.

  ‘All right, Don Gesualdo,’ he replied, ‘but not a hair on the head of the Englishman must be harmed.’

  ‘That’s up to you and your policemen,’ the Neapolitan calmly answered. The next minute the two gangsters had dragged Biggles into one of the police cars, and were roaring off the way they had come along the cobbled road. The carabinieri followed them at a discreet distance, with Algy and the Brigadiere in the leading car.

  ‘Where d’you think they’re heading for?’ shouted Algy.

  ‘It looks as if they’re making back for Rome,’ the Brigadiere answered, then a moment later added, (Dio mio, no, they’re not. They’re heading for the airport, Signor Lacey.’

  The sky had cleared, and from an altitude of 6,000 feet, Algy had no great difficulty keeping the tail light of the plane he was following in sight. It was an underpowered Piper Cub and even the old Proctor had the edge on it for speed.

  No sooner had the gangsters and their hostage reached the airport than they had commandeered the plane, apparently with Don Gesualdo at the controls. From a distance, Algy and the Brigadiere had watched as the Barber had ordered Biggles aboard at gunpoint, and the little plane had taken off and headed south. Luckily the Proctor was nearby and had been refuelled and overhauled on arrival, so that within minutes of the gangsters’ take-off, Algy, the Brigadiere and two heavily-armed Carabinieri were in pursuit.

  Few pilots could have managed Algy’s task of following another plane at night without arousing the suspicions of the pilot, but Algy’s memories of stalking night-flying Fokkers on the Western Front thirty years before stood him in good stead. He held his height advantage, worked out the pilot’s blind spot behind his tail, throttled back, and kept his distance from the tiny light that danced ahead.

  The compass showed that they were flying south-south-east on a course that took them down the coast as far as Naples. For a while, he thought that he had lost the Cub, and all but panicked, imagining that it had crashed or landed somewhere. But, when he climbed, he saw the little plane a long way off, sticking to its course.

  By now the dawn was coming up, and soon he could see the rim of the ascending sun gleaming across the waters of the Straits of Messina that divide the toe of Italy from Sicily.

  ‘So that’s where they’re making for!’ said Algy.

  ‘But naturally,’ replied the Brigadiere. ‘Don Gesualdo is an important man in the Mafia, a capo mafioso, and the Mafia have their real strength in Sicily. I would imagine that he has some secret stronghold there, and knows that once he reaches it he’s safe.’

  ‘And Biggles?’ Algy asked.

  The Brigadiere shook his head. ‘Once he’s served his purpose as a hostage, I’d not give a great deal for his chances.’

  As the Brigadiere spoke these fateful words, Algy realised the time had come for him to act decisively if he wished to see his chum alive again.

  Away on the left horizon he could see the smouldering tip of Etna, Sicily’s volcano, and the land beneath was mountainous. He looked at his petrol gauge, and was disturbed to see that they had barely twenty minutes’ flying time remaining. The small town of Adrano passed beneath them, then Paterno, and from his map Algy could see that they were flying thirty or so miles inland from the city of Catania. Then the mountains we
re behind them, a stream appeared below, and Algy realised the Cub was going down to land.

  He could see what looked like a ruined castle set in a dusty plain. There seemed to be some sort of runway and as the Cub came in to land he could see a lorry already racing up to meet it. He increased the Proctor’s speed, and changed course so that he now approached the air-strip from the sun. The altimeter read five thousand feet. Below him, he could see the Cub had taxied to a halt, and ant-like figures were scurrying towards it. ‘Hold tight,’ he shouted to the Brigadiere above the screaming of the Proctor’s engine, ‘we’re going down.’

  It was a terrifying power-dive, the sort that Biggles had himself made something of a personal speciality. The throttle was wide open and the aircraft was hurtling downwards like a bomb. The noise was frightful, and from the corner of his eye, Algy saw the Brigadiere cross himself with fear, and one of the men behind him started shouting to the Virgin Mary.

  Everything depended now on absolute precision as the ground came rushing up to meet them. Algy knew the Proctor wasn’t built for treatment such as this, but it was a risk he had to take. By now, he could see a small group gathered round the aircraft on the landing strip and sighted the plane straight at them. They were already looking skywards with alarm, but the sun was in their eyes and dazzled them. Then one man lost his nerve and ran. Another followed, and in that last split-second of the dive, Algy could see them scattering in all directions.

  Then, and only then, with the Proctor a few hundred feet above the other aircraft, did he wrench back on the joy-stick, and it seemed as if the plane missed the ground by inches. — It was a virtuoso piece of old-style aerobatics, the sort of stunt that brought the crowds to their feet at air displays before the war, but Algy was stunting now for something more than thrills. As the Proctor had gone zooming off he spotted a familiar figure on the ground, as Biggles hared away from the other members of the gang. But clearly he still needed help, to stop the gang regrouping.