by W E Johns
'There she goes,' murmured Biggles.
The doomed ship slid forward like a great fish sub-merging. The waters closed over her, leaving nothing to show that she had ever been. All that remained was an area of what appeared to be burning water, a curious phenomenon on the blue sea.
'Well, ten minutes ago you were wanting something to happen,' remarked Algy quietly to Biggles. 'You've got your wish.'
'So it seems,' agreed Biggles evenly. 'But this, I need hardly say, is rather more than I bargained for. How far do you reckon we are from land?'
'Ten miles.'
'I should say rather less. There was a haze on the water.'
'Can we make it, do you think?' inquired Ginger.
'Lifebelts ought to keep us afloat for twenty-four hours. There is no tide in the Mediterranean, but if the current is favourable we ought to reach Spain. If it isn't, then it's no use. In that case our only chance is to be picked up by a ship. Our wireless operator might have had time to get out an SOS, but I doubt it. That first bomb hit somewhere near his cabin. Let's paddle towards the coast. Take it gently. It's no use exhausting ourselves.'
Chapter 2
A Swim in the Dark
For a long time they paddled on in silence, without apparently getting any nearer to the distant coast, which only showed as a faint blue shadow. It was difficult to tell, as Biggles pointed out to the others, at the same time expressing his appreciation of the fact that the sea was both calm and warm. The risk of succumbing to exposure was, therefore, greatly reduced.
Referring to their progress, he drew the others' attention to the fact that the distance of their horizon was now different from what it had been when they were on the ship, for then they were looking at it from an elevation of rather more than thirty feet. Another factor for which allowance had to be made was the westering sun; it was now on their left, whereas at noon it had been behind them. As evening was approaching, it was also a good deal lower in the sky.
With the coming of dusk the sea fell to a dead calm; not even a ripple stirred the surface. Not a boat of any description came within their restricted field of vision. They swam on quietly through a lonely sea, the only sound the gentle surging of the water around their bodies. Presently the distant shadows which they were hoping to reach merged with sea and sky, but with the closing in of night a lighthouse flashed an intermittent beam across the sky and gave them their direction.
Ginger cried aloud in alarm as a black body broke the surface of the water near them; he gasped his relief when Biggles announced that it was only a harmless porpoise. They swam on into the deepening gloom. Pinpoints of light appeared in the distance.
After what seemed to Ginger to be an eternity of time, Biggles announced cheerfully that they were making progress. 'I think we've struck a favourable current,' he said. 'The lights are brighter than they were half an hour ago.'
'I can see one moving,' declared Algy. 'I think it's a car going along a road.'
'I think you're right,' agreed Biggles. 'Let's have a breather.'
They ceased swimming and floated in their lifebelts.
'How long have we been in the water?' asked Ginger.
'About six hours, for a guess. Has anybody got a watch? I left mine in the cabin.'
Algy and Ginger announced that they had done the same.
'Has anybody any money?' next inquired Biggles.
Algy announced that he had none at all. He had left all he had in the pocket of the slacks he had worn on the previous day. Ginger thought he had a pound in English money, and some change.
'Then we are going to have a rough passage home,' announced Biggles. 'I've only a pound or two, and a few hundred francs which I got for use in Marseilles. The rest of my money is in travellers' cheques, and I doubt if any one will cash them in Spain.'
'Let's get to Spain first. We'll get home all right if we do,' put in Algy.
'I think you're right,' returned Biggles, 'but unless we can get to the British Vice-Consul in Barcelona, or some other big town, it may not be so simple as you seem to imagine. You haven't by any chance forgotten that Spain is in the throes of a civil war?'
'No, I haven't.'
'And you haven't overlooked the fact that in order to travel in a foreign country you need a passport? Have you got yours on you?'
'Gosh—no. It was in my suitcase.'
'So was mine—and so, I'll bet, was Ginger's. I thought of it on the ship, but I didn't feel like taking the risk of fetching it. Good thing I didn't; if I had I should have gone down with the ship. No matter. Don't let's worry about that now. Everything will turn out all right, although it would probably be easier if one of us could speak the language. I know only about a dozen words of Spanish. But let's push on. I don't think we've very far to go now.'
The reason for Biggles' optimism was obvious. The coast, or rather the innumerable lights that studded it, could be clearly seen. A little farther along, a maze of lights radiated from a common centre, and marked the position of what could only be a big city. It was soon apparent, too, that the current was carrying them along the coast towards it.
'If my geography is any good, judging by our position when the ship was struck, I should say that is either Tarragona or Barcelona,' said Biggles, referring, of course, to the city lights. 'I—well, I'm dashed! What do you make of that?'
'Fog,' replied Algy shortly.
The reason for Biggles' exclamation was an entirely unexpected development. The lights had disappeared. It was as if a curtain had been lowered between the swimmers and the shore.
'Yes, it must be fog. I can't think of anything else it could be,' announced Biggles. 'Pity, just as we were so close. Never mind; it won't make any difference. The land will be there just the same when we get to it.'
They swam on.
'Fog, my grandmother!' cried Ginger sharply a moment later. 'Hark! Can you hear the aircraft? It's a big formation—bombers, I'll bet. It's a black-out. That's where the lights have gone.'
'Full marks to you, laddie,' answered Biggles. 'That's the answer all right. Looks as if we might be better off where we are than in the city.'
The low drone of the approaching aircraft drew nearer. A few moments later a shrill whistling, swiftly increasing in volume, almost drowned the noise of the engines.
Biggles laughed harshly. 'We've heard that noise before, haven't we, Algy?' he muttered.
'What is it?' asked Ginger.
'Bombs. Listen. They must be nearly on the carpet*.'
* Slang: the ground
Hardly had the words left Biggles' lips when the sky was lit up by a blinding flash, followed quickly by others. A few seconds later came the reports, like thunderclaps, earth-shaking in their violence; even the sur-face of the sea was ruffled by the concussion.
'It looks as if we might have chosen a better spot to land,' remarked Algy grimly.
Before Biggles could answer another salvo of bombs rocked the city, the flashes of the explosions illuminating the sky like lightning. Red, leaping flames appeared in two places in the city.
'Dirty work,' said Biggles coldly.
'It's all over, I think,' opined Algy. 'The machines are going back. Look at the archie*.'
* Anti-aircraft gunfire
Several anti-aircraft guns were firing at the raiders. The shells sparkled in the sky, but as far as they could see, to no useful purpose. The noise of the engines grew fainter, and it was clear that the raid was over. Lights began to appear again on the shore. They were now very close.
A minute or two later Biggles discovered that he could stand, and announced this welcome information with surprise. Presently, however, the reason was made manifest. A tongue of sand jutted out into the sea from a deserted foreshore.
Biggles, closely followed by the others, dragged himself wearily on to it. He took off his lifebelt, threw it on the sand, and sat down beside it. The others did the same.
'Well, we're on dry land, at any rate,' said Algy.
Biggles no
dded. 'Yes,' he returned. 'The next thing is to find some dry clothes—or find a way of drying our own. If anybody else talks to me about sea trips he is going to hear something. We'd better keep on the move or our clothes will get cold, and so shall we. It's warmer in the water than out of it at this time of night. Are you both all right?'
On receiving assurance that they were, Biggles led the way up the beach, and after threading their way through some sand-dunes, they reached a road. It was little more than a track, and deserted, so they set off in the direction of the city.
'The first thing we had better look for is a boot shop,' decided Biggles presently. 'We can't go on walking about in our socks. They look like houses in front of us, but I think we had better push right on. If we can pick up some shoes on the way, so well and good, but I think our best plan would be to go to an hotel where we can get some food and ask them to dry our clothes. We must try to get some pesetas, too.'
'Get some what?' inquired Ginger.
'Pesetas—Spanish money. It can't be more than half-past nine or ten, so we may find a change bureau open somewhere. There will probably be one at the railway station.'
Passing a number of more or less dilapidated dwellings, half an hour's walk brought them to the outskirts of the city proper. Beyond the fact that few people were about, there was nothing to show that the city had just been shaken by an air raid. The houses increased in size and importance as they walked on, and another ten minutes found them in a large open square, on one side of which sparkled the sea. The moon had risen and cast a gleaming track of light across the still water. Silhouetted against it rose a tall column, surmounted by a figure.
'We're in Barcelona,' announced Biggles. 'That's the famous statue of Christopher Columbus,' he added, indicating the column. 'He came here after discovering America. It's years since I was here, but if I remember right, the station is over there on the far side.'
The havoc caused by the bombs was now apparent. There were two yawning craters in the square itself, being regarded by a number of gesticulating men, mostly wearing berets on their heads. Skirting these, they climbed over a pile of fallen masonry and presently reached the station. As Biggles had hoped, they found a bureau open, where he changed three English pounds into Spanish currency. He had no idea of the rate of exchange, nor did he bother to inquire what it was. He simply laid the three notes on the small counter— sopping wet, of course. The cashier looked at them, and then at the vendor, suspiciously. A crafty smile that might have meant anything crossed his face, but after a close scrutiny of the notes he accepted them, and pushed a pile of peseta notes under the grille. Without troubling to count them, Biggles rolled them in a piece of paper which he tore from a nearby placard about air raids, and put them in his waistcoat pocket.
'No trouble about that,' he announced cheerfully as they retraced their steps to the square. 'All we need now is an hotel. There is bound to be one near the station. This street looks as good as any; we may as well try it.'
'Rambla de la Constit—something or other,' read Ginger from a label on the wall above a small but cosy-looking bar.
'There are a lot of troops about,' observed Algy, looking up the rambla*.
* Spanish: avenue
'There's a war on,' returned Biggles dryly.
'There's a shoe shop,' cried Ginger, pointing to a dismal-looking hovel, outside which hung long lines of cheap-looking rope-soled sandals.
'They'll be better than nothing on our feet,' agreed Biggles. 'Let's get some.'
There was no question of explaining their needs to the owner of the shop, a little old man with a long grey beard and a pair of cheap glasses balanced on the end of his nose; he spoke no English, but Biggles simply pointed to his feet, and then at the sandals.
It needed little intelligence on the part of the old man to see what they wanted. He put a pile of shoes on the floor, and selected those which he knew from long experience would be about the right size.
In a few minutes the three had made their selection. Biggles paid the bill by the simple expedient of laying a hundred peseta note on the counter and picking up the change. Then they returned to the street.
'How about a cup of something hot—and one of those sandwich things?' suggested Ginger hopefully, nodding towards the bar-restaurant next door, in the window of which plates of various foods were displayed.
Biggles smiled. 'That's not a bad idea,' he admitted. 'I'm a bit peckish myself. Five minutes one way or another won't make much difference. We mustn't forget we've got to find the consulate, to get some sort of identity papers, or we may land ourselves into trouble.'
Ginger led the way to the entrance. Over the door, on a cheap scroll, was written what was presumably the name of the bar-restaurant. 'Casa Reposada,' he read aloud. What does that mean?'
'Home of quiet—or, more literally, home of repose,' returned Biggles. 'Go ahead.'
They entered. There was nothing to indicate that the trouble Biggles feared was waiting for them inside.
Chapter 3
A Dangerous Mission
Indeed, at first glance the bar appeared to be singularly well named. It was, in fact, unexpectedly restful, the only sound coming from a radio that stood on the counter transmitting a popular opera, to which the barman, leaning over the counter with his chin cupped in the palms of his hands, listened in rapt attention.
The room was small and typical of its kind. Posters announcing national lotteries with huge prizes, and bullfights, decorated the walls, and more than half concealed the faded wallpaper. A low bench ran completely round the room; and conveniently placed were a number of round, marble-topped tables. The floor was thickly sprinkled with sawdust, and equipped with the inevitable spittoons, for the accommodation of patrons in a land where the habit of spitting is not regarded as a breach of good manners. Behind the barman, on shelves, stood many rows of bottles, often bearing flamboyant labels.
There was only one customer present, a rather stout, sallow-faced man, who looked up sharply from the newspaper he was reading, and subjected the new arrivals to a close scrutiny as they passed his table. Biggles met his eyes squarely, and nodded a perfunctory greeting, whereupon the man reverted to his original reclining position on the bench, and buried his face behind the newspaper.
Biggles chose a table a short distance farther along,and sank down on the bench with a sigh of relief. 'I vote for big cups of hot chocolate,' he said as the others sat down, one on either side of him. 'It's one of the things they make well in Spain.' Then aloud to the bar-keeper, 'Hi! senor. Tres chocolate!'
The bar-keeper rose slowly from his position on the counter and, turning the radio higher—presumably so that he would still be able to hear it—disappeared through a door into the back regions.
Biggles frowned his disapproval as the shrill voice of a soprano came over the wireless instrument. 'I hope she isn't going to keep that up,' he muttered. 'That noise would give a corpse a headache.'
At that moment the door opened and a repulsive-looking hunchback came in. His lips parted in what he may have thought was a smile, but what to Ginger seemed a very unpleasant leer. His dark eyes flashed round the room; they rested for a moment on the man behind the newspaper, and then settling on the three strangers, he advanced towards them, brandishing in his right hand a small book.
'What does he want, do you suppose?' inquired Ginger.
'He's selling lottery tickets,' answered Biggles. He had to shout to make himself heard above the noise of the radio. 'You can never get away from that in Spain. It is said that one half of the country lives by selling lottery tickets, and the other half spend their time listening to the results on the wireless.' He waved to the hunchback to go away, but the man persisted in his unwelcome attention until the situation became embarrassing. Fortunately at this moment the bar-keeper returned with the drinks, and .seeing that his customers were being disturbed with what sounded like a violent stream of invective, drove the hunchback away from them.
With
an evil scowl the ticket-vendor retired, and breathing noisily, as if asthma or some other lung trouble added to his other misfortunes, transferred his attentions to the other customer.
There was a rattle of cups and saucers as the bar-keeper set them on the marble table. This done, he returned to the counter where, after turning down the wireless, he took up his original position of keen appreciation of the music.
'That's better,' mused Biggles. 'I found that lady a bit trying.'
Ginger noticed that the hunchback had gone. 'I'm glad that creature has pushed off, too,' he said quietly. 'He gave me the horrors.'
Nothing more was said for a few minutes as the airmen busied themselves pouring out and drinking their chocolate, which was all that Biggles had hoped it would be. 'We had better be moving on,' he said at last, and was about to call for his bill when the door opened and another visitor entered. From the unmistakable London cut of his clothes he appeared to be English, and Biggles, after a quick start of surprise, turned to Algy.
'If that isn't Dicky Frazer I'll eat my shirt,' he said quietly. 'You remember Dicky, Algy; he was on the Headquarters Intelligence staff during the war*. We met him once or twice with Major Raymond.'
* First World War 1914-1918
Algy looked hard at the newcomer who, without a sign of recognition, although his eyes had rested on them for a moment, walked to the far side of the room and sat down on the bench.
'You may be right,' answered Algy in a low voice, for the man under discussion was not more than twelve feet away. 'His face is vaguely familiar, but I didn't see Frazer often enough to be able to swear to him after all this time. It's easy enough to find out, though. Why not speak to him?'
