The cabin door was open. Poor Ducoste was incoherent with mortification and amazement. The last thing he saw before he took off was Biggles lying motionless on the ground, and two Italians within a dozen yards, running towards him. The last he saw of the princess she was in the machine.’
Algy drew a deep breath. ‘And that’s al you know?’
‘That is al we know.’
‘No word from Monaco?’
‘Nothing.’
There was a brief silence.
‘Ducoste has absolutely no idea of what happened to the princess?’ asked Ginger.
‘None whatever, although the obvious assumption is that she fel from the aircraft some time during the journey from the South of France to England. What else can we think?’
‘No report of her body having been found?’
‘Not a word.’
‘What an incredible business,’ muttered Algy. ‘As far as Biggles is concerned, the Italians must know about him from their Nazi friends. One would have thought that had he been kil ed the enemy would have grabbed the chance of boasting of it—that’s their usual way of doing things.’
‘One would think so,’ agreed the Air Commodore.
‘But it seems certain that if he wasn’t kil ed he must have been badly wounded, in which case he would have been captured, which comes to pretty much the same thing. But I don’t overlook the possibility that it may have suited the enemy to say nothing about the end of a man who has given them so much trouble.
From every point of view it is a most unsatisfactory business.’
‘Tel me, sir; how was Biggles dressed for this affair?’ asked Ginger. ‘Was he in uniform?’
‘Wel , he was and he wasn’t. I know he has a prejudice against disguises, but this was an occasion when one was necessary. He could hardly walk about Monaco in a British uniform, so he wore over it an old blue boiler suit, which he thought would give him the appearance of a workman of the country.’
‘And you don’t expect to hear anything more, sir?’
‘Frankly, no. There is just one hope—a remote one, I fear. I had a private arrangement with Biggles.
Realizing that there was a chance of his picking up useful information which, in the event of failure, he would not be able to get home, he took with him a blue pencil, the idea being that we could profit by what he had learned should he fail, and should we decide to fol ow up with another agent. He said that should he be in Monaco he would write on the stone wal that backs the Quai de Plaisance, in the Condamine—that is, the lower part of Monaco in which the harbour is situated. If he were in Nice he would write on the wal near Jock’s Bar, below the Promenade des Anglais. His signature would be a blue triangle.’
‘Have you checked up to see if there is such a message?’ queried Algy.
‘No,’ admitted the Air Commodore.
‘Why not?’
‘The place is swarming with police. In any case, there seemed to be no point in it, because whatever Biggles wrote before the rescue would be rendered valueless after what happened on the landing ground. Right up to the finish he must have hoped to get home, and after that time it seems unlikely to say the least that he would have an opportunity for writing.’
‘But, sir,’ put in Ginger, ‘haven’t you thought of trying to rescue Biggles?’
‘I have, but it seemed hopeless.’
‘Why? Nothing is ever hopeless.’
‘But consider the circumstances. Biggles was last seen lying on the ground, dead or unconscious, right in front of his pursuers.’
‘Yet you admit that if they had got him they would probably have issued a statement?’
‘That doesn’t necessarily fol ow.’
‘Why should they withhold the information?’
‘I could think of several reasons. The princess has friends in Italy, and Mussolini might fear repercussions, if it became known that she had been kil ed. Again the enemy might think that if they kept silent we should send more agents down to find out what happened, and thus they would catch more birds in the same trap. Neither side wil ingly tel s the other anything, for which reason we have refrained from putting Biggles’ name in the casualty list.’
‘You don’t hold out any hope for him?’
‘You don’t hold out any hope for him?’
‘How can I?’
‘And the princess?’
‘The chances of her survival seem even more remote. If she was not kil ed on the landing ground, then she certainly must have lost her life when she fel from the aircraft.’
Algy looked straight at the Air Commodore. ‘I think it’s about time somebody found out just what did happen, sir,’ he said curtly.
‘Absolutely—yes, by Jove—absolutely,’ breathed Bertie.
‘I’m sorry, but I have no one to send.’
‘Then perhaps you would use your influence to get me ten days leave, sir?’ suggested Algy meaningly.
The Air Commodore’s expression did not change.
‘Are you thinking of going to Monaco?’
‘I shan’t sleep at night until I know what happened to Biggles.’
‘That goes for al of us, sir,’ interposed Ginger.
‘But be reasonable, you fel ows,’ protested the Air Commodore. ‘I know exactly how you feel, but war isn’t a personal matter . . .’
‘You didn’t take that view when you were trying to rescue the princess,’ returned Algy shortly. ‘Frankly, I don’t care two hoots about her, because I’ve never seen her and I’m never likely to; but Biggles happens to be my best friend. Apart from which, he is one of the most valuable officers in the service. Surely it is worth going to some trouble to try to get him back—
or at least, find out what happened to him?’
‘I agree, but the chances of success are so smal that they are hardly worth considering.’
‘I am sorry, sir, but I can’t agree with you there,’
replied Algy bluntly. ‘Until I know Biggles is dead I shal assume that he is alive. Get me ten days leave and I’l find out what happened to him.’
‘Include me in that, sir,’ put in Ginger.
‘And me, sir,’ murmured Bertie.
The Air Commodore looked from one to the other.
‘Just what do you think you are going to do?’
Algy answered. ‘I don’t know, except that we are going to find out what happened to Biggles. If the thing was the other way round, do you suppose he’d be content to sit here knowing that we were stuck in enemy country? Not on your life!’
‘It is my opinion that Biggles is dead,’ asserted the Air Commodore.
‘I had already sensed that, sir, but I don’t believe it,’ retorted Algy. ‘Cal it wishful thinking if you like, but I’l believe it when I’ve seen his body, not before.’
The Air Commodore shrugged his shoulders. ‘Al right,’ he said crisply. ‘Have it your own way. Think of a reasonable scheme and I’l consider it.’
Algy rose and picked up his cap. ‘Thank you, sir. It is now twelve o’clock. We’l go and have some lunch, and be back here at two.’
The Air Commodore nodded. ‘Very wel .’
Chapter 2
The Reasonable Plan
Over lunch, and afterwards, in a secluded corner of the Royal Air Force Club, in Piccadil y, Algy, Bertie and Ginger, discussed the situation that had arisen.
Neither Algy nor Ginger had ever been to Monaco, so they were somewhat handicapped; but it turned out that to Bertie the celebrated little Principality was a sort of home from home. For several years he had gone there for the ‘season’ as a competitor in the international motor car race cal ed the Monte Carlo Ral y. He had competed in the motor-boat trials, had played tennis on the famous courts, and golf on the links at Mont Agel. He had stayed at most of the big hotels, and had been a guest at many of the vil as owned by leading members of society. As a result, he not only knew the principality intimately, but the country around it.
‘Why didn’t you tel t
he Air Commodore this?’
asked Algy.
‘Never play your trump cards too soon—no, by Jove,’ murmured Bertie, and then went on to declare that if only they could get to Monaco he knew of places where they could hide.
‘It seems to be taken for granted that we are al going,’ observed Algy.
Bertie and Ginger agreed—definitely.
‘Then the first question we must settle is, how are we going to get there?’
‘There doesn’t seem to be much choice,’ Ginger pointed out. ‘Either we can land on this beach aerodrome near Nice, or we can bale out. But however we go down, someone wil have to bring the machine back. We al want to stay there, so I suggest that we ask Raymond to lend us his Monégasque pilot—the bloke who flew Biggles. He must know the lie of the land a lot better than we shal find out from the map.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ agreed Algy. ‘Do we land or do we jump?’
‘If this lad knows the country I’m in favour of landing,’ declared Bertie. ‘It’s pretty rough for jumping—rocks and things al over the place.’
‘Al right. Let us say that we land,’ went on Algy.
‘Having landed, do we stay together or do we work separately?’
‘I’m in favour of working separately,’ said Ginger.
‘That gives us three chances against one. If we stay together, and anything goes wrong, we al get captured. If everyone takes his own line we shal avoid that, and at the same time cover more ground.
I propose that we work separately, but each knowing roughly what the others are going to do. We might have a rendezvous where we can get in touch and compare notes.’
‘Yes, I think that’s sound reasoning,’ agreed Algy, and Bertie confirmed it. ‘How are we going—I mean, we can’t strol about Monte Carlo in uniform? I speak French pretty wel , so I could put on a suit of civvies and pretend to be a French prisoner of war just repatriated from Germany. That would account for my being out of touch with things. What about you, Bertie?’
‘Wel , I speak the jol y old lingo, and I know my way about. That ought to do.’
Algy looked doubtful. ‘People may wonder what an able-bodied chap like you is doing, strol ing about with no particular job.’
‘I’l take my guitar and be an out-of-work musician
—how’s that?’ Bertie smiled at the expressions on the faces of the others. ‘Strol ing players are common in the South of France,’ he explained. ‘They make a living playing round the pub doors, and that sort of thing. By Jove, yes; I could do the jol y old Blondin act, playing a tune round the likely places, trusting that Biggles would recognize it if he were about. Biggles would know that piece I play with al the twiddly bits. He once told me he’d never forget it.’
Algy smiled. ‘Al right. What about you, Ginger?’
Ginger looked glum. ‘My trouble is I can’t speak French—or not enough to amount to anything. I can speak a bit, enough to make myself understood, but I couldn’t pass as a Frenchman. I speak better Spanish. Before the war we spent more time in Spain, and Spanish America, than in France.’
‘But we’re not going to Spain. We’re going to France,’ Algy pointed out sarcastical y.
‘Just a minute though, I think I’ve got something,’
put in Bertie. ‘Yes, by jingo, that’s it. Ginger can be a Spaniard.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Sel ing onions. In the same way those chappies from northern France used to come over to England with their little strings of onions, the lads from Spain surge along the Riviera sel ing the jol y old vegetable.
Or if he likes he can be a bul fighter looking for work
—they stil have bul -fights in the South of France.’
‘Not for me,’ declared Ginger. ‘I might be offered a job. I’l sel onions.’
‘Where are you going to get the onions?’ inquired Algy.
‘Plenty on the aerodrome. You forget our lads have turned market gardeners.’
‘Okay, then we’l cal that settled. But we seem to have overlooked the most important thing of al . How are we going to get back?’
‘By Jove, that’s a nasty one,’ muttered Bertie. ‘I’d clean forgotten about the return tickets.’
‘There’s only one way,’ asserted Ginger.
‘Assuming that Ducoste wil take us over, he’l have to pick us up again. We should have to fix a place and time. Natural y, we should al have to keep that date, whatever happened. If we don’t locate Biggles, or find out what happened to him, in that time, the chances are that we never should. If we finish before that time we should just have to lie doggo until the plane came for us. We could flash a light signal to plane came for us. We could flash a light signal to Ducoste to let him know that it was okay to land.’
‘I can’t think of anything better than that,’ admitted Algy. ‘Of course, if we made a mess of things we shouldn’t be there, anyway, in which case Ducoste would push off again. We couldn’t ask him to hang about. Anything else?’
‘That seems to be about as far as we can get,’
opined Ginger. ‘When we get back to the aerodrome, are you going to let the others in on this?’
‘No,’ decided Algy. ‘The whole squadron would want to come. We can’t have that—the show would begin to look like a commando raid, or an invasion.
Angus can take over while I’m away. Wel , let’s get along and put the proposition to the Air Commodore.
We can fix the details later.’
‘What details?’ asked Ginger.
‘We shal need French money, forged identity papers, and so on. Raymond wil get those for us if he approves the scheme.’
‘If he does, when are we going to start?’
‘Obviously, just as soon as we are ready,’
answered Algy. ‘The sooner we are on the spot the better. We ought to be away by to-morrow night at latest.’ He got up. ‘Let’s get back to the Ministry. I’m anxious to get this thing settled.’
Half an hour later he was laying the proposition before Commodore Raymond, who listened patiently until he had finished.
‘You fel ows are al old enough to know what you’re doing,’ said the Air Commodore quietly, at the conclusion. ‘But for the fact that you have had experience in this sort of deadly work I wouldn’t consider the project. However, your previous successful operations do entitle you to special consideration. I must say, though, that I shal be very much surprised if I see any of you again until the end of the war—if then. By discarding your uniforms you wil become spies, in which case, it is hardly necessary for me to tel you, it is no use appealing to me if you are caught*1. I’m sorry if that sounds discouraging, but we must face the facts. I’l make arrangements with your Group for you to go on leave, and supply you with such things as you think you wil require, as far as it is in my power. I’l get in touch with Ducoste right away and tel him to telephone you at the squadron. He volunteered for the last show, at the squadron. He volunteered for the last show, and I have no doubt he’l do so again. He can have the Breguet. It wil be less likely to attract attention over France than one of our machines, and at the same time save us from using—I nearly said losing
—one of ours. If he’s caught he’l be shot, so don’t let him down. Anything else?’
‘Just one thing, sir,’ requested Ginger. ‘What is the name of the Italian businessman you mentioned, the fel ow at whose vil a the princess hoped to stay—the skunk who let her down?’
‘The man is a retired Milanese banker named Zabani—Gaspard Zabani. His place is the Vil a Valdora, in the Avenue Fleurie. Why did you ask that?’
‘Since, apparently, he is wel in with the Italian secret police, he may know how his betrayal of the princess ended. He might be induced to speak.’
A ghost of a smile crossed the Air Commodore’s face. ‘I see. As far as I’m concerned you can do what you like with him. He must be an exceptional y nasty piece of work. But while we are on the subject of the Italian secret police, be car
eful of a fel ow named Gordino. He is in charge of things on the Riviera.
He’s a short, dark, stoutish, middle-aged man—
usual y wears a dark civilian suit. He’s got an upturned black moustache and a scar on his chin.
He looks rather like a prosperous little grocer, but don’t be deceived by that. He’s a cunning devil.’
‘What a bounder the blighter must be,’ murmured Bertie in his wel -dressed voice.
‘Matter of fact, he is,’ agreed the Air Commodore, smiling. He stood up. ‘And now, gentlemen, if that’s al , I must ask you to be on your way. I’ve a pile of work in front of me. I’l get Henri Ducoste to ring you later.’
‘Thank you, sir, for giving us so much of your time,’
said Algy. ‘We are grateful to you for being frank and for giving us this chance. Biggles shal know about it
—when we find him.’
‘Bring Biggles back alive and I shal be amply repaid,’ returned Air Commodore Raymond. ‘Good luck to you.’
Stil discussing the plan the deputation returned to the aerodrome.
At nine o’clock that night an officer in the uniform of the Fighting French Air Force walked into the anteroom. Ginger saw him first, and guessed at once who he was, although they had been expecting a phone cal , not a personal appearance. Nudging Bertie, he went to meet the visitor.
‘Henri Ducoste?’ he queried.
Smiling, the French airman nodded assent. He was a slim, dark young man, with straight, rather long black hair, and a shy manner. Ginger had visualized
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