by W E Johns
“Good. What’s happened?”
“Sergeant Voudron knows we can fly. He must have seen our papers.”
“How did you learn this?”
“He just came over to me as nice as pie and opened up. He as good as said that life in the Legion was purgatory, and wanted to know why, as we were pilots, we had been fools enough to join. You were included.”
“Did he make any definite suggestion?”
“No, but he hinted at desertion. He said he wouldn’t stay in the Legion if he could fly.”
“Did he though! That was going a long way. He’s over there looking at us now.”
“I don’t see that it matters. He must know that I’ll tell you what he said. He said nothing about not telling you so he’s probably hoping that I will.”
“What was your final impression of this indiscreet conversation?”
“I think he’s sown a seed. He’ll give it a chance to sprout and then sow some more—that is, unless this morning’s quiz happens to be part of his job.”
“I don’t think that sort of questioning is part of the programme here or Marcel would have warned us. We can soon settle that.”
“How?”
“By asking Marcel.”
“But how are you going to get in touch with him?”
“I don’t know, but we shall have to manage it somehow. An arrangement should have been made before this. I was hoping Marcel would make a move. Presumably he has nothing to say. We’ll try to catch him alone in his office; or we may be able to intercept him, and make a signal, as he goes to the officers’ mess. But let’s get our coffee.”
The opportunity they sought for a word with Marcel turned out to be even more difficult than they had expected, and the disadvantages arising from their respective positions in the regiment were never more apparent. They could not, of course, simply walk into his office; nor could they request an interview with their commander without giving a reason. Even if they fabricated a reason, Sergeant Voudron, or somebody else, would certainly be present. The officers’ mess was out of bounds for everyone except those detailed for duties there. To approach would call attention to themselves, and any hint of association with Marcel was the last thing Biggles wanted, particularly at that moment.
Evening came and they still had not seen him. They were not even sure where he was, but Ginger thought he had seen him enter his office in the administrative building.
“I could find out if he’s there,” he told Biggles, becoming tired of waiting.
“How?”
“By walking close past the back window. His office has a window on the far side. Through it I should be able to see his desk.”
“All right. But be careful. Voudron may be watching us. I haven’t seen him about for some time. I’ll stay here in case Marcel comes out.”
Ginger set off on the walk that would take him to his objective. He did not go direct, but made a detour round the rear of the barracks. There was nothing furtive about the way he did this, for the ground he had to cross was open to all ranks and he had no intention of letting Voudron see him behaving suspiciously. Actually, as he presently observed, there were two windows. One, he judged from its position, was in Marcel’s room, and the other in the general office adjoining it. This turned out to be correct.
Slowing his walk to a saunter, and taking a course as close to the wall as discretion allowed, he came to the first window. He did not stop; nor did he turn his head; his eyes switched, and a single glance in passing revealed the interior of the room. What he saw puzzled him, but a moment later, as he passed the second window, the explanation was forthcoming. It shook him not a little. Lengthening his pace he marched back to where Biggles was waiting.
“Well?” queried Biggles, his eyes on Ginger’s face, which was slightly pale under its tan.
“Hold your hat,” muttered Ginger grimly. “Marcel is in his office, talking on the telephone. Voudron is in the next room, with the communicating door open a crack, listening.”
“I don’t like that,” murmured Biggles.
“I thought you wouldn’t.”
“That marks our precious sergeant as a snooper, if nothing worse. Let’s walk on a little way.” Biggles continued. “The important thing is, who was Marcel talking to and what was he saying. We shall have to find out. A lot may depend on it.”
“Why not ask Marcel now?” suggested Ginger. “Here he comes.”
Marcel had left his office and was walking briskly towards the officers’ mess on a course that would pass near them.
Biggles’s eyes made a swift reconnaissance. The broad parade ground was deserted. “Voudron may be watching but it’s worth a chance,” he decided. “Behave naturally.”
Marcel came on. They walked towards him, and at a distance of a yard or two came to the salute. “I must speak,” said Biggles tersely. “Pretend to tick me off about something.”
Marcel took the cue, pointing at Biggles unbuttoned tunic with his cane.
Said Biggles, standing at attention. “Who were you talking to on the ‘phone three minutes ago?”
“Joudrier.”
“Voudron was listening. We think he’s our man.” Marcel’s face changed colour.
“Where can we talk?” asked Biggles crisply.
“In the town, tonight at nine. In the palm grove behind the Bar Pigale.”
“Oui, mon commandant,” said Biggles loudly, seeing Voudron leave his office. He snapped to the salute. Marcel walked away.
Biggles and Ginger continued on towards their quarters.
Voudron intercepted them. “What was the commandant talking to you about?” he enquired curiously.
“He choked me off for being improperly dressed.” answered Biggles glibly. “Nothing is ever right in this infernal place,” he added bitterly. “I don’t mind telling you, mon sergent, that there are times when I get a bit tired of it.”
“If I reported you for saying that you’d be for it, Englishman,” asserted Voudron. But he was smiling curiously. “Don’t worry. I’ll forget it this time.”
“Thank you, mon sergent,” acknowledged Biggles gratefully.
Voudron, still smiling, walked towards the canteen. Biggles and Ginger went on to the corner where Voudron had spoken to Ginger earlier in the day.
“Let’s talk here,” said Biggles shortly.
“Marcel was speaking to Joudrier, of all people.”
“I’d say that’s just about torn it as far as Marcel is concerned,” replied Biggles sadly. “If Voudron knows Marcel is in touch with the Sureté, and I’m afraid he must, anything can happen. I wonder how long he’s been listening to Marcel’s ‘phone calls.”
“I’ll bet if Marcel goes out tonight Voudron will shadow him.”
“It seems likely. In that case we’ll see if we can turn the trick in our favour.”
“How?”
“By following Voudron.”
“With what object?”
“Did you notice Marcel’s expression when I told him Voudron had overheard his conversation? I take that to mean he said something important. If I’m right, Voudron’s next step will be to pass the information on to the man above him. He may do that by ‘phone, by telegram, or by personal contact if the man is near at hand. We’ll see. We’re dealing with a gang, remember, not an individual.”
“If Marcel mentioned us by name we’ve had it as far as the Legion is concerned,” opined Ginger moodily.
“I don’t think he could have done, because if he had, Voudron would have avoided us just now, instead of coming over to speak to us. If I’m wrong, it won’t merely be a matter of having it as far as the Legion is concerned. If the people we’re up against get one sniff that we so much as suspect what’s going on they’ll make life extremely unpleasant for us. We shall soon know. Thank goodness we’ve a date with Marcel at last. That’s something.”
* * *
1 Popular slang for a British private soldier.
2 French: Good day, friend. Goo
d day, sergeant.
3 Le Cafard means literally ‘the grasshopper’. A mental disorder induced by heat and lack of amenities.
CHAPTER III
THE BAR PIGALE
THE bistro1 known as the Bar Pigale, owned by a stout, jovial Frenchman, known to everyone as Louis, was typical of hundreds of similar establishments to be found in French North Africa. From the outside there was little to recommend it, for it stood in an insalubrious district on the fringe of the kasbah—the native quarter. For that reason its rent was low, and this enabled Madame Louis to serve reasonably good food at a price within reach of those who had to work for a living. A rough but sound local wine could be bought for next to nothing the glass, which suited the pockets of the thirsty legionnaires who had to watch their francs carefully.
Another reason for the popularity of the bistro, a less worthy one perhaps, was the grove of somewhat bedraggled date palms at the rear of the building, into which, after dark, a soldier might dodge if he had reasons for not wishing to be seen out of camp. The reputation of this retreat, it must be admitted, was not of the best, and sinister tales were whispered of dark deeds that had occurred in it, involving both legionnaires and Arabs, not so long ago. More than one legionnaire, perhaps the worse for drink and with his hard-earned pay in his pocket, had gone in never to be seen again, alive or dead. There were old disused wells in the kasbah, it was said, that were ideal receptacles for the disposal of corpses. In a word, like certain quarters of the best European cities, it was a place to be avoided, and inquisitive tourists who ignored warnings did so at their own risk.
These, however, did not apply to the legionnaires, who for the most part were able to take care of themselves, and on occasion found the place useful. Why Marcel had chosen it for a rendezvous was open to guess. He might on the spur of the moment have named the first convenient spot that occurred to him, one which required no directions for locating it. It also had the advantage that being near a common legionnaire resort, there would be nothing in the presence of Biggles and Ginger to call for comment.
They did in fact know the bistro well, having called more than once to quench their thirst in the course of their off-duty walks.
With plenty of time on their hands before the hour appointed for the meeting with Marcel, Biggles decided to employ it rather than hang about without any definite purpose; so leaving the barracks, which were some little distance from the town, shortly after seven, they went only part of the way. Finding a place to sit in the inky shadow of a tall cactus hedge, from where they could watch the road without being seen, they settled down to wait. If Voudron passed they would see him, and watch where he went.
It was a beautiful night, hot and windless, with a moon, nearly full, making the scene a picture of pale blue light and hard black shadows. Crickets kept up a continual chirping, making an astonishing amount of noise for insects so small. Some distance away, from a pool or irrigation ditch, came the automatic croaking of a bull-frog.
Some Arab workmen trudged wearily home from where they had been working in a vineyard. Others passed with donkeys carrying bundles of firewood or forage. Legionnaires passed in twos and threes, laughing or grumbling as the case might be, to spend the evening in the town. Ginger, quite comfortable, little suspecting what the night held in store for them, was in no hurry to move.
The end came when they had been there about an hour. A single tall figure in uniform came striding down the road, his boots scraping harshly on the gravel.
“Voudron,” whispered Biggles.
They sat motionless while he went past.
Biggles gave him a good start, but without losing sight of him, and set off in pursuit. “He’s nervous,” he told Ginger. “He wouldn’t be sweating along at that rate if he hadn’t something on his mind. We’ll keep to the side of the road although it doesn’t matter if he sees us. He’d hardly recognize us at this distance and there are still fellows from the camp going to and fro.”
Keeping the sergeant in sight they walked on, keeping the same gap between them until they reached the outskirts of the town, where the residential quarter began, when Biggles closed the distance somewhat rather than risk losing his man among other pedestrians. On both sides now were pillars carrying decorative wrought-iron gates that gave access to short drives bordered by subtropical gardens. Behind were the white-painted villas, with shuttered windows, of the more well-to-do residents. Palms, with graceful arching fronds, threw lace-like patterns on the walls and across the dusty road.
Suddenly the figure in front disappeared.
“He must have turned in somewhere,” said Biggles, hurrying forward.
Reaching the spot where they had last seen the sergeant they stood still, and listening, located his footsteps retreating up a gravel drive. Looking through the open ironwork of the gate they were just in time to see him enter the arched porchway of the front door of a villa. A moment later a patch of yellow light streamed across the drive as the door was opened to admit him.
“So our two-faced sergeant has friends in big houses,” murmured Biggles. “Very useful for him and very interesting to us.” Taking a pace back he read the name of the house. “Villa Mimosa.” He then advanced to one of the white gate-posts on which, as is common in France, a brass plate announced the name and profession of the occupier. “Jules Raban. Avocat,” he read softly. “What does Voudron want with a lawyer, I wonder?” He looked at his watch. “Maybe we can find out. We have plenty of time.” He glanced up and down the road. “Okay,” he whispered. “Come on—quiet.”
The gate opened to his touch. They went in, closing it noiselessly behind them. Two steps took them to a fringe of soft earth sparsely planted with exotic shrubs. Along this they made their way to the house. At a distance of a few yards Biggles stopped to make a reconnaissance.
The drive lay white in the moonlight, with shadows sprawling across it like pools of ink. Through the slatted shutters of a window on the ground floor, not fully closed, alternate bars of yellow and black showed that the room was lighted. The only sound was the brittle chirping of a cricket in a nearby palm.
Motioning Ginger to follow Biggles moved on to a position from which they would be able to see the interior of the room.
What Ginger saw did not surprise him. Standing by a table laid for dinner, as if he had just risen from his meal, was a short, dark, stout man, immaculately dressed, presumably the lawyer. Just inside the door, holding out his hands apologetically as though to excuse himself for the intrusion, but talking volubly, was Sergeant Voudron. Unfortunately the window itself was closed, so no sound reached the outside. But it was clear from the intent expression on the face of the listener that Voudron had startled him. At this juncture, as if he realized suddenly that they might be overlooked, the dark man crossed the room swiftly and drew the curtains. Somewhere in the house a bell jangled.
Biggles looked at Ginger. “Pity about that. No matter. We saw enough to confirm our belief. We shall see nothing more so we might as well get out while the going’s good.”
Actually, the going was not quite as good as Biggles supposed, for as they neared the gate, keeping of course in deep shadow, happening to glance over his shoulder Ginger saw a man advancing quickly down the drive. A warning touch on Biggles’s arm sent them both crouching behind a bush. The man passed within five yards but did not see them. He went straight to the gate. For a moment the moonlight fell on the head and shoulders of a massively-built negro. A key scraped in a lock. To lock the gate had obviously been his task, for turning about he walked back to the house and disappeared from sight.
“We’re locked in,” observed Ginger.
“That needn’t worry us. We’ll go out over the wall. Clearly, Monsieur Raban doesn’t want any more visitors tonight.”
To scale the wall was a simple operation and a minute later they were on the road, brushing dust from their hands and tunics.
“That little effort was well worth while,” remarked Biggles. “I fancy we kno
w from whom our tricky sergeant gets his orders.”
“And now what?”
Again Biggles looked at his watch. “We’ve still got forty minutes in hand. We’ll wait a little while to see how long Voudron stays, and if possible check where he goes when he comes out.”
They had to wait for twenty minutes before Voudron reappeared. At the precise moment that the negro was unlocking the gate for him who should come along but Marcel, although this, in view of his appointment, was natural enough. The two men at the gate stood like statues. Marcel went past without noticing them. Biggles dare not reveal himself with Voudron so close, so unaware that he was the target for four pairs of eyes Marcel went on towards the town.
Voudron gave him a start of about forty yards and then took the same direction. He must have recognized Marcel, although whether he was actually following him, or intended going into the town anyway, was not clear.
Biggles gave Voudron a couple of minutes and then he, too, followed on.
To Ginger there was nothing remarkable about the situation. It was, or seemed, a perfectly natural one, due to the sequence of events. He knew what Marcel was doing. He knew what they themselves were doing. What Voudron had in mind he did not know, of course, but it didn’t occur to him that it was anything out of the ordinary. So he merely hoped that Voudron wouldn’t get in their way.
They could no longer see Marcel, for he was now some distance ahead, and as the number of people moving about, many of them legionnaires, increased as they neared the town, it was not easy to keep Voudron in sight. Wherefore Biggles improved his pace, remarking: “It looks as if he’s going to the Pigale too, confound him. We don’t want him to see us talking to Marcel.”
By this time they were close to the bistro, which, as has been narrated, was near the native quarter. Not only was there a number of Arabs moving about, as might have been expected, but several legionnaires, making for the popular rendezvous. The circumstance that they all wore the same uniform made identification difficult except from a short distance. The result of this was almost inevitable.