by W E Johns
“That’s an idea,” agreed Biggles. “I’ll think about it.”
This was only the beginning of what was to prove an eventful day.
The next thing to happen was the circulation of a rumour in the camp, in the mysterious way such rumours occur in all military establishments, that a draft was to be sent to Fort Labougant. No one knew where the rumour started, and Ginger, who at first was quite disinterested, was puzzled by the buzz of excitement it produced. The explanation was forthcoming. It was provided by some of the old hands who knew the place from personal experience. Others had heard of it.
It was, from all accounts, the most deadly outpost for which the Legion provided the garrison. Deep in the Sahara, it was, according to those who knew, the nearest place to hell on earth. The heat, the glare and the hideous loneliness, had to be experienced to be believed. More men went out of their minds with Le Cafard at Fort Labougant than all the other stations put together.
Naturally, the great matter for speculation was the names of those most likely to be drafted. Some there were who declared that they would shoot themselves rather than face this dreadful ordeal. Others swore they would desert first. To these wild threats Biggles and Ginger listened with quiet amusement, knowing that it was all talk, and that in the event none of the speakers would do anything of the sort. They themselves were not concerned. Not having completed their training it did not occur to either of them that their names might be on the fateful list.
But the next rumour that flew, a little while later, brought an expression of alarm to Biggles’s face. It was that Sous-Lieutenant Brissac was to conduct the draft and take over the command of the Fort.
Biggles looked at Ginger. “I don’t like the sound of that. I wonder....”
“Wonder what?”
“If there’s more in it than meets the eye.”
“You mean—has somebody been pulling the strings to put Marcel out of the way?”
“Yes. He might as well be dead as be stuck in the middle of the Sahara.”
“But only the higher command could order such a posting.”
“Maybe there’s someone in the gang powerful enough to give orders to the higher command.”
Ginger stared.
“I mean that,” asserted Biggles. “We’re not dealing with a bunch of cheap swindlers. This time we’re up against something big—bigger even than we may suppose even now.”
“Marcel will refuse to go. He’ll resign his commission and the Sureté will see that his resignation is accepted.”
“Of course he’ll resign—and that will tell the enemy what they may wish to confirm. That Marcel is a police agent, and the police are at last wise to the armaments racket. Apart from that, don’t you see that whether Marcel goes to Fort Labougant or whether he resigns, he’ll be out of the business and we shall be left here on our own. Of course he can’t go to the Fort, but if he resigns it won’t take the enemy intelligence service very long to find out why he was permitted to walk out of the Legion.”
Said Ginger, whimsically: “Well, thank goodness they don’t suspect us, or we may find ourselves on the way to Fort Labougant, too.”
Still talking, wondering what course Marcel would take, but not unduly disturbed, they went outside. Voudron was walking across the square. Seeing them, he changed direction and came over to them.
“If the Arabs are going to get you for what you did the other night they’ll have to be quick,” he said cheerfully.
“How so?” enquired Biggles.
“You’re on the draft for Fort Labougant.”
“Both of us?”
“Yes.”
Biggles’s expression did not change. “How do you know? Have you seen the list?”
“Seen it? I helped to make it up. Why do you think I’m in the orderly-room?”
“And why did you choose us for this honour?” queried Biggles.
“Well, in the first place you said you liked the life, so I thought I’d give you a chance to see what real soldiering is like. Then again, thinking of those spiteful Arabs I thought you’d be safer away from here.” Voudron spoke casually. Then he dropped his voice. “Of course, you needn’t go if you don’t want to.”
“What exactly do you mean by that?” asked Biggles slowly.
“Come over here,” answered the sergeant, inclining his head towards a solitary palm near the edge of the square where there was no possibility of being overheard.
“Well now, here we are,” said Voudron, vaguely.
Ginger had a strong suspicion of what was coming, but there was still much that he did not guess. He thought Marcel’s name might be mentioned, and if so, the way Voudron introduced it would be interesting. For the moment, however, the sergeant seemed to be uncertain how to start. He offered his cigarette packet and lit one himself.
Biggles helped him by taking the initiative. “Alors, mon sergent,1” said he. “Suppose we stop talking in riddles. You say we are going to Fort Labougant. You say also that we needn’t go if we don’t want to. How can we, or you, prevent it?”
Voudron still seemed loath to commit himself. He made a gesture as if he was not really serious. “I was merely thinking of what others have done, and what I myself might do were I in your position.”
“And what would you do?” asked Biggles.
“I might take a walk and forget to come back.”
“Are you suggesting that we desert the regiment?”
Voudron grimaced. “Me, I don’t like this word desert. Let us say you could take a holiday without asking permission.”
“Forgive me, sergeant, if I ask an embarrassing question. But we are all men of the world, and as we know, there is no taste in nothing. What good would it do you if we decided not to go to Fort Labougant?”
“Don’t let that worry you, mon enfant. It’s my nature to help people when they’re in trouble.”
Biggles, of course, was trying to make it easier for Voudron to come to the point; for this was what he had been waiting for, what he had hoped would happen. “Very well,” he said. “Let us admit that we don’t want to go to Fort Labougant. Let us admit that rather than do that we would be prepared to—er—take a walk. Now, you know the ropes. How do we go? Where do we go? And what could we do to save ourselves from starvation?”
“One thing at a time,” protested Voudron. “I admit I have friends who might be willing to help you. For example, would you like to go on flying aeroplanes?”
“Of course.”
“And if I could get you such a job would you take it?”
“But certainly.”
“Without asking questions?”
“A man in his right mind doesn’t argue with his bread and butter,” said Biggles tritely. “But allow me to say this without offence. I find it hard to believe that you could arrange this for us.”
“Naturally,” conceded Voudron. “But I assure you that I can. Now I must say this.” The smile remained on his face but there was no humour in his eyes. “If you repeat one word of this conversation to anyone you might get certain people into trouble, and as they are people with influence the result might be unfortunate for you.”
“As if we should do such a thing,” protested Biggles.
“One never knows and I have to be careful.”
“Obviously. What about this job? Where is it?”
“You will learn that later. All I can say now is, it is a long way from here, which should suit you.”
“And how would we go?”
“In an aeroplane. That would be arranged for you. But already you ask too many questions. In any case we had better not stand here talking any longer. You are definite you will go?”
“Absolutely.”
“Very well. We will talk more of this presently, but not here. Meet me tonight at seven o’clock just past the ruined mosque on the way to the town.”
“Bien entendu.2”
Voudron turned away and strode off across the square.
They watched hi
m go. “What a rat. What a snake in the grass,” sneered Ginger.
“Don’t grumble. He’s taking us where we want to go.”
“I’ve pictured myself as a lot of things, but never as a deserter,” said Ginger bitterly.
“That’s what we came here for, isn’t it? The next thing is to find Marcel and tell him what we’re doing. I must also write some letters.”
“Aren’t you shattered by all this?”
“Not particularly. It’s happened before. You can see that from the way Voudron had everything worked out. Breaking the ice with us without committing himself too deeply was his most difficult task. Well, he’s done that. Now he’ll go ahead. By thunder! Marcel certainly struck something when he hit the trail of this outfit. We’d better do something about getting in touch with him. Voudron has gone into the canteen. That may give us a chance.”
“You’re going to keep this appointment with him?”
“You bet I am. I—”
“There’s Marcel now,” broke in Ginger urgently. “Standing talking to the adjutant. With Voudron in the canteen this is our chance. If we walk past Marcel and go into the rear of the building he’ll guess we want to speak to him.”
“I think you’re right.” agreed Biggles. “We can’t do Marcel any harm, anyway, since Voudron has got him taped. Let’s go.”
They marched briskly across the parade-ground, and without checking their stride, saluted in passing. Biggles chose to pass on the side behind the adjutant, which enabled him to catch Marcel’s eye significantly. They went straight on to the rear of the station headquarters. There they waited, and presently had the satisfaction of seeing Marcel come round the corner and walk towards them.
“Listen, Marcel,” began Biggles without preamble. “Things are moving fast. This posting of ours to Fort Labougant gave Voudron the opportunity to come into the open.”
Marcel was staring. “Fort Labougant? What are you talking about?”
“We’ve been drafted to Fort Labougant—haven’t we?”
“Nonsense!”
“Haven’t you been posted there too?”
“Certainly not.”
It was Biggles’s turn to stare. “But... but... Voudron told us we were on the draft.”
“He’s a liar.”
“But he said he made out the list.”
“Encore.3 I repeat, he’s a liar. There is no such draft, or even a suggestion of one.”
Understanding dawned in Biggles’s eyes. “So that’s it,” he breathed. “I get it. That crafty rogue started the rumour himself, and then, pretending it was in confidence, tipped us off that we were on the draft. That was to get us into the mood to desert. I must confess he took me in, the scheming hound.”
“Has he actually suggested that you desert?”
“Yes.”
Marcel went white. His nostrils quivered with passion. “Mon Dieu! I’ll have that rascal put—”
“Do nothing,” Biggles implored him quickly. “Things go well. We’re meeting him tonight to settle the details. I’ll let you know what happens, but you’d better be prepared for our sudden disappearance. Voudron has offered to get us a job, flying, and he may want us to go very soon. Meanwhile, you watch your step. Things are getting warm, and with Voudron and his gang murder is all part of the day’s work. That’s enough for now. We’ll move off in case Voudron should see us together.”
“If he offers you this job you’ll desert, and take it?”
“Of course. That was the purpose of our coming here.”
Marcel shook his head. “I don’t like it. I must think. I will go now.” Looking worried he walked away.
Biggles and Ginger went off in the opposite direction.
“That cunning, crafty crook,” grated Ginger, apparently still thinking of the way Voudron had tricked them.
“He may be all that, and more,” returned Biggles evenly. “But the man isn’t a fool. That was a clever move on his part. Had Marcel not been an officer we might never have known the truth about this imaginary draft. Had we been staying on here we should have known eventually, of course; from which we may take it that Voudron doesn’t expect us to be here much longer. Be careful not to let it out that we know this draft talk to be without foundation.”
* * *
1 French: So, sergeant.
2 French: That’s understood.
3 French: again.
CHAPTER VI
“EVERYTHING HAS BEEN ARRANGED?”
WHEN Biggles told Marcel that Voudron might want them to go fairly soon if they accepted his proposition, he was thinking of days, and possibly weeks, rather than hours. He assumed that it would take some time to complete the arrangements. As he admitted later to Ginger, in spite of all he bad said about the efficiency of the organization to whom they were opposed, he had still underestimated the power and scope of it.
He wrote a note to Algy, and a concise letter to the Air-Commodore, reporting progress, putting both in the same envelope and addressing it in an illiterate handwriting to their London apartment. He did not entirely trust the post, thinking it within the bounds of possibility that the enemy exercised some sort of censorship on the mail of legionnaires with whom they were in touch; but the risk had to be taken. He felt—for their own sakes apart from anything else—that he couldn’t leave his headquarters in complete ignorance of what had happened should they disappear without trace. He posted the letter himself at the general post office in the town, Ginger shadowing him to check that he was not being shadowed. This done they set off back up the road towards the camp to keep the appointment with Voudron.
The sergeant arrived at the ruined mosque on time and greeted them cordially. “I see you haven’t changed your minds,” he said.
“We should be fools to miss such a chance as this,” returned Biggles.
“You’re quite right,” answered Voudron. “If you do what you’re told this may be the making of you—a different matter from rotting your brains at Fort Labougant.”
“These friends of yours must be useful people to know.” ventured Biggles.
“They are.”
“But how do you come out of this? I feel we owe you something for this service.”
“Forget it. Anything to oblige two decent fellows like you. I’m not short of money; nor will you be from now on, as you’ll see for yourselves presently.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Your pay will start right away.”
“Do you mean you’re going to pay us?”
“Me? No. My friend will pay you. You’re going to meet him.”
“Tonight?”
“Right now. See, he’s even sent his car along for us.”
A sleek shining American car had slid silently to a stop at the side of the road. The driver got out to open the door for them. Ginger recognized the big negro who had locked the gate at the Villa Mimosa, so he knew where they were going. This caused him no surprise. The Villa Mimosa was obviously the first step in the line of communication to their ultimate objective.
Voudron didn’t get into the car with them.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Biggles, genuinely surprised.
“No. You don’t need me. My friend will take care of you.” Voudron shut the door.
The negro got back into his seat. He touched a button and automatic blinds covered the windows. The car shot forward.
It was, as Ginger was of course aware, only a short distance to the Villa Mimosa, certainly not more than three minutes’ drive from the mosque at the rate they were going.Wherefore as the minutes passed and the car showed no sign of stopping he began to get anxious. Had he been mistaken about their destination? But when, twenty minutes later, the car came to a stop, and they got out, he saw that he need not have worried. In the moonlight he recognized the entrance porch of the Villa Mimosa. Then he understood. The driver, unaware that they had seen the place before, had wasted time and petrol playing the old trick of trying to mislead them into thi
nking they had travelled about twenty miles instead of one. Raban was obviously taking no unnecessary chances.
The front door opened. A white-clad Arab invited them to enter. The car crept away to its garage.
Raban received them in a spacious library, and Ginger knew that from that moment there could be no turning back. The lawyer could not afford to let them go after seeing him and his establishment, for should they talk the French authorities would soon be on his track, Already he had committed himself to helping two potential deserters from the Legion. That was what it amounted to.
Raban invited them to be seated and opened the conversation in a manner so smoothly worded that he had obviously been through the procedure before.
“I hear you boys have had the bad luck to be posted to Fort Labougant,” he began, offering a box of cigars.
Biggles agreed this was so.
“You’re English, eh?”
“Oui, monsieur.”
“Served in the Air Force.”
“Oui, monsieur.”
Raban shook his head sadly. “That’s what I say about these military men of ours. They get hold of a couple of useful chaps like you and the best thing they can think to do with you is put you where you would be absolutely wasted. It’s a shame to send men such as you to the most God-forsaken place on earth. That’s what I feel, and that’s why I’m doing what I am. Sergeant Voudron, who I have met once or twice, happened to mention the matter to me the other evening when I ran into him. Of course, I shouldn’t really be doing this, as I need hardly tell you. If it were known I should get into serious trouble—very serious indeed; for which reason I must ask for your solemn promise never to repeat this conversation to anyone. Of course, you yourselves, as deserters from the Legion, would be in a nasty position.”
Biggles and Ginger gave their assurance.
“Your names, I understand, are Biggs and Hepple?”
Biggles answered for both of them. “Yes.”
“And you’re both experienced pilots, able to fly at any time?”
“Yes.”
“In that case all you need is an aeroplane to put yourselves far beyond the reach of the French police.”