by W E Johns
“Of course. But this losing touch with Marcel is a nuisance. I’d like him to know what we’re doing.”
They spent the rest of the day watching for him, but without success.
Ginger did not say so, but an uneasy feeling was growing on him that Marcel had fallen foul of the Arabs whose first attempt to kill him had failed.
Twelve midnight found them at the wall behind the kitchens. They had never used the place, but they had heard about it from others, and they had no difficulty in finding the two loose bricks that enabled the barrier to be scaled. There was no one in sight, but no sooner had they dropped to the far side than the promised car moved towards them from the shadows in which it had been waiting.
Thereafter the procedure was as before. The windows were covered, and after a drive of about twenty minutes they found themselves at the Villa Mimosa. They were taken straight in to Raban. He was not alone. In an easy chair, placed just outside the radius of light and half turned away, sat an elderly man, smoking a cigar. All Ginger could really see of him was a beard, a bald head, and dark glasses.
Raban’s manner was crisp but not discourteous. He invited them to be seated, offered cigarettes, and then said: “I have brought you here so that I can hear from your own lips exactly what happened the other night.”
Ginger noted that he did not introduce the stranger, or even refer to him.
Biggles answered. “Voudron will have given you the main facts, monsieur, as I gave them to him when he came to fetch us.” He then went on to describe, step by step, the events that had cost Voss his life.
“What was your impression of this unfortunate business?” asked Raban.
“Did it strike you that there might have been treachery somewhere?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that,” replied Biggles slowly. “I simply thought that the guards which had been posted—as they would be, of course—were singularly alert. We didn’t make a sound. Voss wasn’t expecting anything to happen. Nor was the corporal we met. We were just taking off when the guards rushed us. The only thing that struck me as odd was, they didn’t challenge us. They opened fire straightaway. But, of course, as the engines were running they may have thought that was the only way of stopping us. Voss was hit just as the machine was leaving the ground. Not having had time to strap himself in he fell against the control column and I had some difficulty in keeping the machine under control. After we were in the air we found that Voss was dead. The machine had been badly shot about and fighters were still shooting at us, so I decided to land. Had I known where we were bound for I would have tried to carry on. As a matter of fact we searched Voss to see if he had a map on him, or any other indication of his objective. We left him in the crash just as it was and then decided to make back for camp, having nowhere else to go. Had we known where to find you we would have got in touch with you to let you know what had happened.”
Raban was silent for a moment. “There is no suspicion in the camp that you were concerned with the affair?”
“None whatever—as far as we know.”
“The object of these questions,” explained Raban, “is to ascertain why the plan miscarried. We feel there must have been a leak or the guards would not have been on the spot, and so wide-awake.”
Biggles shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there, monsieur. We didn’t know where we were going, or what was going to happen, until we got to the aerodrome.”
“Oh, I’m not blaming you,” answered Raban quickly. “On the contrary, in the circumstances you did very well. But now let us deal with the future. The death of Voss has left us in urgent need of a pilot. This, obviously, is not the moment to try to repeat our last experiment in this region, so it is my intention to send you away from here by a more regular method. Do you know Alexandria?”
“I have been there, monsieur, but I can’t say I know it very well.”
“It isn’t really important. You will be able to find your way. Tomorrow night you will leave the camp as you did tonight, at the same hour. You will be brought here, where you will be given final instructions and provided with civilian clothes and other things you will need. My car will take you to an airport some distance from here and you’ll be on your way East before you’re missed from camp. This time there will be no mistake. You’ll be able to shake the dust of the barrack square from your boots for ever. That’s all for now. Be careful who you speak to and what you say. There are spies about. My car will take you back to camp.” Raban touched a bell.
Twenty minutes later, at the faulty wall behind the kitchens, Biggles and Ginger watched the car that had brought them back fade into the moonlight. Said Biggles: “Well, that was a useful night’s work. Now we know for certain what goes on. You saw the old man in the chair?”
“Yes.”
“You recognized him?”
“Unless I’m losing my eyesight it was Johann Klutz, chief operator for the armaments king, the late Julius Rothenburg. His photograph was among those the Air-Commodore dug out for us. It was a bad one admittedly, a copy of a passport photo taken years ago. He’s aged a lot since then, and he took care to keep in the background; but I’m sure that’s who it was. I told the chief that I thought he might still be in the same racket. I’m not saying he’s the king-pin. He was Rothenburg’s chief of staff, and probably holds the same position with his successors. That’s why he’s here now. He’d want to know at first hand how the plan to pinch that Breguet came unstuck. The value of the machine wouldn’t upset him. It would be the fact that the French guards were on the job, as if they had been forewarned. And I’ll tell you something else. A thought has just occurred to me, possibly because we’re booked for the Middle East. A day or two ago there was a news item in the papers about tension on the Iraq-Persian1 frontier flaring up again. It wouldn’t surprise me if that’s the work of the gang. It’s right up their street. If so, it may explain why they’re hurrying us along, to do one of their dirty jobs in that... What are you staring at?”
Ginger, who had been examining closely a small object that he held in the palm of his hand, looked up. “Marcel’s ring,” he answered in a strained voice.
“What do you mean?”
“You remember that signet ring Marcel always wore on the little finger of his left hand?”
“Yes.”
“This is it.”
“Where did you find it?”
“In the car. When I got in my hand slipped behind the seat. There was something there. I could feel it was a ring, but I’ve only just had a chance to look at it.”
Biggles took the ring. “You’re right. That’s Marcel’s ring,” he confirmed, in a voice stiff with shock and sudden anxiety. “He must have been in that car. It couldn’t have got there any other way.”
“Which means they’ve killed him.”
“Not necessarily. Had they simply wanted to kill him they could have done so without putting him in the car. They’ve got him. We needn’t doubt that. Whether the ring slipped off his finger in a struggle, or whether he deliberately pushed it off hoping we’d find it doesn’t matter. He’s been in that car. They’re holding him—if nothing worse. We can’t leave him in their hands, for if we do they’ll certainly kill him when they’re finished with him—if they haven’t done so already. But I don’t think he was dead when he was in that car.”
“Why would they want him alive?”
“They knew, through Voudron, that he was a police agent. They would, therefore, be very anxious indeed to know what he was doing here; and if he was on their track they would have to know how much he knew. If they killed him they’d learn nothing. Which is why I think they took him alive.”
“If they’ve got him, and he’s still alive, he’ll be in the Villa Mimosa.”
“I imagine so.”
“We can’t leave him there.”
“Of course we can’t. The problem is to know what to do about it, for it seems that whatever we do we shall queer our pitch for tomorrow night, and be left at a dead end just a
s we were getting somewhere. I could kick myself for not realizing the reason for Marcel’s disappearance.”
“Pity Raban didn’t give us the address of the place he’s sending us to in Alexandria. We might have picked up the trail again from there.”
“He’s too experienced a schemer to part with information before it’s necessary. We still know no more than we did when we went out tonight. Believe you me, when we start tomorrow night we shall be watched until we are in the plane—and perhaps all the way to Alexandria. These crooks can’t afford to take a million to one chance of anything going wrong, and they know it.”
“Very well. Then what do we do about Marcel. We can’t leave things as they are.”
“I’ve no intention of doing so. I’m going back to the Villa. There’s just a possibility that we may be able to locate Marcel. If we fail I shall contact Joudrier in Paris, tell him what we suspect, and leave the decision to him. If he raids the Villa, and that’s all he can do, he cuts the trail, but I see no alternative. I only hope he’s in time to save Marcel.”
“You haven’t forgotten we’re confined to barracks?”
“If it’s necessary to contact Joudrier I shan’t return to barracks.”
“What about the local police?”
“A fat lot of notice they’d take of two stray legionnaires. They might start making enquiries, and by that time Raban would know we’d been to the police. Come on. We’ll keep off the road. To be spotted out of camp, and thrown into cells at this stage, would just about put the lid on everything.”
They had no great distance to go and they made the best time possible. As was to be expected at such an hour of night they saw no one on the way. They found the Villa silent and in darkness. The white walls and the gardens were drenched in moonlight. The crickets had stopped chirping. The gate was locked.
“Over the wall,” whispered Biggles.
This was easily accomplished, and in a minute they were inside, crouching in the cage-like shadows of a group of bamboos.
Behind them, suddenly, a leaf rustled.
Biggles spun round.
“Okay, it’s me,” breathed a voice. The speaker was Algy.
He joined them in the shadows.
“So you got my letter,” said Biggles.
“Yes. What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Marcel is missing. We believe he’s here. I suppose you haven’t seen anything of him.”
“No. The car has been out several times but you can never see who’s in it.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since yesterday evening. When I got your letter I went to the chief. As things were quiet he said I’d better come out here with Bertie to see if you needed help. We went to Paris to have a word with Captain Joudrier about the position and then came straight on here, dressed as casual tourists.”
“Pity you didn’t bring Joudrier with you,” muttered Biggles.
“We did. Or rather, he came with us.”
“Good. Where is he?”
“In the town, staying at our hotel. We’re taking it in turns to watch this place. At the same time we watched the road, thinking we might see you.”
“At the moment we’re doing ten days’ C.B.,” explained Biggles dryly. “But never mind about that. Things are moving fast. We’re booked tomorrow night for Alexandria. We were told that only a few minutes ago. Now we find Marcel’s signet ring in Raban’s car, which means they’ve got him—if nothing worse. We couldn’t go, leaving him here, so we came back to see if we could do anything about it.”
“Then you were in the car that went out about half an hour ago.”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do now?”
Biggles thought for a moment. “If I knew the gang’s headquarters in Alex. I’d ask Joudrier to raid this place tonight, to get Marcel out. But I don’t. So if we do anything now we shall cut the trail.”
“I see that.”
“All right. I feel that if Marcel is alive he’ll still be alive at this time tomorrow night, so we shall lose nothing by waiting twenty-four hours. We’re to come back here tomorrow midnight for final orders, tickets and civvie clothes. We shall be taken by car to an official airfield, which is almost certain to be Algiers—Oran being a bit too close to Sidi bel Abbes—and then fly by regular service to Alex., as I understand it, without an escort. Tell Joudrier what I suggest is this. When Raban’s car goes out any time after midnight we shall presumably be in it. Let it go, then raid the place and rescue Marcel. If it turns out that we’re wrong, and Marcel isn’t here, Joudrier will have to act as he thinks best. In any case, you and Bertie could make a dash for Algiers and perhaps get on the Alex. plane with us. Don’t recognize us in case we’re watched; but when we get out you could follow us to see where we go. Joudrier will grab Raban’s car and the black driver when it comes back. If he can do all this without a word getting into the newspapers the rest of the gang won’t know what’s happened, and that’d give us a better chance. Tell him to hold Raban on some minor offence. Not a word about deserters from the Legion.”
“I get it,” murmured Algy.
“Here, briefly, is the gen for Joudrier. The recruiting agent for the gang in the camp is Sergeant Voudron. He’s the go-between between the camp and this house, which is where the desertions are organized; which means that Raban is an important man. In the house at the moment is Johann Klutz, who used to work for Rothenburg, the armaments king. He only came here, I think, to hear our story of how the attempt to get away with a French Breguet failed the other night, so he may leave at any time. If so, you’ll have to let him go.”
“Were you in that airfield affair?”
“In it? We were in the machine. But I’ve no time to tell you about that now. Voss was killed. That’s left the gang short of a pilot, which is why, I believe, they’re rushing us through. There’s probably another one of these bombing jobs in the offing.”
“And you think they may detail you to do it.”
“I’m hoping that from Alexandria we shall be sent on to one of the gang’s secret airfields.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. It’s no use trying to take our fences before we come to them. Have I made everything clear?”
“Quite.”
“Good. Then we’ll get back to camp. You’d better keep watch here until Bertie comes to relieve you. Then put all the cards in front of Joudrier. This is really his territory, not ours.”
“Fair enough. Are you going to have a look round while you’re here?”
Biggles hesitated. “No,” he decided. “There’s really no point in it now you’re here. I’ll leave that to you. Things are going well, and I’d rather not risk upsetting everything by being seen near here after being taken back to camp. It wouldn’t matter so much if you were seen.”
Algy switched the subject. “Have you read today’s papers?”
“No. Why?”
“Your mention of Alexandria reminded me. On the list of men who might possibly be associated with the racket—I mean the list the Air-Commodore got out—was a Greek oil magnate named Nestor Janescu. He lived mostly aboard a luxury yacht at Cannes, on the Riviera.”
“I remember. What about him?”
“Only that the yacht, Silvanus, has arrived at Alex. As you look like going there I thought it worth mentioning.”
“Quite right. I’ll bear it in mind. But we must be getting back to camp. Come on, Ginger.”
Leaving Algy watching the house they set off for the broken wall.
* * *
1 Now Iranian-Iraqi border area.
CHAPTER IX
ALADDIN’S LAMP
The following day passed without incident, and when the time arrived Biggles and Ginger went out over the wall. The car was there to pick them up, and after its usual tour to mislead them put them down at the front door of the Villa Mimosa. Everything appeared to be normal. There was, of course, no sign of Algy and the othe
rs, but Ginger knew they would not be far away.
Raban was waiting for them. He was alone, so whether Klutz had departed, or was still in the house, they did not know. Everything was ready, Raban assured them, and showed them to an ante-room where two complete sets of civilian clothes—the ordinary white linen suits generally worn south of the Mediterranean—had been laid out. They took off their uniforms for the last time and rejoined Raban, who handed them their air tickets for Alexandria. Glancing at his before putting it in his pocket Ginger saw that Biggles had been correct in the matter of the airport. It was Maison Blanche, Algiers.
Raban then gave them each what appeared to be a small club badge, in the shape of an oriental lamp with a number in the centre, to be worn in the buttonhole. Ginger’s number was 122, and Biggles’s he noticed, was 123. This, said Raban, was the only sign of identification they would need when they readied their destination, where they would receive further instructions. It was then revealed that this was a nightclub named Aladdin’s Lamp, in the Stretta Albani, which was in the dock quarter. All they had to do was go there and sit down. They were expected, so thereafter there would be no need for them to do anything but obey orders. If they were ready they could start immediately, as they had some way to go.
“Do we sleep at this club, or at an hotel?” asked Biggles. “The question arises as to whether we find accommodation and then go to the club, or—”
“You will go to an hotel,” interposed Raban. “That is arranged.”
“Very well, monsieur. We’re ready.”
Raban saw them to the door. The car was waiting. They got in. The car moved off.
All this was as Biggles had visualized it, and had discussed it with Ginger at some length. The main point of their debate had been whether or not to let the negro drive them to the airport. Knowing where they were going with identification badges in their button-holes and tickets in their pockets, the driver was of no further use to them. He would be arrested on his return, anyway. There was, therefore, nothing to prevent them from seizing him there and then, and waiting while the villa was raided. Biggles had been greatly tempted to adopt this plan, for there were many advantages to be gained by it. They would be able to speak to Joudrier, and learn if Marcel was in the house. They would also be able to give Algy their address in Alexandria, for should he miss the plane, or find seats booked to capacity, he would lose touch with them. Alexandria was a big place and they were not likely to be there long.