Biggles - Foreign Legionnaire

by W E Johns

  But in the end Biggles decided not to risk it, for one reason only. The negro might have had instructions to hand them over to someone at the airport. If, therefore, they arrived without him, the person waiting would know something was amiss, with consequences fatal to their investigations, if not their lives. How well advised Biggles was in this decision they were soon to learn.

  It was a long run to Algiers, but the plane did not leave until six and they arrived with half an hour to spare. Going through to the waiting-room (accompanied by their driver, Ginger noticed) the first person they saw was the bearded man they had seen in the Villa Mimosa, the man whom Biggles had thought was Klutz. Although he still wore dark glasses, in broad daylight there was no longer any doubt about it. Biggles would have taken no notice of him had he not given them a nod of recognition.

  “Haven’t we met before?” he enquired.

  “Possibly,” answered Biggles cautiously. “When I was a small boy I was taught when travelling never to speak to strangers.”

  “Quite right. But you needn’t be afraid to speak to me, now, if you want to.”

  How this conversation would have ended is a matter for speculation, but at this juncture there occurred an incident that clearly made Klutz indisposed to pursue it.

  It was apparently to confirm this meeting that the negro had followed them in, for now, with a grin, he went out. They never saw him again. At the same time a man arrived with a load of newspapers and began to open his kiosk. Klutz went over, bought a paper, returned to his seat and opened it. As his eyes fell on the printed page his face turned ashen, and for a moment he was so agitated that he dropped his glasses. Ginger hurried to pick them up. “Are you ill, sir?” he asked quickly.

  “No—no. Take no notice.” With an obvious effort Klutz partly recovered his composure. “I get these little turns sometimes,” he explained. “Heart trouble, you know. Just leave me alone. I shall be all right.” He said this in a way clearly intended to discourage further overtures.

  Biggles, who had of course seen all this, strolled over to the kiosk and bought a copy of the same paper. He looked at the front page, and without speaking or changing countenance, handed it to Ginger, whose eyes, scanning the page, stopped at the only news item that could have affected Klutz to an extent to cause shock. “Financier murdered,” was the bold headline. “Death on luxury yacht. Last night, Mr. Nestor Janescu, who arrived at Alexandria recently in his famous yacht Silvanus, was shot dead by an unknown assailant who appears to have swum out to the vessel. The reason for the murder remains a mystery. Investigations are proceeding. Meanwhile the death of a man so well known in big financial circles is likely to have a sharp effect on world stock markets.”

  Ginger handed the paper back to Biggles without a word, but with his eyes conveyed that he understood.

  Klutz sat still in his seat, staring at the ground in front of him.

  Up to the time the departure of the east-bound plane was announced over the loud-speakers it seemed that they were to be the only passengers. They assumed that Klutz was going. But at the last moment, looking a trifle hot and bothered, in walked Algy and Bertie. Ginger smiled lugubriously. He would have said that Bertie needed no make-up to make him look like an English tourist, but with monocle in eye, camera over shoulder and a well-labelled valise in his hand, he was the continental caricature of one.

  “By Jove, old boy, we jolly nearly missed the old bus that time.” he told Algy loudly as they hurried to the booking office. Looking over his shoulder at Biggles and Ginger he went on: “I say, you fellers, just see that beastly plane doesn’t go without us.”

  Even Klutz half-smiled at this exhibition of British tourism as he got up and went out to where the machine was waiting, engines idling. Biggles and Ginger followed. As they took their seats Algy and Bertie were shown to theirs by the stewardess. There were no other passengers. The door was closed. The engines bellowed, and leaving a cloud of dust swirling behind it the east-bound plane swept into a sky unbroken by cloud.

  To Ginger there was something unreal about the long flight that followed. For the first time they were all in the same plane without being able to speak to each other; for Biggles had, by a warning frown in the direction of Klutz, indicated the position, although, as they too had seen the Air-Commodore’s photographs, there was reason to hope that they also had recognized him. Bettie did a lot of talking to Algy, all of an inconsequential nature, but the three parties kept to themselves. Klutz had sunk into his seat, busy with thoughts which, judging from his expression, were not of the brightest.

  During the hilt at Tripoli to refuel Algy and Bertie got out, as they said, to stretch their legs. This was the chance for which Biggles had waited, and Biggles and Ginger followed hoping to get in a word. But Klutz, too, got out, and was never out of earshot, although this. Biggles was sure, was entirely fortuitous, for he couldn’t have suspected anything.

  Algy and Bertie must have been as disappointed as Biggles at this frustration. Algy made a business of checking the time and entering it in his notebook as if he were keeping a log of the trip. Biggles, knowing he couldn’t be serious about this, guessed the purpose, and took care to follow him up the steps in the machine when the time came for departure. Ginger put himself between Biggles and Klutz, who therefore did not see the slip of paper pass from Algy to Biggles.

  Not until they were in the air did Biggles read the message, and then he did so under cover of his newspaper, holding it so that Ginger, in the next seat, could see it too.

  All Algy had written was: “All as planned. Marcel okay.”

  Biggles wrote on the margin of his newspaper: “Aladdin’s Lamp. Stretta Albani. Maybe hotel first. Watch. Destroy this.” Some time later he yawned, and made as if to throw the paper aside. Then, changing his mind, looking at Algy he said loudly: “Want the morning paper?”

  “Thanks,” said Algy, and took the paper.

  Klutz, still deep in thought, gave no sign that he had heard.

  After reading the message, under cover of his seat Algy tore off the margin, rolled it into a pill, put it in his mouth and chewed it to pulp.

  The plane droned on through an atmosphere made bumpy by the scorching sun above and rolling sand dunes below.

  It was evening when they touched down at Alexandria, and after the customary routine found themselves outside the airport buildings. Biggles and Ginger, who had of course kept together, would have gone off without a word to their fellow-passengers. But Klutz, who by this time had recovered from his “attack,” had followed them. “If you gentlemen don’t know your way about I can recommend a comfortable hotel,” he said. “It is the Continentale, in the North Crescent Square. The proprietor will take care of you,” he added meaningly.

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll take your advice,” answered Biggles. “Can we give you a lift?” he enquired, as the next taxi on the line drew up to them.

  “No thanks. I have some calls to make,” said Klutz, without moving.

  Biggles was still hoping for a word with Algy, but as Klutz obviously intended to see them off, and there was no excuse for lingering, he repeated the address to the taxi driver and got into the vehicle.

  Ginger drew a deep breath at finding themselves alone at last. “Thank goodness we can talk now,” he muttered. “I found that trip an awful strain. You’re really going to this hotel Klutz gave us?”

  “We should be fools to go anywhere else. Raban said we should be told where to go. No doubt there’s a good reason for sending us to the Continentale and we can guess what it is. I’ll bet the boss is on the pay-roll. We’ll park our kit, have a wash and a meal, and go on to the club.”

  “What about Algy and Bertie?”

  “Not so loud. Our driver may be on the pay-roll, too. I’m hoping Algy will watch where we go. This seems to be it.”

  The hotel turned out to be a small but much more pretentious establishment than Ginger had imagined. He had expected a cheap place in a back street, but this was somet
hing very different. The Square itself was spacious, the centre being occupied by several rows of tall, stately palms, under which, at intervals, wooden seats of the “park” type had been placed, presumably for the convenience of residents, or visitors staying at one of the several hotels that overlooked the square.

  There was nothing particularly imposing about the outside of the Continentale, although it was obviously well kept; but as soon as they were through the swing doors, it was apparent that they were in, if not the luxury class, something near it. The place was strangely quiet. There was nobody in the well-carpeted, tastefully-furnished lounge. However, as soon as Biggles touched the reception bell, an immaculately-dressed man, presumably the proprietor, appeared. He was smooth-skinned and swarthy. Ginger judged him to be either an Egyptian or a Turk. His manner was courteous—rather too courteous, thought Ginger—as with an ingratiating smile he informed them, in answer to Biggles’s question, that he could provide them with accommodation. He had two excellent rooms, adjacent, on the first floor, overlooking the square. And in this, Ginger had presently to admit, he had not lied.

  No sooner had the man gone back down the stairs than Biggles was in Ginger’s room, a finger on his lips. “Careful what you say,” he breathed. “There may be dictaphones. If ever a place had a phony atmosphere, this has. No register to sign; no visitors’ book. Did you notice the way that fellow stared at our badges? He was taking our numbers. This is all part of the outfit, run for members, so watch your step. Apart from ourselves I believe there’s no one else in the place. Listen !” Biggles opened the door wide. There wasn’t a sound. The place was as silent as a tomb. “All right,” he went on in a normal voice. “We’ll have a bath and then go out to have something to eat. Afterwards we’ll go on to the club.”

  Ginger, who was looking through the window, touched him on the arm and pointed. Bertie was sauntering through the palms. Reaching a seat nearly opposite he sat down and opened a newspaper.

  “Good,” whispered Biggles.

  “Are you going to speak to him?”

  “Not now. It’s too dangerous. After dark, perhaps.” An hour later, when they went out, the seat was vacant.

  “He was letting us know he was about,” said Biggles. “He knew it wouldn’t do to stay there too long. But he may still be watching.”

  They soon found a restaurant, where they had a welcome meal, watching the door, thinking Algy or Bertie might follow them in. But they did not appear, which suggested that they, too, were not taking any chances.

  “There’s one thing that puzzles me about this,” remarked Ginger. “Why, if the gang runs the hotel, do they use the club. Why have two places?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that myself,” answered Biggles. “I can see two or three reasons—aside from the obvious possibility that the club may not have sleeping accommodation. Alexandria is a sort of general headquarters. The hotel is maintained as a respectable establishment. But the gang probably employs all sorts of people, including some real toughs. They would need a rendezvous, but it wouldn’t do for them to use the hotel. They meet at the club. I’d say most of the people who use the club don’t even know of the hotel. So if anything went wrong, or someone squealed and the club was raided, the hotel wouldn’t be affected.”

  “I see,” murmured Ginger. “The hotel for the upper crust and the club for the riff-raff.”

  “That’s about it,” agreed Biggles. “Let’s go and have a look.”

  They found the club by the simple expedient of calling a taxi and telling the driver to take them there. The driver said he knew the place—well. From the leer he gave them Ginger suspected that what he knew of it was not to its credit. Biggles paid him off under a hanging oriental lamp outlined in neon tubes.

  Entering, they were met by a wave of hot air, a haze of Turkish tobacco smoke, and an enormous coloured man dressed in a barbarous costume. A tall turban on his head served to increase his height. He looked at their badges, grinned, and motioned them on.

  The room in which they now found themselves was a fairly large one, with small tables near the walls to leave an open space in the middle for entertainers—or so it appeared, for they were just in time to see the end of a snake-charming act. Most of the tables were occupied, chiefly by men wearing the now-familiar club badge which, Ginger now realized, was a small replica of the one that hung outside the establishment. However, they found a vacant place. No sooner were they seated than a sleek, dark-skinned waiter, with a fez on his head, appeared, and put a bottle of champagne on the table.

  “I didn’t order that,” said Biggles.

  The waiter looked surprised.

  “Take it away.”

  The waiter looked hard at their badges and obeyed with alacrity. They watched him go through a door marked “Staff Only”.

  From this there presently emerged a short, stout, unhealthy-looking white man of about fifty, whose skin looked as if it hadn’t seen daylight for a long time. What his nationality was Ginger didn’t attempt to guess, either then or when, with a great show of affability, he came over and spoke to them. Ginger knew the type: overfed, overindulgent in every form of vice, over in everything except clean living. A man can be fat and still be a jolly good fellow; but this sort, spending his life in vitiated air and electric light, common in every Mediterranean port of any size, reminded him of one of those maggots that thrive on corruption. What astonished him was that the war-mongering syndicate could put the slightest trust in him; for that the man was one of the organization was made apparent by the badge he wore. But perhaps the big men, the brains of the gang, didn’t know personally every man they employed, brooded Ginger morosely. That Biggles liked the fellow no more than he did was clear from his expression.

  “So you get here, eh,” was the greeting the man gave them. “My name’s Charlie. Everyone calls me Charlie. Dat goes for you. Have a drink.”

  “No thanks,” declined Biggles in a flat sort of voice. “We’ve just had our dinner.”

  “Okay chum. Just order what you like. It’s on de house.”

  Biggles took a cigarette from his case. “Listen, Charlie. We’re here on business. At least, I thought that was the idea. Can we get on with it? If not, how long do we have to stay?”

  Charlie frowned. “What’s de hurry? Summat wrong with de house?”

  “For those who like this sort of joint I’d say it’s just about perfect,” answered Biggles evenly.

  “And what don’t you like about it?”

  “I don’t like the noise, I don’t like the smell, and I don’t like the look of some of your customers,” answered Biggles. “No offence meant,” he went on quickly. “I’m just trying to tell you nicely that this sort of entertainment isn’t my cup of tea.”

  “You like Sunday-school, mebbe,” sneered Charlie.

  “The atmosphere of one would be a little less—shall we say, nauseating.”

  Charlie glared. “Den why you come here?”

  “Because I was sent here, and I obey orders. You’d better do the same. Now, how about it. I’ve come a long way and I’m tired.”

  Without answering Charlie turned away to where, alone, a young man sat regarding them with an expressionless face. A brief conversation ensued, at the end of which Charlie went out through the staff door and the young man came over to them. He wore the usual badge. His number was twenty-nine, from which Ginger judged, compared with their own numbers, he had been in the organization for some time. Speaking with a queer foreign accent which Ginger could not place he enquired coldly: “What’s the idea upsetting Charlie?”

  “If he’s upset that’s his affair,” replied Biggles. “I told him if he had anything to say to get on with it. My idea of fun isn’t to sit here all night swilling cheap champagne. I’m tired, anyway.”

  Number twenty-nine relaxed a little. “You come long way?”

  “Yes.”

  “You see my friend Voss I think. Why not he come? He’s late.”

  “Voss won’
t be coming,” said Biggles.

  “Not come? Why?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Number twenty-nine stared.

  “The French shot us down as we were taking off,” went on Biggles. “We came on by the regular service.”

  “So. You stay at Continentale?”

  “Yes.”

  Twenty-nine nodded. “I come here to fetch you. We go in the morning early.”

  “How?”

  “Fly. Be at airport tomorrow morning at six and not be late. You see me standing by a Beechcraft Bonanza1 outside hangar number three. Just walk over and get in.”

  “Suppose somebody stops us?”

  Twenty-nine looked at them through half-closed eyes. “With those badges!nNo. No one stop you.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Any reasons why we shouldn’t know where we’re going?”

  “Plenty. Maybe you see when you get there—maybe not. Have a drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Please yourself.” Twenty-nine got up and returned to his table.

  Biggles and Ginger got up and went out.

  * * *

  1 A single-engined monoplane, seating 4-6 passengers in an enclosed cabin. Built in the USA.

  CHAPTER X

  ONE MAN’S WAR

  “PHEW!” breathed Ginger, when they were outside. “I’m not sorry to be out of that dive.”

  “It was a bit of a stinker,” agreed Biggles. “We’ll walk back to the hotel to get some clean air into our lungs. There’s a chance we may find Algy or Bertie under the palms. We shall have to check that we’re not being shadowed.”