Biggles - Foreign Legionnaire

by W E Johns

  They had not gone far when Ginger, after making a pretence of tying his shoe-lace, announced that they were in fact being followed.

  “We’ll see who it is,” said Biggles, taking the next side turning and then standing still.

  A minute later the follower appeared. It was Algy.

  “Keep going,” Biggles told him. “We’ll check there’s nobody behind you. See you in the Square under the palms.”

  Algy went on.

  Biggles waited for five minutes, when, satisfied that all was well, they went on and did not stop again until they were standing in the black shadows of the palms not quite opposite the hotel. Algy appeared with Bertie.

  “I left Bertie keeping an eye on the hotel while I watched you to the club,” explained Algy. “How are things going?”

  “Pretty well. We move off in the morning, by air, for an unknown destination. All I can tell you is, the machine is a Beechcraft Bonanza. We join our pilot at six in the morning outside number three hangar. I’m afraid it’s no use you trying to follow us even if you could get hold of an aircraft. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Napoli. It’s next door but one to the Continentale. Run by an Italian. Quite comfortable. As a matter of fact we tried to get into the Continentale, taking it to be a genuine hotel, but were told by that suave piece of work in the reception ball that they were full up.”

  “He didn’t want you there. I don’t think there’s a soul in the place except ourselves. It’s part of the setup.”

  “I saw a Rolls drop somebody there about an hour ago,” put in Bertie. “Couldn’t see who it was. I don’t think he came out. The car didn’t wait.”

  “I’ll remember it,” acknowledged Biggles. “What happened at the Villa Mimosa?”

  “Nothing very exciting, except that we found Marcel locked in a top room,” answered Algy. “They’d threatened him with all sorts of things to try to make him talk; but he kept his mouth shut knowing that they’d do him in as soon as they’d got the information they wanted. The raid was a complete surprise. Joudrier grabbed everybody, but apart from Raban there were only servants there. Klutz must have left earlier. The job was done nice and quietly. We left Joudrier still searching the house. He told us he’d leave men there to pick up any callers. That includes Voudron next time he goes there. He’s keeping the whole thing dark until he hears from you.”

  “Good work,” said Biggles. “That closes one rat hole.”

  “The gang will soon know what’s happened, of course. That should send the balloon up.”

  “By that time we should be ready to throw the net over some bigger fish. What about Marcel?”

  “We left him with Joudrier when we made a dash to catch your plane at Algiers. He knows your next stop was to be Alex., so he may follow on. He’s satisfied that for the time being there’ll be no more deserters from the Legion. That’s all buttoned up. What about you. Are you going with this bloke in the morning?”

  “Of course. I presume we shall be joining the secret squadron.”

  “Sounds grim to me. Must you go?”

  “We may never find their hide-out if we don’t. This is our chance, and we may never get another. When Klutz hears what’s happened at Raban’s place he’ll tighten up on security. All we can do is to follow the trail fast, as far as it goes, hoping that sooner or later we shall get the complete gen. The lines of communication must eventually end at the top men of the syndicate. But it may not be enough simply to know them by name. We’ve got to get evidence to show what they’ve been doing. If they’ve got military aircraft, stolen or otherwise, at their secret establishment, they’ll find it hard to explain what they’re doing with them. That’s why I’m anxious to see their dump. Klutz must be in touch with the big men. By following him you may learn something.”

  “Is that what you want us to do?”

  “I don’t think you could do better. Stay where you are. Try to locate Klutz. If he was tied up with Janescu, the man who was murdered here the other day, he might go to his yacht, Silvanus, in the harbour. You noticed the paragraph I marked in the paper I gave you in the plane?”

  “Yes.”

  “Klutz was shaken to the core when he read it. That’s why I feel sure Janescu was in this business. If so he’ll be one of the top men, which means that the whole thing must have had a severe shake-up. Who killed Janescu, and why, we needn’t try to guess. You’d better keep an eye on the airport. Klutz may fly out. Marcel, since he knows we’re here, might drift in. That’s all I can say now. Stay on at your hotel so that I shall know where to find you, or send a message if that’s possible. There’s nothing more we can do tonight. We’ll go in. Give us a little while before you show yourselves so that should anybody be watching from the windows of the Continentale they won’t know we’ve been talking.”

  “Okay. Hope your landings won’t be too bumpy.” With that they parted, Biggles and Ginger going to their hotel, leaving the others still in the shadows.

  The outer doors of the Hotel Continentale were closed, which struck Ginger as odd, for it was not particularly late. In any case it might have been supposed that the hotel would keep open all night, with a night porter on duty. However, the door opened at the turn of the handle, revealing that the vestibule behind the glass-panelled swing-doors was in darkness. This struck Ginger as even more queer, for the proprietor, who would know they were out, would hardly expect his guests to grope about for the light switches. They went on through the swing-doors and then stood still. The silence was profound. Too profound, thought Ginger, whose pulses were beginning to tingle. Such silence in any building was unnatural, but in a hotel of some size—in darkness, too—it was uncanny.

  Said Biggles, in a low voice: “Did you happen to notice where the light switches were?”

  Ginger answered no, but assuming they would be on the far wall, took a pace forward. His foot came into contact with something soft and yielding. At the same instant Biggles’s lighter flicked on. The light it gave was dim, but it was enough to explain the mystery. At Ginger’s feet, lying on his back with arms outflung, lay the proprietor.

  “Don’t move.” Biggles’s voice was a whisper.

  “Switch the lights on,” pleaded Ginger.

  “No.” Biggles walked softly to where the man lay, knelt beside him for a moment, then got up. “He’s had it,” he announced. “It wasn’t long ago, either.”

  “I didn’t see anyone go in while we were talking to Algy.”

  “Nor I.”

  “You think...”

  “Whoever did it may still be in the building.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “We’ll get out. We must. We daren’t stay here. If we do we shall be in a spot.”

  Ginger could see that. Whether they themselves called the police, or were found in the hotel when someone else did so, they would be questioned, perhaps arrested. They would be back-tracked to Algiers, after which the police would soon discover that they were deserters from the Foreign Legion. What could they say, faced with such an accusation? To tell the truth would expose them to the conspirators for what they were. Clearly, their only hope was to get out while they could.

  “Let’s get our kit,” said Biggles softly, and started off up the stairs, lighted faintly by moonlight coming through a landing window.

  From the top of the staircase a corridor ran the length of the building, with bedrooms on both sides. Their own rooms were nearly at the far end, which, they had learned, was a private suite, although at the time of their arrival it was not occupied.

  Before proceeding Biggles paused to listen. Silence, utter and complete, still persisted. Knowing what was in the vestibule made it all the more disturbing, and Ginger found his lips going dry.

  He was about to move forward when a door about halfway along the corridor was opened from the inside and a shadowy figure, moving with furtive stealth, emerged, and, without a sound, went on towards the far end.

  Ginger froze. I
t did not occur to him that the intruder was anything but a common thief, who, having killed the proprietor, was going through the rooms looking for valuables.

  Apparently Biggles thought the same, and decided that it was no affair of theirs. At all events, he stood still while the man went on to the private suite. The intruder opened the door an inch. No light came from inside. He then went in, closing the door behind him.

  By this time Ginger was feeling he couldn’t get out fast enough. Creeping about any house after dark is somewhat trying to the nerves; but in this sinister atmosphere, with a dead man behind them and his presumed murderer just in front, he found it most unpleasant.

  Biggles touched him on the arm and together they tiptoed to their rooms.

  It took Ginger only a minute to fling his few toilet things into his bag; and he was on his way out to see if Biggles was ready when his nerves were jolted severely by a gunshot, close but muffled.

  Biggles must have heard it, for he came out. Simultaneously the end door was flung open and a man dashed out in such a hurry that they came into collision with sufficient violence to send them both reeling. The man, recovering with a gasp, raised his arm. The hand held a gun. Ducking, Biggles dived for his legs, and they both went down with a crash.

  This sudden frenzied action after the previous silence was shattering, and Ginger’s movements were inspired more by instinct than reasoned deliberation. Biggles and the man were on the floor. Whether the man was holding Biggles, or Biggles holding the man, in the dim light it was mpossible to tell. But Ginger knew the man had a gun, so it was obvious that Biggles was in imminent danger of being shot.

  Going to the rescue he found that Biggles was holding down the arm that held the gun, so that the muzzle was turned away from him. Ginger knelt on the arm and with some difficulty twisted the gun from a vice-like grip; but not before it had gone off, deafening him, half-blinding him with its flash, and bringing down plaster from the ceiling.

  “Quit fighting or I’ll knock your block off,” he said fiercely, seeing now that they were dealing with a white man, and not, as he thought it might be, an Arab.

  The man’s reply was a violent wrench that tore him free from Biggles, so that he reeled backwards through the door of the suite, which was wide open. Biggles snatched the gun from Ginger and covered him. “Pack up,” he rasped. “And don’t make any more noise. I’m as anxious to get out of this place as you are.”

  The man, panting, torn and dishevelled, backed farther into the room. Biggles followed him, and finding the light switch flicked it on. “Stand still,” he ordered. “We don’t belong here. We’re on our way out.”

  “With those badges? Pah! You can’t kid me, you rats,” grated the man, who seemed to be beside himself with fury. He glanced at the window as if contemplating a flying leap through it.

  But it was not this that made Ginger start. Sprawled across the floor, in pyjamas, was a man. It was Klutz. As a result of the scuffle Ginger had forgotten the first shot. Now he understood.

  Biggles’s face set in hard lines as he looked down. “Did you do this?” he asked sternly.

  “Sure I did it,” boasted the man viciously. “And that oily Armenian crook downstairs. They had it coming to ‘em.”

  “Did you by any chance kill Janescu?” asked Biggles.

  “Yeah. And I’ll get the rest of the whole dirty bunch if I live long enough. You too. You wear their flaming badge.”

  Ginger began to wonder if the man was sane. With his face flushed and his eyes glinting, he was obviously in a state of high excitement, if nothing worse. He didn’t appear to have been drinking.

  “Now just a minute,” said Biggles quietly. “Take it easy, and don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Bah! You’ve got your badges. Go on. Why don’t you plug me, you murdering swine.”

  “If you’d pull yourself together instead of blathering you’d realize that if we were in the racket we’d have shot you by now.”

  The man stared. This, apparently, had not occurred to him. But he must have seen that the argument made sense.

  “I don’t know who you are or why you’re doing this; but since I’m trying to do the same thing, in a legal way. I’m more than interested,” said Biggles.

  “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Suppose I told you we were detectives from London?”

  The man looked incredulous. “Then why are you wearing those badges?”

  “It shouldn’t be hard to guess that.”

  “Where did you get ‘em?”

  “We were given them. Without them we couldn’t have got where we hope to get. That’s why we wear them. They got us in here. Now we’re on our way out before someone discovers that you’ve turned the place into a shambles.”

  “You’re not arresting me?”

  “I’ve more important things to do than fiddle with a man who’s bent on suicide, anyway. You can go when you like and where you like as far as I’m concerned. Of course, if you’re prepared to talk I’m ready to listen. Can you tell us anything?”

  “Plenty,” answered the man grimly. “You see, before I got wise to the racket I used to wear one of those badges.”

  “I see,” returned Biggles slowly. “Now you’re trying to mop up the gang single-handed.”

  “You’ve got it, brother. And I’m not doing so badly.”

  “From the way you talk you’re an American.”

  “Sure I am. The name’s Lindsay—Cy Lindsay—if that means anything to you.”

  “It doesn’t,” admitted Biggles. “But never mind. Go on. How did you come to get mixed up with this lot?”

  “I used to be a top grade chauffeur-mechanic in New York. That’s where I was taken on by Pantenelli.”

  “Do you mean Fabiano Pantenelli?”

  “That’s right. The rubber market boss.”

  “So he’s in it?”

  “Up to the eyebrows. I’ll come clean. I got into a spot of trouble and lost my job. Along comes a feller with a wad of dollars and offers me a better one. It was to drive Pantenelli and keep my mouth shut about anything I saw. I was his driver for close on two years—not always in the States. That’s how I got to know Janescu and Festwolder. Festwolder sells guns to mugs to shoot each other. Hugo Festwolder! He was one of the skunks who backed Hitler but was wise enough not to be seen in the game—oh, he was wise, that one. But I’ll get him.”

  “What about Klutz?”

  “He organized the dirty work. Well, he’s finished organizing. The Committee of Three. That’s what he called his bosses, Janescu, Festwolder and Pantenelli. Now it’s a Committee of Two, and they’ll need a new general manager to fix the next war. I must have been dumb not to tumble to their game before I did. War! I called it a game, but it’s big business. By that time I was deep in, and was thinking of a way out when I heard my kid brother had been killed in Korea.1 That finished me. I saw red. Yeah! That’s what I saw. Red. I’d been working for the smart guys who were piling up dollars by sending kids to their deaths. I swore I’d get even with ‘em.”

  “Why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “What police? Do you think I wanted to be bumped off? Listen brother. This racket covers half the world. If I’d squealed Klutz would have known about it inside five minutes. No. I decided I’d play their own game. War. And I’d fight it single-handed. I’m not doing so bad.”

  Biggles shook his head. “You can’t go on doing this.”

  “I’ll go on till they stop me.”

  “What brought you to Alexandria?”

  “Janescu’s yacht. You can’t move a yacht without it being known. A ship like the Silvanus is news. I’ve been aboard her often. That was their weakness. They daren’t meet anywhere ashore for fear of people wondering what was going on. The stock markets have their spies, you know. So they used to meet on the yacht, where everyone was on their pay-roll, of course, and no risk of eavesdroppers. When the Silvanus came here I guessed what was cooking and came along hoping to
catch ‘em all on board. But I was too early. Only Janescu was there. I guessed Klutz would be here. This is his usual hang-out in this part of the world. I’m glad I got him, anyway. Maybe it’s better that way.”

  “Why?”

  “It’ll make it easier to get the others.”

  “How do you work that out?”

  “Because now Pantenelli and Festwolder will have to come into the open themselves instead of skulking out of sight like a couple o’ coyotes. They hatched the plots. All they had to do then was pass the word to Klutz. He did the actual work, the organizing; and I must say he did it well. He’d been at it a long time. The gang was his, really. The Committee paid the bills. Now Klutz has gone, what are they going to do?”

  “Need they do anything?”

  “Becha life they need. They daren’t just slide out. What do you think would happen if the gang didn’t get paid? They’d squeal. Or some of ‘em would. It only needs one of ‘em to open his mouth and the game would be up. Pantenelli and Festwolder know that. They know they’ve got a tough crowd to handle. Klutz could handle them. But he’s finished. So what? Pantenelli and Festwolder will have to do his work, and they’ll have to move fast, because some of the boys at the Valley are getting sore anyhow.”

  “You think Pantenelli and Festwolder are in Alex. now?”

  “Sure to be.”

  “What do they look like?”

  “Festwolder’s a big feller with red hair and big red whiskers. Pantenelli is a little slick type. Looks like he might be a Mexican dance band conductor.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Of course I have. Didn’t I say I’d been everywhere with ‘em? You see, I’ve still got my badge. I keep changing the number. It still gets me places. They can’t stop it unless they change all the badges and that would be a big job. There are hundreds of ‘em. I don’t go to the club any more. Charlie knows me by sight. I suppose you’ve been there? Everyone goes through it.”

  “We were there tonight.”

  “One day I’m going to clean that place up with a stick or two of dynamite,” swore Lindsay.