by W E Johns
‘But, sir,’ put in Ginger, ‘haven’t you thought of trying to rescue Biggles?’
‘I have, but it seemed hopeless.’
‘Why? Nothing is ever hopeless.’
‘But consider the circumstances. Biggles was last seen lying on the ground, dead or unconscious, right in front of his pursuers.’
‘Yet you admit that if they had got him they would probably have issued a statement?’
‘That doesn’t necessarily follow.’
‘Why should they withhold the information?’
‘I could think of several reasons. The princess has friends in Italy, and Mussolini might fear repercussions, if it became known that she had been killed. Again the enemy might think that if they kept silent we should send more agents down to find out what happened, and thus they would catch more birds in the same trap. Neither side willingly tells the other anything, for which reason we have refrained from putting Biggles’ name in the casualty list.’
‘You don’t hold out any hope for him?’
‘How can I?’
‘And the princess?’
‘The chances of her survival seem even more remote. If she was not killed on the landing ground, then she certainly must have lost her life when she fell from the aircraft.’
Algy looked straight at the Air Commodore. ‘I think it’s about time somebody found out just what did happen, sir,’ he said curtly.
‘Absolutely – yes, by Jove – absolutely,’ breathed Bertie.
‘I’m sorry, but I have no one to send.’
‘Then perhaps you would use your influence to get me ten days leave, sir?’ suggested Algy meaningly.
The Air Commodore’s expression did not change. ‘Are you thinking of going to Monaco?’
‘I shan’t sleep at night until I know what happened to Biggles.’
‘That goes for all of us, sir,’ interposed Ginger.
‘But be reasonable, you fellows,’ protested the Air Commodore. ‘I know exactly how you feel, but war isn’t a personal matter . . .’
‘You didn’t take that view when you were trying to rescue the princess,’ returned Algy shortly. ‘Frankly, I don’t care two hoots about her, because I’ve never seen her and I’m never likely to; but Biggles happens to be my best friend. Apart from which, he is one of the most valuable officers in the service. Surely it is worth going to some trouble to try to get him back – or, at least, find out what happened to him?’
‘I agree, but the chances of success are so small that they are hardly worth considering.’
‘I am sorry, sir, but I can’t agree with you there,’ replied Algy bluntly. ‘Until I know Biggles is dead I shall assume that he is alive. Get me ten days leave and I’ll find out what happened to him.’
‘Include me in that, sir,’ put in Ginger.
‘And me, sir,’ murmured Bertie.
The Air Commodore looked from one to the other. ‘Just what do you think you are going to do?’
Algy answered. ‘I don’t know, except that we are going to find out what happened to Biggles. If the thing was the other way round, do you suppose he’d be content to sit here knowing that we were stuck in enemy country? Not on your life?’
‘It is my opinion that Biggles is dead,’ asserted the Air Commodore.
‘I had already sensed that, sir, but I don’t believe it,’ retorted Algy. ‘Call it wishful thinking if you like, but I’ll believe it when I’ve seen his body, not before.’
The Air Commodore shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right,’ he said crisply. ‘Have it your own way. Think of a reasonable scheme and I’ll consider it.’
Algy rose and picked up his cap. ‘Thank you, sir. It is now twelve o’clock. We’ll go and have some lunch, and be back here at two.’
The Air Commodore nodded. ‘Very well.’
1 Benito Mussolini – Fascist dictator of Italy. Joined with Germany in the war against Britain and her allies in 1940.
2 A native of Monaco.
3 After France was occupied by the Germans, those members of the French forces who managed to escape set up a new headquarters in Britain led by General de Gaulle. They continued fighting from there and were known as the Fighting French or Free French.
CHAPTER 2
THE REASONABLE PLAN
OVER LUNCH, AND afterwards, in a secluded corner of the Royal Air Force Club, in Piccadilly, Algy, Bertie and Ginger, discussed the situation that had arisen. Neither Algy nor Ginger had ever been to Monaco, so they were somewhat handicapped; but it turned out that for Bertie the celebrated little principality was a sort of home from home. For several years he had gone there for the ‘season’ as a competitor in the international motor-car race called the Monte Carlo Rally. He had competed in the motor-boat trials, had played tennis on the famous courts, and golf on the links at Mont Agel. He had stayed at most of the big hotels, and had been a guest at many of the villas owned by leading members of society. As a result, he not only knew the principality intimately, but the country around it.
‘Why didn’t you tell the Air Commodore this?’ asked Algy.
‘Never play your trump cards too soon – no, by Jove,’ murmured Bertie, and then went on to declare that if only they could get to Monaco he knew of places where they could hide.
‘It seems to be taken for granted that we are all going,’ observed Algy.
Bertie and Ginger agreed – definitely.
‘Then the first question we must settle is, how are we going to get there?’
‘There doesn’t seem to be much choice,’ Ginger pointed out. ‘Either we can land on this beach aerodrome near Nice, or we can bale out. But however we go down, someone will have to bring the machine back. We all want to stay there, so I suggest that we ask Raymond to lend us his Monégasque pilot – the bloke who flew Biggles. He must know the lie of the land a lot better than we shall find out from the map.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ agreed Algy. ‘Do we land or do we jump?’
‘If this lad knows the country I’m in favour of landing,’ declared Bertie. ‘It’s pretty rough for jumping – rocks and things all over the place.’
‘All right. Let us say that we land,’ went on Algy. ‘Having landed, do we stay together or do we work separately?’
‘I’m in favour of working separately,’ said Ginger. ‘That gives us three chances against one. If we stay together, and anything goes wrong, we all get captured. If everyone takes his own line we shall avoid that, and at the same time cover more ground. I propose that we work separately, but each knowing roughly what the others are going to do. We might have a rendezvous where we can get in touch and compare notes.’
‘Yes, I think that’s sound reasoning,’ agreed Algy, and Bertie confirmed it. ‘How are we going – I mean, we can’t stroll about Monte Carlo in uniform? I speak French pretty well, so I could put on a suit of civvies and pretend to be a French prisoner of war just repatriated from Germany. That would account for my being out of touch with things. What about you, Bertie?’
‘Well, I speak the jolly old lingo, and I know my way about. That ought to do.’
Algy looked doubtful. ‘People may wonder what an able-bodied chap like you is doing, strolling about with no particular job.’
‘I’ll take my guitar and be an out-of-work musician – how’s that?’ Bertie smiled at the expressions on the faces of the others. ‘Strolling players are common in the South of France,’ he explained. They make a living playing round the pub doors, and that sort of thing. By Jove, yes; I could do the jolly old Blondin act, playing a tune round the likely places, trusting that Biggles would recognize it if he were about. Biggles would know that piece I play with all the twiddly bits. He once told me he’d never forget it.’
Algy smiled. ‘All right. What about you, Ginger?’
Ginger looked glum. ‘My trouble is I can’t speak French – or not enough to amount to anything. I can speak a bit, enough to make myself understood, but I couldn’t pass as a Frenchman. I speak bette
r Spanish. Before the war we spent more time in Spain, and Spanish America, than in France.’
‘But we’re not going to Spain. We’re going to France,’ Algy pointed out sarcastically.
‘Just a minute though, I think I’ve got something,’ put in Bertie. ‘Yes, by jingo, that’s it. Ginger can be a Spaniard.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Selling onions. In the same way those chappies from northern France used to come over to England with their little strings of onions, the lads from Spain surge along the Riviera selling the jolly old vegetable. Or if he likes he can be a bull-fighter looking for work – they still have bull-fights in the South of France.’
‘Not for me,’ declared Ginger. ‘I might be offered a job. I’ll sell onions.’
‘Where are you going to get the onions?’ inquired Algy.
‘Plenty on the aerodrome. You forget our lads have turned market gardeners.’
‘Okay, then we’ll call that settled. But we seem to have overlooked the most important thing of all. How are we going to get back?’
‘By Jove, that’s a nasty one,’ muttered Bertie. ‘I’d clean forgotten about the return tickets.’
‘There’s only one way,’ asserted Ginger. ‘Assuming that Ducoste will take us over, he’ll have to pick us up again. We should have to fix a place and time. Naturally, we should all have to keep that date, whatever happened. If we don’t locate Biggles, or find out what happened to him, in that time, the chances are that we never should. If we finish before that time we should just have to lie doggo until the plane came for us. We could flash a light signal to Ducoste to let him know that it was okay to land.’
‘I can’t think of anything better than that,’ admitted Algy. ‘Of course, if we made a mess of things we shouldn’t be there, anyway, in which case Ducoste would push off again. We couldn’t ask him to hang about. Anything else?’
‘That seems to be about as far as we can get,’ opined Ginger. ‘When we get back to the aerodrome, are you gong to let the others in on this?’
‘No,’ decided Algy. ‘The whole squadron would want to come. We can’t have that – the show would begin to look like a commando raid, or an invasion. Angus can take over while I’m away. Well, let’s get along and put the proposition to the Air Commodore. We can fix the details later.’
‘What details?’ asked Ginger.
‘We shall need French money, forged identity papers, and so on. Raymond will get those for us if he approves the scheme.’
‘If he does, when are we going to start?’
‘Obviously, just as soon as we are ready,’ answered Algy. ‘The sooner we are on the spot the better. We ought to be away by tomorrow night at latest.’ He got up. ‘Let’s get back to the Ministry. I’m anxious to get this thing settled.’
Half an hour later he was laying the proposition before Commodore Raymond, who listened patiently until he had finished.
‘You fellows are all old enough to know what you’re doing,’ said the Air Commodore quietly, at the conclusion. ‘But for the fact that you have had experience in this sort of deadly work I wouldn’t consider the project. However, your previous successful operations do entitle you to special consideration. I must say, though, that I shall be very much surprised if I see any of you again until the end of the war – if then. By discarding your uniforms you will become spies, in which case, it is hardly necessary for me to tell you, it is no use appealing to me if you are caught1. I’m sorry if that sounds discouraging, but we must face the facts. I’ll make arrangements with your Group for you to go on leave, and supply you with such things as you think you will require, as far as it is in my power. I’ll get in touch with Ducoste right away and tell him to telephone you at the squadron. He volunteered for the last show, and I have no doubt he’ll do so again. He can have the Breguet. It will be less likely to attract attention over France than one of our machines, and at the same time save us from using – I nearly said losing – one of ours. If he’s caught he’ll be shot, so don’t let him down. Anything else?’
‘Just one thing, sir,’ requested Ginger. ‘What is the name of the Italian businessman you mentioned, the fellow at whose villa the princess hoped to stay – the skunk who let her down?’
‘The man is a retired Milanese banker named Zabani – Gaspard Zabani. His place is the Villa Valdora, in the Avenue Fleurie. Why did you ask that?’
‘Since, apparently, he is well in with the Italian secret police, he may know how his betrayal of the princess ended. He might be induced to speak.’
A ghost of a smile crossed the Air Commodore’s face. ‘I see. As far as I’m concerned you can do what you like with him. He must be an exceptionally nasty piece of work. But while we are on the subject of the Italian secret police, be careful of a fellow named Gordino. He is in charge of things on the Riviera. He’s a short, dark, stoutish, middle-aged man – usually wears a dark civilian suit. He’s got an upturned black moustache and a scar on his chin. He looks rather like a prosperous little grocer, but don’t be deceived by that. He’s a cunning devil.’
‘What a bounder the blighter must be,’ murmured Bertie in his well-dressed voice.
‘Matter of fact, he is,’ agreed the Air Commodore, smiling. He stood up. ‘And now, gentlemen, if that’s all, I must ask you to be on your way. I’ve a pile of work in front of me. I’ll get Henri Ducoste to ring you later.’
‘Thank you, sir, for giving us so much of your time,’ said Algy. ‘We are grateful to you for being frank and for giving us this chance. Biggles shall know about it – when we find him.’
‘Bring Biggles back alive and I shall be amply repaid,’ returned Air Commodore Raymond. ‘Good luck to you.’
Still discussing the plan the deputation returned to the aerodrome.
At nine o’clock that night an officer in the uniform of the Fighting French Air Force walked into the ante-room. Ginger saw him first, and guessed at once who he was, although they had been expecting a phone call, not a personal appearance. Nudging Bertie, he went to meet the visitor.
‘Henri Ducoste?’ he queried.
Smiling, the French airman nodded assent. He was a slim, dark young man, with straight, rather long black hair, and a shy manner. Ginger had visualised – not that the Air Commodore had given any reason for it – an older man. He judged him to be not more than nineteen.
Having introduced himself and Bertie, Ginger took his arm, saying, ‘Let’s get out of the crowd.’ They went to the station office where Algy was busy clearing up some squadron matters to leave everything shipshape for Angus to take over. Henri was introduced.
‘I have spoken with your Air Commodore,’ he said in fair English. ‘Better than the telephone, I think I come here and talk.’
‘Much better idea,’ agreed Algy. ‘Sit down. Cigarette? Did the Air Commodore tell you just what we had in mind?’
‘Yes, he tells me all you know, I think.’
‘You know we want you to fly us to Monaco?’
‘But yes.’
‘How do you feel about it?’
Henri shrugged his shoulders. ‘How you say? Okay wiz me. I go anywhere. What does it matter?’
‘That’s the spirit,’ returned Algy.
‘Only with one thing I do not agree so much,’ went on Henri, frankly.
‘What’s that?’
‘I understand not quite this making of a landing at Californie, on the beach by Nice.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Tiens! We have use it one time. The Italian mens are not of the most clever, but they are not always the fools. They stop any more landings at Nice, I think. Perhaps there may be now the trench, the wire, or the big sticks of wood, to make a crash.’ Henri shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it would be good to make sure.’
‘By jove, you know, the lad’s right – absolutely right,’ declared Bertie. ‘No bally use busting ourselves right at the word go, or anything like that – if you see what I mean?’
‘I s
ee what you mean all right,’ agreed Algy thoughtfully. It would be taking a pretty hefty risk to use this landing ground without first confirming that there were no obstructions. I always realized that, but I couldn’t think of an alternative. Of course, once we were there then we could check up, and if the place was all right, we could use it to go home from.’ To Henri he said, ‘Can you think of a better plan?’
‘There are two ways more,’ announced Henri. ‘Either we find another aerodrome or you use the parachute. There is no other aerodrome for many kilometres. Alors! I think it better to use the parachute.’
‘That seems to be a sound argument,’ agreed Algy, ‘but I was given to understand that the country round Monaco was dangerous for parachute landings – rocks and ravines, and so on?’
‘Oui. But there are places where the rocks are not too close. I live all my life at Monaco. I know such a place. It is much nearer to Monaco than Californie, only three, perhaps four, miles. Regardez2. Here is my map. I show you.’
Henri unfolded his map on the desk. ‘Voila!’ he continued. ‘Here we have Monaco. There are three roads. One, she go east to Italy. Two, she go west to Nice, Cannes, and sometime to Marseilles. Three, she go north, very steeply up the mountain, to the village of La Turbie. Behind La Turbie a road the most small she goes to Peille. On the left of the road, we have a wide valley, many kilometres long. Men who make the farm in the valley, they clear away all the big rock. You jump there and you make only four miles down the mountain to Monaco. And there is another thing I tell you. From La Turbie to Monaco you need not the road use. On it perhaps there are the soldiers and the police. See here.’ Henri pointed on the map to a more or less straight line that ran from La Turbie to Monaco. ‘That is the old mountain railway – very steep, very dangerous. One day the train she go down the mountain alone. Zip! Many people they are killed, so the railway she runs no more. But the line is still there, and so when I was a boy we ascend to La Turbie by the iron rails. If you land in my valley you can go straight down the line into Monaco and no one knows – no one see you. How’s that?’