Ìf my geography is any good, judging by our position when the ship was struck, 1
should say that is either Tarragona or Barcelona,' said Biggles, referring, of course, to the city lights. 'I—well, I'm dashed! What do you make of that ?'
Tog,' replied Algy shortly.
The reason for Biggles's exclamation was an entirely unexpected development. The lights had disappeared. It was as if a curtain had been lowered between the swimmers and the shore.
`Yes, it must be fog. I can't think of anything else it could be,' announced Biggles. 'Pity, just as we were so close. Never mind ; it won't make any difference. The land will be there just the same when we get to it.'
They swam on.
Tog, my grandmother!' cried Ginger sharply a moment later. 'Hark! Can you hear the aircraft? It's a big formation—bombers, I'll bet. It's a black-out. That's where the lights have gone.'
`Full marks to you, laddie,' answered Biggles. `That's the answer all right. Looks as if we might be better off where we are than in the city.'
The low drone of the approaching aircraft drew nearer. A few moments later a shrill whistling, swiftly increasing in volume, almost drowned the noise of the engines.
Biggles laughed harshly. 'We've heard that noise before, haven't we, Algy ?' he muttered.
`What is it ?' asked Ginger.
`Bombs. Listen. They must be nearly on the carpet.'
Hardly had the words left Biggles's lips when the sky was lit up by a blinding flash, followed quickly by others. A few seconds later came the reports, like thunderclaps, earth-shaking in their violence ; even the surface of the sea was ruffled by the concussion.
Ìt looks as if we might have chosen a better spot to land,' remarked Algy grimly.
Before Biggles could answer another salvo of bombs rocked the city, the flashes of the explosions illuminating the sky like lightning. Red, leaping flames appeared in two places in the city.
`Dirty work,' said Biggles coldly.
Ìt's all over, I think,' opined Algy. 'The machines are going back. Look at the archie.'
Several anti-aircraft guns were firing at the raiders. The shells sparkled in the sky, but as far as they could see, to no useful purpose. The noise of the engines grew fainter, and it was clear that the raid was over. Lights began to appear again on the shore. They were now very close.
A minute or two later Biggles discovered that he could stand, and announced this welcome information with surprise. Presently, however, the reason was made manifest.
A tongue of sand jutted out into the sea from a deserted foreshore.
Biggles, closely followed by the others, dragged himself wearily on to it. He took off his life-belt, threw it on the sand, and sat down beside it. The others did the same.
`Well, we're on dry land, at any rate,' said Algy.
Biggles nodded. 'Yes,' he returned. 'The next thing is to find some dry clothes—or find a way of drying our own. If anybody else talks to me about sea trips he is going to hear something. We'd better keep on the move or our clothes will get cold, and so shall we. It'
s warmer in the water than out of it at this time of night. Are you both all right ?'
On receiving assurance that they were, Biggles led the way up the beach, and after threading their way through some sand-dunes, they reached a road. It was little more than a track, and deserted, so they set off in the direction of the city.
`The first thing we had better look for is a boot shop,' decided Biggles presently. 'We can'
t go on walking about in our socks. They look like houses in front of us, but I think we had better push right on. If we can pick up some shoes on the way, so well and good, but I think our best plan would be
to go to an hotel where we can get some food and ask them to dry our clothes. We must try to get some pesetas, too.'
`Get some what ?' inquired Ginger.
`Pesetas—Spanish money. It can't be more than half-past nine or ten, so we may find a change bureau open somewhere. There will probably be one at the railway station.'
Passing a number of more or less dilapidated dwellings, half an hour's walk brought them to the outskirts of the city proper. Beyond the fact that few people were about, there was nothing to show that the city had just been shaken by an air raid. The houses increased in size and importance as they walked on, and another ten minutes found them in a large open square, on one side of which sparkled the sea. The moon had risen and cast a gleaming track of light across the still water. Silhouetted against it rose a tall column, surmounted by a figure.
`We're in Barcelona;' announced Biggles. 'That's the famous statue of Christopher Columbus,' he added, indicating the column. 'He came here after discovering America. It'
s years since I was here, but if I remember right, the station is over there on the far side.'
The havoc caused by the bombs was now apparent. There were two yawning craters in the square itself, being regarded by a number of gesticulating men, mostly wearing berets on their
heads. Skirting these, they climbed over a pile of fallen masonry and presently reached the station. As Biggles had hoped, they found a bureau open, where he changed three English pounds into Spanish currency. He had no idea of the rate of exchange, nor did he bother to inquire what it was. He simply laid the three notes on the small counter —
sopping wet, of course. The cashier looked at them, and then at the vendor, suspiciously.
A crafty smile that might have meant anything crossed his face, but after a close scrutiny of the notes he accepted them, and pushed a pile of peseta notes under the grille. Without troubling to count them, Biggles rolled them in a piece of paper which he tore from a nearby placard about air raids, and put them in his waistcoat pocket.
`No trouble about that,' he announced cheerfully as they retraced their steps to the square. 'All we need now is an hotel. There is bound to be one near the station. This street looks as good as any; we may as well try it.'
`Rambla de la Constit—something or other,' read Ginger from a label on the wall above a small but cosy-looking bar.
`There are a lot of troops about,' observed Algy, looking up the rambla.
`There 's a war on,' returned Biggles dryly.
`There 's a shoe shop,' cried Ginger, pointing to a dismal-looking hovel, outside which hung long lines of cheap-looking rope-soled sandals.
"They'll be better than nothing on our feet,' agreed Biggles. 'Let's get some.'
There was no question of explaining their needs to the owner of the shop, a little old man with a long grey beard and a pair of cheap glasses balanced on the end of his nose ; he spoke no English, but niggles simply pointed to his feet, and then at the sandals.
It needed little intelligence on the part of the old man to see what they wanted. He put a pile of shoes on the floor, and selected those which he knew from long experience would be about the right size.
In a few minutes the three had made their
Biggles paid the bill by the simple expedient of laying a hundred peseta note on the counter and picking up the change. Then they returned to the street.
'I low about a cup of something hot—and one of those sandwich things ?' suggested Ginger hopefully, nodding towards the bar-restaurant next door, in the window of which plates of various foods were displayed.
Biggles smiled. 'That's not a bad idea,' he admitted. 'I'm a bit peckish myself. Five minutes one way or another won't make much difference. We mustn't forget we've got to find the consulate, to get some sort of identity papers, or we may land ourselves into trouble.'
Ginger led the way to the entrance. Over the
door, on a cheap scroll, was written what was
presumably the name of the bar-restaurant. 'Casa
Reposada,' he read aloud. 'What does that mean ?'
`Home of quiet—or, more literally, home of repose,' returned Biggles. 'Go ahead.'
They entered. There was nothing to indicate that the trouble Biggles feared was waiting for them inside.
&
nbsp; CHAPTER III
A DANGEROUS MISSION
INDEED, at first glance the bar appeared to be singularly well named. It was, in fact, unexpectedly restful, the only sound coming from a radio that stood on the counter transmitting a popular opera, to which the barman, leaning over the counter with his chin cupped in the palms of his hands, listened in rapt attention.
The room was small and typical of its kind. Posters announcing national lotteries with huge prizes, and bullfights, decorated the walls, and more than half concealed the faded wallpaper. A low bench ran completely round the room ; and conveniently placed were a number of round, marble-topped tables. The floor was thickly sprinkled with sawdust, and equipped with the inevitable spittoons, for the accommodation of patrons in a land where the habit of spitting is not regarded as a breach of good manners. Behind the barman, on shelves, stood many rows of bottles, often bearing flamboyant labels.
There was only one customer present, a rather stout, sallow-faced man, who looked up sharply from the newspaper he was reading, and subjected the new arrivals to a close scrutiny as they passed his table. Biggles met his eyes squarely, and nodded a perfunctory greeting, whereupon the man
reverted to his original reclining position on the bench, and buried his face behind the newspaper.
Biggles chose a table a short distance farther along, and sank down on the bench with a sigh of relief. 'I vote for big cups of hot chocolate,' he said as the others sat down, one on either side of him. 'It's one of the things they make well in Spain.' Then aloud to the barkeeper, 'Hi! senor. Tres chocolate!'
The bar-keeper rose slowly from his position on the counter and, turning the radio higher—presumably so that he would still be able to hear it—disappeared through a door into the back regions.
Biggles frowned his disapproval as the shrill voice of a soprano came over the wireless instrument. 'I hope she isn't going to keep that up,' he muttered. 'That noise would give a corpse a headache.'
At that moment the door opened and a repulsive-looking hunchback came in. His lips parted in what he may have thought was a smile, but what to Ginger seemed a very unpleasant leer. His dark eyes flashed round the room; they rested for a moment on the man behind the newspaper, and then settling on the three strangers, he advanced towards them, brandishing in his right hand a small book.
`What does he want, do you suppose ?' inquired Ginger.
`He's selling lottery tickets,' answered Biggles.
He had to shout to make himself heard above the noise of the radio. 'You can never get away from that in Spain. It is said that one half of the country lives by selling lottery tickets, and the other half spend their time listening to the results on the wireless.' He waved to the hunchback to go away, but the man persisted in his unwelcome attention until the situation became embarrassing. Fortunately at this moment the bar-keeper returned with the drinks, and seeing that his customers were being disturbed with what sounded like a violent stream of invective, drove the hunchback away from them.
With an evil scowl the ticket-vendor retired, and breathing noisily, as if asthma or some other lung trouble added to his other misfortunes, transferred his attentions to the other customer.
There was a rattle of cups and saucers as the barkeeper set them on the marble table.
This done, he returned to the counter where, after turning down the wireless, he took up his original position of keen appreciation of the music.
'That's better,' mused Biggles. 'I found that lady a bit trying.'
Ginger noticed that the hunchback had gone. 'I'm glad that creature has pushed off, too,'
he said quietly. 'He gave me the horrors.'
Nothing more was said for a few minutes as the airmen busied themselves pouring out and drinking their chocolate, which was all that Biggles had hoped it would be. 'We had better be moving on,' he said at last, and was about to call for his bill when the door opened and another visitor entered. From the unmistakable London cut of his clothes he appeared to be English, and Biggles, after a quick start of surprise, turned to Algy.
Ìf that isn't Dicky Frazer I'll eat my shirt,' he said quietly. 'You remember Dicky, Algy; he was on the Head-quarters Intelligence staff during the war. We met him once or twice with Major Raymond.'
Algy looked hard at the new-comer who, without a sign of recognition, although his eyes had rested on them for a moment, walked to the far side of the room and sat down on the bench.
`You may be right,' answered Algy in a low voice, for the man under discussion was not more than twelve feet away. 'His face is vaguely familiar, but I didn't see Frazer often enough to be able to swear to him after all this time. It 's easy enough to find out, though.
Why not speak to him ?'
Wiggles, without moving, addressed the man whom he thought he recognized. 'Pardon me,' he said, 'but aren't you the Frazer I knew in the R.F.C. during the war? Remember me—Bigglesworth ? I met you, I believe, with Major Raymond.'
The man looked up, face impassive. 'I'm afraid you're making a mistake,' he answered unsmilingly. `My name is not Frazer. I know no one of that name, and to the best of knowledge I have never seen you before in my life.' With that the man settled back, his eyes on the door as if he was expecting some one.
Biggles looked at the others, a blank expression on his face. For a moment he did not speak, while his expression changed slowly to one of hard conviction. 'That man is a liar,' he said in a curious voice, under his breath. 'His name is Frazer. I'd stake my life on it. I recognized his voice the moment he opened his mouth. What's the big idea, I wonder? In any case he is British, and you'd think in a place like this he'd be only too glad to pass the time of day with fellow countrymen. Not that it matters two hoots. If he wants to mind his own business, it's none of ours.'
Nobody spoke while Biggles felt in his pocket for money with which to pay the bill. The wireless concert concluded with a burst of applause from the unseen audience, and the bar-keeper switched off.
The almost tense silence—for so it seemed after the music—was broken by two sounds.
From somewhere just outside the door came a wheezing asthmatical cough, and, nearer at hand, a soft drip, drip, drip, as though a pipe was leaking. Biggles lifted up the chocolate jug, thinking it might be cracked. He did it inconsequentially, with an air of casual curiosity. He made no comment, however. Instead, Ginger spoke.
`That confounded hunchback is still hanging about outside,' he said. 'Waiting for us to come out, I expect. Got his pals with him, too, by the look of it.'
Biggles glanced towards the door, beyond which two or three shadowy figures could just be seen. Then, for no reason that he was aware of, his eyes went back to the man whom he had thought was Frazer. Instinctively he stiffened at the expression on his face. The man was not looking at him. His eyes were riveted on the floor near the feet of the other solitary occupant of the bar, he who had been reading the newspaper. So tense was his expression that Biggles looked to see what he was staring at, and he, too, stared spellbound at what he saw.
He recovered himself quickly, however. 'Stand by,' he almost hissed. 'Something funny has been happening here.'
The others looked down. Nobody spoke. Comment was unnecessary. The dark crimson pool in which the newspaper-reader's feet rested could be only one thing. From the same spot came the ominous drip—drip—drip.
Biggles started to move, but the man who had denied that his name was Frazer frustrated him. Four swift paces and he had crossed the room. With a quick movement he moved the newspaper so that the man's face could be seen.
Ginger had a momentary view of staring eyes and a sagging jaw. Then the newspaper was moved
back to its original position, covering the face. The man who had made the investigation returned to his seat.
Biggles glanced at the bar-keeper, and saw that he was making up his accounts in a small book. It was obvious that he had noticed nothing amiss.
Biggles addressed the others in a voice that was low yet vibrant
. 'We'd better get out of this,' he said.
Bigglesworth!'
Biggles, who had half-risen in his seat, stiffened. His eyes flashed to the man who had spoken. It was the Britisher.
`Sit down.'
There was something so authoritative in the tense voice that Biggles instinctively complied. `Sit down and sit still.'
Biggles nodded acquiescence.
`Don't move and don't speak,' came the voice again. 'Behave naturally—as if you're still drinking. But listen!'
Biggles glanced at the man who was speaking. I le had taken a cigarette from his case and was now lighting it with an air of complete nonchalance. Only his voice betrayed the true atmosphere of the situation.
`Don't look at me,' came the voice again, low but tense. 'You were right,' it continued. 'I'
m Frazer. I'm still on the same job—understand ? 'm in a jam. So are you. If the people outside
saw you speaking to me just now, you'll never get out of here alive—none of you. I'm not being dramatic—but it's as bad as that. I've got something in my pocket, a paper, that has got to reach the Foreign Office. It's got to. The dead man near you was my messenger.
He was waiting for me here. My plans have gone wrong. They've got him. Now they'll get me. Have you seen a hunchback ?'
`Yes.'
Àh! Then there will be a score of men waiting outside. They'll be all round. Goudini—
that 's the hunchback—is thorough. I can't get through--they'll see to that. It doesn't matter about me, but the paper has got to go. It may mean life or death to the Empire. It's as important as that. I want you to take it. There is just a chance that they have not associated you with me. Will you take it ?'
Òf course.'
`Good! Be careful; they're watching us now through the windows. Do exactly what I tell you. I'm going to put an envelope on the floor and kick it as near to you as I can. When you go out, drop something; pick up whatever you drop, and the envelope at the same time. Then go. Don't go the front way. On the right-hand side of the bar there is a door marked caballeros. It 's the lavatory. Go straight down the corridor which you will see in front of you. It leads to the kitchen. On the far side of the kitchen you'll see the back door. Get
18 Biggles In Spain Page 2