18 Biggles In Spain

by Captain W E Johns

  Ìt's true I tell you. Will you let me explain what happened ?'

  Ày, ye may as weel.'

  `May I sit down ?'

  Ày—but keep yer hands on the table.' McLannoch sat down at his desk. Ginger seated himself. opposite.

  `There are three of us in this,' he began. 'Bigglesworth, Lacey—who was in the same squadron in France—and myself. We've been flying together for some time. A little while ago Biggles• had an attack of fever, and the doctor sent him on a cruise. We all went. When we were off the coast of Spain the ship was bombed—'

  For nearly half an hour Ginger spoke rapidly, telling the whole story of their adventures from the time the ship was bombed, cutting out trivial incidents, yet omitting nothing of importance. 'Now you know the whole story,' he concluded.

  The Scotsman stared at him. 'Ay, and it fits in with what I know mysel',' he said slowly.

  Ìt's the truth,' replied Ginger simply.

  Àn' I believe ye,' declared McLannoch, putting the pistol back in the drawer. He was still staring at Ginger with a queer look on his face.

  `How did you come to hear about the affair?' asked Ginger.

  Ì read aboot it in the Barcelona paper,' said McLannoch slowly.

  `You read about it?'

  Ày—last night. I havna got the paper here or ye could read it yoursel'. It's bad news I have for ye.'

  Ginger felt something inside him go cold. Tad news ?' he whispered.

  `Your friends were caught.'

  `Yes.' Ginger's fingers were white as they gripped the edge of the table. 'Go on,' he said, in a dry voice.

  `They were tried—as spies—by the tribunal.'

  Ànd what happened ?' Ginger forced the words through dry lips. He did not recognize his own voice.

  `They were sentenced to be shot.'

  Ginger's voice became a strangled gasp. 'When?' Ìn the morning.'

  CHAPTER XI

  BACK TO BARCELONA

  GINGER sat staring at McLannoch until the Scotsman moved uncomfortably. Time seemed to stand still. His brain appeared to have become incapable of effort.

  Ày, it's bad, laddie, there's na doot o' that,' murmured McLannoch awkwardly, averting his eyes from Ginger's face.

  The words broke the spell. 'Bad ?' cried Ginger aghast. 'It's worse than that. It's awful. I must do something.'

  `Yell ha' to be careful how ye do it, or ye'll join the others,' was the grim reply.

  Ginger tried to think calmly, but found it difficult. 'They'll think you're one of the party if they find me here with you,' he said suddenly.

  `So I was thinking.'

  Ì suppose you—ought to give me up.' `There's no suppose aboot that.'

  Àre you going to ?'

  `No—what d'ye take me for ?'

  `They wouldn't shoot you, anyway.'

  `They shoot first in Catalonia these days, and ask questions afterwards.'

  Ì've got to get to Barcelona,' declared Ginger. `Do you know where my friends are ?'

  `They'll be on the San Christophe; all the political prisoners go there.'

  `Where's that ?'

  Ìt's a ship—in the harbour.'

  À ship! Dear Heaven! That makes it harder still.'

  `Makes what harder ?'

  `Rescue.'

  'That's a braw proposition, but it's madness.'

  Ì shall go mad if I don't soon do something,'

  swore Ginger. 'How far is it to Barcelona?' `Fifty miles—more or less.'

  Ginger threw up his hands helplessly.

  `The auld car's juist round the corner.'

  `You mean—you'll let me have it ?'

  Ì wouldna stop ye takin' it.'

  `You're a sportsman, Jock.'

  `Nay—juist a fella fra' Scotland. I'd come wi' ye but the general is comin' round to-night.

  I've promised to meet him here.'

  Ginger glanced through the window and saw the sun was already far down in the west. '

  Then I'll get out of your sight before any one sees us together,' he said. 'Before I go I'd like to ask you to do two things.'

  `Go ahead.'

  `Will you lend me that pistol ?'

  Without a word McLannoch took the automatic out of the drawer and passed it over.

  `Thanks,' said Ginger. He took the fatal letter

  from his pocket. 'This is the letter I told you about,' he went on. 'It seems likely that I shall fall into Goudini's hands before the night is out. I daren't risk him getting hold of this. Just how much it means to the Foreign Office I don't know, but Frazer, who risked his life to get it, and lost his life trying to deliver it, said it was vital. Will you keep it ? If I don't come back here, try to get it through.'

  McLannoch put the folded sheet of paper in his wallet, which he returned to his breast pocket. Ìt will stay there,' he said quickly. 'If ye don't come back in three days I'll fly across the frontier and deliver it mysel'.'

  `Three days!'

  Ìf ye're not back by then I shall reckon ye're not comin'.'

  Ìf I'm not back inside three days you can bet your life I shan't be coming,' returned Ginger with great emphasis. 'Is there plenty of petrol in the car ?'

  Ènough to see ye to Barcelona—and back, if necessary.'

  `Good.' Ginger held out his hand. 'Thanks, Jock,' he said simply. 'If ever it's my luck to get back to England I'll make it my business to let the Foreign Office know what you did for them to-day.'

  `Maybe ye'll ask them to gi' me my licence back,' smiled the Scotsman.

  `Why, did they take it away from you ?'

  Ày—for low flying, way up in Glasgae.'

  Ì'll make a note of that,' answered Ginger.

  He started as the door was flung open and a man appeared. He wore the uniform of a legionnaire, with wings on his left breast. His eyes were ringed with heavy lines. In his right hand he swung cap and goggles. 'Sorry, Jock,' he exclaimed, in a broad American accent. `Who's this ?' he went on, indicating Ginger. 'Another candidate for incineration ?

  ' He laughed at his own grim joke.

  Ày. Friend o' mine. The lad who pulled me out of the crash yesterday; I told ye aboot it last nicht.'

  The American struck Ginger a violent blow between the shoulders. 'Nice work, pal,' he drawled. Ì'll be seeing you.' With that, and a cheerful nod, he went out again.

  Òne of my lads,' explained Jock. 'American. Name's Cy Harkwell. As guid as they make

  'em. Ye can bet on him if ye're in a jam.'

  Ì'll remember it,' promised Ginger. 'Now I'll get along, if you don't mind.'

  Ì'll see ye off the premises, in case of trouble,' said Jock, picking up his cap.

  Together they walked to where the car was standing—the same that had been sent to fetch Ginger from the trenches. It was, he now saw, an old Renault saloon.

  `How are you going to get your car back if I

  don't come back ?' asked Ginger, prompted by a twinge of conscience.

  Ìt doesn't matter aboot the car,' replied Jock carelessly. 'Leave it by the Columbus statue, which is as close to the San Christophe as ye'll get.'

  Ginger looked up. 'Can you actually see the San Christophe from there ?'

  Ày. She 's a black-painted two-funnelled tramp. She lies in the central harbour, a hundred yards, more or less, in the direction Columbus is looking.'

  `Thanks. It's useful to know that. You'll find the car there, I hope, if anything goes wrong.'

  `Guid enough. Adios, and the best of luck.' Jock held out his hand.

  Ginger held it firmly in his own for a second; then settling himself behind the wheel, he slipped in the clutch.

  `Keep straight ; the road goes through to Barcelona,' called Jock.

  Ginger waved good-bye, and sped down the long white road between distant hills now softly purple in the evening light. It would be dark, he reflected, by the time he reached Barcelona, so the risk of recognition was small. Just what he was going to do when he got there he did not know. lie had not thought
as far ahead as that. He would try to devise some plan during the journey.

  But in this he failed dismally. The word Barcelona beat through his brain like a funeral toll. As a boy he had used the word many times, always with the same association. Nuts. Barcelona nuts. He had eaten thousands, not having the remotest idea of where Barcelona was. Now, with faint surprise, he recalled that he had not seen a single nut, much less a nut tree, since he arrived in the great Spanish seaport.

  Where the nuts came from, then, appeared to be a mystery—a mystery that was likely to remain such as far as he was concerned, for he had more pressing business to attend to.

  As he neared the city signs of the war became more evident: marching men, lorries, guns, wagons, and the like. He paid little heed to them, beyond taking care to avoid a collision, which in the circumstances was the very last thing he wanted. As the light waned, so did his spirits. The shock of Jock's revelation had rather overwhelmed him, but as time passed, and his brain returned to normal, he saw the situation in its true light, and he was appalled. Yet he had, he perceived, one card which, if played properly, might prove to be a trump. The letter. Goudini wanted it. Wanted it badly. If it was worth more to him than the lives of the two prisoners, then it might be possible to strike a bargain. He perceived what the end of such a bargain might involve, and he shrank from reaching a definite decision in the matter. Would he be justified in handing the letter, vital to his own country's interests (of that he had no doubt) to a potential enemy in order to save the lives of his best friends, friends who meant more

  to him than the rest of the world ? Either way the remorse would be dreadful; he could see that clearly. So the more he contemplated the sacrifice which such a bargain would inevitably entail—his country on one hand or his friends on the other —the more he quailed before it. But he could see no other way out. But before taking any irrevocable step, he would, he decided, look at the ship.

  It was dark by the time he had passed through the suburbs and entered the city proper. Ile did not know the way to the harbour, but he thought that if he kept to the main streets he would sooner or later come upon it. And in this he was correct. From some distance away he saw the high figure of the great discoverer, gazing for ever towards the continent he had risked so much to find, and made his way slowly towards it.

  Parking the car near the foot of the column, he got out and stared across the black water of the harbour at the silhouette of a two-funnelled ship, moored where, from Jock's description, he expected to see it. It was about a hundred yards from the shore. Lights shone on the deck, and one or two portholes were illuminated. That was all he could see.

  Nor did there appear to be the slightest hope of learning more. But as he stood on the concrete quay, wondering—vaguely, it may be admitted—what he could do, he saw a dinghy leave the side of the ship and move swiftly across the water to some steps not far away. The sound of softly

  spoken Spanish reached his ears, so, purely as a precautionary measure, he stepped into the black shade of a bomb-shattered bus shelter, or something of the sort. He was not sure what it was, and was not sufficiently concerned to find out.

  The boat disappeared from sight under the high wall of the quay, and he was prepared to dismiss the matter from his mind. There had been only three men in it, so it was impossible that Biggles and Algy should be amongst them.

  He had turned his attention again to the ship when a sound reached his ears that stopped his heart beating—or so it seemed. He held his breath. The loose, wheezing cough was unmistakable. Shrinking back farther into his refuge, he saw two men walking slowly along the edge of the quay, evidently two of the three who had been in the dinghy. The other, he thought, was probably the boatman. One glance was all he needed to confirm what, really, he already knew. Goudini was there, a black portfolio under his arm. His dwarf, misshapen form was unmistakable. The two were making their way slowly towards a car that stood at the foot of the Columbus column, on the side farthest from where Ginger had left his.

  Ginger stood quite still, although his brain raced. He watched the pair as, having neared the car, they stood for some minutes in earnest conversation. Then, ,abruptly, the unknown man raised his hat and walked quickly away. Goudini, his head bent in thought, moved slowly towards the car with the obvious intention of entering it.

  Ginger strode quickly over the paving-stones towards him. What he was going to say, or even what he was going to do, he did not know. He had had no time to think about it. He had simply acted on the spur of the moment, believing that the opportunity was heavensent.

  Goudini, hearing footsteps, glanced over his shoulder, but seeing only a lone legionnaire, from whom, presumably, he had nothing to fear, he turned back to the car. His hand closed over the handle of the door. It swung open. He put his foot on the running-board.

  Ginger pressed the muzzle of the automatic into the small of his back. 'Just a moment, Senor Goudini, if you don't mind,' he said softly.

  CHAPTER XII

  A DESPERATE EXPEDIENT

  GINGER felt Goudini stiffen. Slowly the Spaniard turned his head and looked over his shoulder. His eyes gleamed under heavy lids when he saw who it was, but his expression did not alter.

  Àh,' he said softly, 'so you have come back.' `Get in the car,' returned Ginger curtly. 'I want to talk to you.'

  The Spaniard hesitated, his eyes flashing round the square adjoining the quay.

  `Senor Goudini,' went on Ginger, 'at the first sign of trouble I shall shoot you, so whatever happens afterwards will afford you little satisfaction. But don't misunderstand me. I do not want to kill you. You mean nothing to me. Nothing at all. Neither does your country. I know nothing about your war. I don't want to know anything about it, but I hope the side wins that represents the majority of true Spaniards. You have made the quarrel that exists between us. You are holding my friends prisoners. They are my sole concern. To obtain their release I would shoot you and a hundred men like you, so be careful.' Ginger put out his hand and tapped the Spaniard's pockets. From one he took a revolver, and put it in his own. 'Now get in the car,' he said.

  The Spaniard shrugged his shoulders, coughed painfully, and then got into the nearest seat.

  Ginger's heart was palpitating violently and his brain raced as he tried to think of a way to turn his present advantage to good account. Far from there being any fixed plan in his mind, he was utterly at a loss to know what to do next. For a few seconds he contemplated the possibility of forcing Goudini, at the muzzle of his gun, back to the ship, and there ordering the release of the prisoners. He had seen that sort of thing done on the films, one man obediently obeying the orders of another who walks beside him with a revolver in his pocket, the muzzle prodding the victim's ribs. But he realized now that while this may look all very simple from the comfortable seat of a theatre, in actual fact the chances of success were so remote that he dismissed it from his mind as utterly impracticable.

  `Well ?' said Goudini suggestively.

  Ginger started. He realized that he could not sit where he was indefinitely. He would have to do something; yet after his dramatic coup, to step out of the car and allow Goudini to drive away was an anti-climax not to be considered. In sheer desperation he slipped in the clutch, and, without knowing where he was going, started off across the square and down the first street he came to. And he drove fast, perceiving that in such circumstances Goudini would not be able

  to make active protest without risk of upsetting the car.

  Straight through the city he tore ; the shops gave way to villas as he entered a residential quarter, and the villas to open country. The moon was full, and the road lay like a broad grey ribbon before him, climbing in wide curves into the mountains that frown upon the city from behind.

  The road was practically free from traffic; apart from an occasional pedestrian or cyclist, and yellow lights that gleamed from the windows of isolated houses set back among the hills, the country-side was deserted. Ginger, holding the wheel
in one hand and the automatic in the other, raced on. The drive was at least giving him time to think, and he racked his brains as never before for a solution to the knotty problem confronting him.

  He could think of only one thing that promised hope of success ; even that was vague, and at its best was little more than a forlorn hope. He studied the road ahead through the windscreen. On both sides rows of vines stretched away as far as he could see. The only building in sight was a dilapidated stone but some distance from the road, used perhaps by the workmen during the grape harvest. He decided that it would suit his purpose. He might find a better place farther on ; on the other hand, he might reach a district where conditions were less favourable. Abruptly he pulled the car to a stop on the side of the road.

  `Now we can talk without fear of interruption,' he said harshly.

  He found the light switch and flashed it on. Then he turned to Goudini, who was regarding him with a sardonic smile, holding his portfolio on his knees.

  Now Ginger's plan involved the use of pen and paper, and as far as he could see, the portfolio alone offered possibilities in this direction. He himself had neither pen nor paper. If the portfolio turned out to be empty—well, he would have to think of some other plan. But he was hopeful that this would not be necessary. He had seen such portfolios before; in fact, Biggles had one, and in it there were compartments for useful things such as writing paper, visiting cards, envelopes, and the like.

  `Give me that bag,' ordered Ginger.

  Goudini's answer was to hold it more tightly. `Do what I tell you, or I'll shoot you out of hand,' snarled Ginger.

  Whether or not he would have carried out his dire threat is open to question; but in his state of mind he was fully convinced that he would, which may have expressed itself in his tone of voice. Goudini evidently thought he was capable of it, for he passed the portfolio over.

  Ginger soon discovered that it was locked. 'Give me the key,' he grated; 'wasting time won't help you.

  Goudini felt in his waistcoat pocket, took out the key and handed it over. 'There is nothing likely to interest you in it,' he said, obviously referring to the bag.

  Ì'll find out for myself,' returned Ginger.