by W E Johns
Biggles, 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. He 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? I'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.'
'Ah! Then there will be a score of men waiting out-side. They'll be all round. Goudini—that's the hunch-back—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?'
'Of 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 out that way. They'll be watching it, but you may get through. I couldn't. It would be hopeless. Don't move yet. I'm going out of the front door. They'll rush me then. That's your chance to go out the back way. Got that?'
* Spanish: Gentlemen
'Quite clear.'
'Good! But don't think I'm exaggerating. My chances of getting out of here alive are about one in a hundred. Yours are one in ten. They'll kill you without the slightest compunction if they think you're with me. I don't know what you're doing here, but it doesn't matter. Make for London. If you get there, tell them what happened.'
From outside came again the wheezing cough.
'That's Goudini,' said Frazer.
Ginger stole a glance at the man whom by this time he realized was a British Secret Service agent. There was nothing in his manner now to show that anything unusual was happening. He was leaning back, smoking a cigarette contentedly, his eyes on the ceiling.
'All set?' he inquired casually.
'All set,' returned Biggles softly. Then to the others, 'You've heard what has been said. Stand by.'
'Here comes the letter,' said Frazer, and took out his cigarette case. There was a clang of metal as he dropped it on the floor. Several cigarettes fell out. His foot jerked, and a small manila-coloured envelope skimmed across the sawdust. Then he picked up the loose cigarettes, and laying his case open on the table, proceeded to put the cigarettes back into it.
Biggles' foot was already resting on the envelope. He took out a hundred-peseta note and laid it on the table; then he coughed, and the slight draught carried it to the floor. Stooping, he picked it up, and the envelope with it. Then he walked slowly up to the bar and paid his bill.
Frazer was also on his feet, moving slowly towards the door. 'Cheerio,' he said quietly.
'Cheerio,' answered Biggles, and turned to the lavabo.*
* Spanish: lavatory
The others followed close behind.
Chapter 4
Unexpected Developments
As the door swung to behind them Biggles whirled round on the others. 'Trust us to walk into something like this,' he said grimly. 'Still, there it is. You know what we've got to do. The letter comes first. It's in my breast pocket. If anything happens to me, get the letter at any cost and go on with it. That's all. Come on.'
As Frazer had said, a narrow corridor appeared in front of them, and down this Biggles strode. Before he had reached the door which faced them at the end, however, there came the crash of a pistol shot, followed by two more in swift succession. Biggles did not stop. 'I reckon they've got Frazer,' he sa
id simply, and pushed open the door.
An old woman looked over her shoulder from a pan in which she was cooking something, and greeted them with a stream of Spanish. Biggles took no notice, but crossing the kitchen, heavy with the smell of garlic, he opened the door on the far side, and looked out. The narrow street into which it opened appeared to be deserted, but two shadows that faded quickly into a doorway gave the lie to this illusion.
'They're outside, waiting,' he flung over his shoulder to the others. 'Oh, be quiet, woman,' he said angrily to the old dame who was still assailing them with what sounded like a stream of protest. 'Come on,' he said quickly to the others. 'We shall have to put a bold front on it, and try to bluff our way through. We can't stay here.' With that, he stepped out into the street, the others at his heels. The old woman slammed the door behind them.
Biggles was not in the least concerned with the old woman. He was far more anxious about the three men who appeared suddenly in the road about ten yards farther along. Looking the other way, he gave an exclamation of warning as two more men stepped out of a doorway and hurried towards them. 'Looks as if we're in for a rough house,' he said quietly.
Ginger, conscious of a feeling of helplessness, looked about for a weapon, even if it were only a stone. But there was nothing. 'Let's rush 'em,' he suggested crisply.
Biggles hesitated, as well he might. Had he been able to speak Spanish he would have felt better equipped for what he knew was coming, and in his impotence he muttered something to that effect. 'Take it quietly until they show their hand,' he ordered, and took a pace towards the men now closing in on them.
At that moment a new and unexpected development occurred. A saloon motor-car swung round a corner about fifty yards away, and with a screech of its electric horn, bore down on the men in a manner which at once made it clear that if they did not get out of the way the driver would run over them.
It did not cross Biggles' mind that the car was associated with their own affair. There was little or no reason why it should. He, like the men in front of him, stepped back against the wall of the nearest house, for in the narrow street there was little margin of safety. He was not a little astounded, therefore, when he saw the door of the car swing open, although the car did not stop. He was completely taken aback when, as the car drew level, a voice yelled, in English, 'Get in!' That was all, but the desperate urgency in the speaker's tone of voice said volumes.
Biggles did not hesitate. He realized that he might be stepping into a trap, but there was no time for consideration. No situation could have been more dangerous than the one they were already in, so he jumped, literally, at the opportunity offered for escape. Being nearest, he flung open the rear door for the others before diving into the seat beside the driver. Algy and Ginger flung themselves pell-mell into the back seat— no easy matter, for the car had started to accelerate the moment Biggles was inside it. They fell in a heap on the floor, which may have been just as well, for several shots rang out. There was a crash of glass and splintering woodwork.
A man grabbed at the front door, which was still swinging open, but Biggles' foot shot out, and catching the man in the stomach, sent him flying. Yells mingled with more shots. There was a hiss of escaping air and a wheel bumped crazily on its rim, but the driver did not stop. Still on the floor, Algy tried to reach the rear door to close it, but with a fearful crash it struck a lamp-post, and he nearly lost his fingers as the door came to with a bang that shattered the window. Then the car swung into a broad, well-lighted thoroughfare, and in a moment the scene was changed.
Biggles managed to reach the door beside him and close it. Then, for the first time, he looked at the man who had rescued them, and who was gazing ahead with a fixed expression as he picked his way through the traffic.
His serenity told Biggles nothing beyond the fact that he was middle-aged, and clearly a foreigner,although to what nationality he belonged he could not even guess. He was well-dressed in a dark suit, and wore a black Homburg hat above what was undoubtedly a good-looking face. A carefully trimmed black moustache adorned his upper lip. But still he did not speak, nor did he, in fact, take the slightest notice of the men whom he had picked up in such alarming circumstances. They might not have been there for all the attention he gave them.
Biggles opened the conversation—or rather, he tried to. 'Thanks,' he said. 'You arrived at what I believe is known as the crucial moment.'
'Don't mention it,' replied the man without taking his eyes off the road. His English was perfect, but there was just a suspicion of accent which told Biggles that he had not been mistaken in his opinion that the man was a foreigner.
'How did you know we were in a jam?' inquired Biggles, really in the hope of finding out something about the man and the new circumstances in which they now found themselves.
'It's my business to know,' was all the answer he got.
Biggles shrugged his shoulders at this uncompromising announcement. 'Where are we bound for?' he next inquired.
'You'll see.'
After that Biggles gave it up. It was clear that their benefactor did not intend to talk.
'You all right in the back?' Biggles asked, looking over his shoulder.
'Very comfortable, thank you,' replied Algy, who, with Ginger, was now sitting on the seat. 'You might ask the gentleman next to you how far he is going,' he went on. 'You might point out to him, too, that our clothes are wet and we should very much like to dry them.'
'The gentleman in front does not appear to be very communicative,' replied Biggles gravely, with a faint suspicion of sarcasm in his voice. 'He has no doubt decided where he is going to take us.'
If the driver noticed the sarcasm he gave no indication of it. He drove on, not very fast on account of the punctured tyre, picking his way carefully through pedestrians, who were chiefly soldiers and girls, and other traffic. Several times he had almost to stop as he rounded bomb craters, or piles of fallen brickwork and other debris. Presently, however, he turned out of the boulevard into what was clearly a residential quarter of the city, for tall, well-built houses could be seen through a leafy screen of oleander trees that formed an avenue. An occasional palm reared its graceful fronds from the front garden of a house.
They passed through several similar avenues, and after a drive lasting about twenty minutes the car approached another well-lighted rambla along which a stream of traffic was passing. There was surprisingly little to show that the country was in the throes of civil war, was the thought passing through Biggles' mind as the car pulled up in front of the portico of what appeared to be a large private hotel.
The driver opened the window and looked round carefully before opening the door and stepping out. 'Come on,' he said in a peremptory voice.
'You know where we are—I don't,' murmured Biggles as he followed him on to the pavement.
The others got out and followed their mysterious driver who, after a nod to a uniformed porter, entered the hotel, leaving the car where it stood. They crossed a small palm lounge and came to a halt before an elevator.
Biggles was rather in a quandary. He was by no means happy at thus blindly following a man whom he did not know, nor did he intend doing so much longer without some sort of explanation. But in the circumstances he felt that, as the man had undoubtedly rescued them from a very serious predicament, he could not very well be churlish. As he reasoned it out, too, he felt that the man must be a friend or he would not have taken the risks he had, risks that had involved the partial destruction of an expensive motor-car.
Nevertheless, while they were waiting for the lift, Biggles took the opportunity of pressing his inquiries a little closer. 'Look here,' he said quietly, addressing the stranger, 'this is all very well, but what's the idea? Naturally, we are very much obliged to you for getting us out of a scrape, but even so we have some right to know just who and what you are—that is, if you expect us to take orders from you.'
'You'll understand when we get upstairs,' answered the man shor
tly.
'Well, having come so far we may as well go the rest of the way, since we appear to be near the end of the journey,' returned Biggles.
At that moment the lift appeared. Without speaking, they all got into it. Biggles noticed that it stopped at the fourth floor.
The stranger led the way for a short distance down a corridor; then, taking a key from his pocket, he opened a door and, switching on the electric light, invited the others to enter.
Biggles glanced around swiftly. There was nobody in the room, which was comfortably furnished as a bed-sitting room, so he walked in. The others followed and stood beside him.
The stranger closed the door quietly and then turned an expressionless face to the three airmen. He put his hand in his pocket, and before a suspicion of his intention crossed their minds, they found themselves staring blankly into the muzzle of an automatic pistol.
The stranger fixed a pair of unsmiling eyes on Biggles' face. 'Give me that envelope,' he said.
Chapter 5
Goudini Again
Silence followed this unexpected order.
Biggles was as much taken aback as the others. Whatever he had expected—and he was prepared for almost anything—it was certainly not this. He could not reconcile it with the mysterious stranger's previous actions. In fact, he had not even considered the possibility of the man knowing that he had the document. How did he know? he asked himself, for Frazer had passed the envelope so adroitly that nobody except he and those to whom he had passed it could have been aware of the transaction. It was impossible that Frazer had told the man what he was going to do before he entered the Casa Reposada, because he, Frazer, judging by his subsequent actions, did not know that Biggles was in Barcelona until he saw him in the bar. Once inside the room, he had not left it until he had departed for the last time. Biggles took into account the possibility of Frazer surviving long enough after he had been shot—if, indeed, he had been shot—to pass the information on, but the chances against this were so remote that they were barely worth consideration.