by W E Johns
'Come on; pass it over,' said the man again impatiently.
But Biggles was not prepared to capitulate so readily, or even to admit that he had the document. 'Envelope?' he questioned, putting on a blank look. 'What do you mean—envelope?'
'I saw Frazer kick it across the floor to you,' was the cool reply.
This ready answer shook even Biggles' composure, but it explained much. He perceived that if the man had actually witnessed the transfer of the envelope, and this was no longer in doubt, further denial would serve no useful purpose. 'I see,' he said softly. 'Where were you?'
'Where I could see, of course,' was the evasive answer. 'I didn't trail Frazer all the way from Rome to Barcelona to lose sight of him at the end of it.'
'Are you a friend or an enemy?' asked Biggles wonderingly, for there was still much that he did not under-stand.
'Neither—or both, whichever suits my book,' was the curious reply, spoken curtly.
Biggles nodded gently. 'You—work for yourself?'
'It's time you knew that, if you're in the business.'
Biggles smiled faintly. 'That's just it. I'm not in the business,' he said quietly.
'From the way you acted tonight it doesn't look that way to me.'
'Maybe not, but it's true.'
'How did you come into this?'
'By accident,' admitted Biggles frankly.
'Some people might believe that—but not me,' sneered the other. 'Try it on Goudini and see how it works. He'll be combing the city for us by this time. But come on, we've stood here talking long enough. I don't want to shoot you unless you make me, but I've got to get away, and when I go I'm taking the paper with me. Pass it over!' The stranger jerked up the muzzle of his weapon threateningly.
Biggles could see no alternative but to comply. That the man knew that he had the letter was certain. To resist would mean that they would probably all lose their lives to no purpose, for the man would take the letter, anyway. So, reluctantly, he put his hand in his pocket.
At that moment the light went out.
The stranger choked a curse. Then his voice came from somewhere near the door. 'Keep still!' he snapped viciously. 'If I hear a sound I shall fire at it.'
Before the man had finished speaking, Biggles, from the crouching position on the floor to which he had dropped the instant the light went out, guessed the reason for the sudden darkness.
From outside came the distant wail of sirens, and, nearer at hand, shouts of alarm and warning. A steady drone of aero engines became audible. General Franco's bombers were making another raid.
It was an extraordinary situation. Biggles, realizing the folly of such a move, had no intention of trying to reach the man, whom he could visualize standing with his back to the door and his finger on the trigger of the pistol, for to do so without being heard was out of the question. Movement in that direction would, he knew, invite disaster, for there was no doubt in his mind that the stranger would shoot on the slightest provocation. Yet he felt that this providential opportunity to do something should not be allowed to pass without an attempt being made to take advantage of it. As he entered the room he had noticed a door on the left-hand side of it. It was not, he thought, a sitting-room, or the room in which he now crouched would not have been furnished as it was. Nor did he think that it could be another exit to the corridor. He suspected that it was either a large wardrobe cupboard or a bathroom. He decided to find out.
But at his first movement the stranger's voice came warningly. 'Keep still!'
Biggles obeyed. It was, he found, impossible to move without making some slight sound, so to persist would be only to court trouble. If the stranger started to shoot he could hardly fail to hit somebody.
For a minute or two silence reigned, a silence broken only by the steady drone of the bombers, increasing in volume as the machines approached their objective. Biggles was not unprepared for what happened next. The roar of the first salvo of bombs, not far away, followed immediately by the rumble of falling brick-work, gave him an opportunity which he was not slow to seize, for the terrifying noises outside would effectually drown any sound that he was likely to make in a stealthy passage across the room. More bombs fell, and by the time the noise of the explosions had died away he had reached the doorway, after colliding with some-body—either Algy or Ginger, he did not know which— on the way.
But if the stranger did not actually hear the movement he evidently suspected it, for the pistol spat, bringing down a small shower of plaster from the ceiling. The flash revealed the whereabouts of every one in the room. The stranger, seeing his suspicions con-firmed, fired again; but Biggles, knowing that the shot would come, had flung open the door and thrown him-self inside. As he flattened himself against the wall another bullet struck the doorpost.
From the faint moonlight that entered the window— for, unlike those in the other room, the blind and curtains had not been drawn—Biggles saw that he was in a bathroom. He noticed, too, as is customary in bathrooms, that the key was on the inside of the door, so he lost no time in turning it. A stride took him to the window, but a glance was sufficient to show him that there was no escape that way. It was a forty-foot drop into a yard, with some waste land beyond.
For a moment or two he stood still, thinking quickly.
In the other room, Ginger, with whom Biggles had collided on his way to the bathroom, lay on the floor and wondered what was going to happen next. He had assumed the prone position because, with bullets flying, and more likely to fly, it seemed to him—as indeed it was—the safest place.
'Keep still, you two,' snarled the stranger, obviously put out by the success of Biggles' manoeuvre.
'All right, I'm not moving,' answered Ginger. 'I've nothing to move for, anyway,' he added simply, with a sincerity that was obviously genuine.
A trumpet sounded in the street below, and a minute later the light came on, making the man with the pistol once more master of the situation. He ordered Algy and Ginger to get on their feet, put their hands up and stand against the wall; and they had no choice but to comply. Then, keeping them covered, he advanced cautiously to the bathroom door. Holding the pistol in his right hand, he tried the handle of the door with the other, but it was, as we know, locked on the inside.
'Open this door, curse you!' he demanded furiously.
To Ginger's utter amazement, the door swung open, to disclose a curious spectacle. Biggles was standing by the bathroom window, which was wide open. His right arm projected through it into the air. In his hand he held the fateful manila envelope.
'Shoot me, and away goes the letter,' announced Biggles, cheerfully.
For a moment the man's impotent anger was such that it seemed as if he might shoot, whatever the consequences might be. But evidently he thought better of it. With the pistol covering Biggles from a range of not more than two yards, he could only stand and glare.
'Well?' inquired Biggles coolly. 'What are you going to do about it? Do we stand here until one of us dies of starvation?'
'Give me that letter,' ground out the man through clenched teeth.
'No,' smiled Biggles. 'There is a porter down in the yard. I'd rather give it to him.' He looked down into the yard. 'Hi!' he called, 'guarda—comprendo*?' So saying, he tossed the letter into space. 'How do you like my Spanish?' he inquired as he turned back into the room.
* Spanish: keep—understand?
Again it looked as if the man might shoot him in his anger, but he did not. He flashed a glance at the other two, still standing against the wall, and then backed swiftly towards the door. 'You try to follow me and you'll get what's coming to you,' he snapped. and slip-ping out of the door, locked it behind him.
Biggles joined the others in the bedroom. 'Well, that's that,' he said cheerfully. 'But let's get busy; we've no time to lose.'
'But the letter?' gasped Ginger.
'It's in my pocket; it was only the envelope I dropped,' replied Biggles, quietly. 'Unfortunately, he'll find that
out as soon as he gets hold of it, so we'd better be doing something.'
As he spoke he crossed over to the window, and dragging one of the curtains aside, discovered that it overlooked the avenue and the front entrance to the hotel.
'What are you going to do?' asked Algy. 'What the dickens can we do, anyway? We are locked in.'
'I know that, but we've got to find a way out some-how,' returned Biggles tersely. 'That door looks pretty heavy, and I doubt if we shall be able to force it—at any rate, not without making such a row that the hotel staff will come up to see what's going on. We don't want to bring the manager up; we might find it awkward to explain what we're doing here. In the meantime, our friend with the pistol, having discovered how he has been tricked, will soon be back looking—Great Scott! There he is now, down there by the door. Who is he talking to? I believe it's—yes, it is. It's the porter who picked up the envelope.'
'There was actually a porter down there then?' inquired Algy.
'There certainly was,' replied Biggles. 'It was seeing him that gave me the idea.'
While this conversation had been going on the others had joined Biggles at the window and saw that what he had said was true. Their recent acquaintance was engaged in conversation with a porter on the pavement. Some money changed hands, and the watchers could hardly believe their good fortune when the unknown man put the envelope in his pocket with barely a glance at it. He seemed anxious to be gone, and the reason for his apprehension was soon apparent.
He had hurried to his car, which was still standing at the edge of the kerb, and had actually reached the door when another car came swerving round the corner. The brakes wailed, and even before the second car had stopped a man had jumped out, followed immediately by another. There was no doubt as to their objective.
The man standing at the door of the stationary car seemed suddenly to become alive to his danger. His hand flashed to his pocket, but he was too late. A revolver roared, and he staggered, still clinging to the door of the car. Again came the bark of a revolver, and this time there was no mistake. The possessor of the envelope collapsed on the pavement, his automatic falling from his nerveless fingers.
'Good heavens, it's Goudini!' cried Ginger in a hoarse voice.
It was true. The hunchback had got out of the car, and while the others stood on guard, he hobbled over to the fallen man. Kneeling beside him, his hand went swiftly through his pockets. The envelope came to light. He examined it closely, thrusting his fingers under the flap. Then he looked up at the windows of the hotel, all of which could be seen clearly in the light of the lamp over the hotel door.
Biggles stepped back quickly, dragging the others with him. 'There's no fooling him, I'm afraid,' he exclaimed bitterly. 'It looks as though we aren't out of the wood yet—not by a long way. I'd sooner deal with the fellow who was up here just now than with that dreadful-looking piece of work.'
'That lottery ticket business is only a blind, I sup-pose,' muttered Ginger.
'Of course. He killed Frazer's messenger by stabbing him. The noise of the wireless prevented us from hearing anything. It all happened just as we were pouring out our chocolate; when he left us he went over to the fellow who was reading the newspaper—you remember?' As Biggles finished speaking he took a surreptitious peep round the corner of the blind.
'I wonder who he is?' murmured Algy.
'We're likely to know soon enough. He has just come into the hotel,' announced Biggles grimly.
Chapter 6
A Difficult Situation
Algy lit a cigarette which he took from a half-empty packet on the mantelpiece, and flicked the dead match into the grate with a gesture of resignation. 'Trust us to choose the one bar in Barcelona where there was trouble brewing,' he said with bitter sarcasm. 'Barcelona—where the nuts come from. We're not nuts, we're mutts.'
'Never mind about that,' answered Biggles shortly. 'We'd better be doing something.'
'Go ahead,' invited Algy.
'I'm going to get rid of this letter for a start,' declared Biggles.
'Rid of it? What's it about, anyway?'
Biggles took the letter from his pocket, and unfolding it, discovered that it was a single sheet of paper. He looked down at it curiously. One glance was enough. 'It's in code,' he said. 'I suppose we ought to have been prepared for that. One thing is certain—this chap Goudini mustn't get hold of it. He was Frazer's biggest fear. What's the alternative? We don't want to call the police into this, although it wouldn't surprise me if they came in on their own account, considering that we've been associated with two murders. If they find this document on us we shall all be for the high jump, make no mistake about that. In a city seething with spies, foreigners carrying code messages are likely to get short shrift, and you can't blame the Barcelona government for that. That's why I say we've got to get rid of it.'
'You mean you'll hide it—in this room?'
'If I know anything about Mr. Goudini, he'll soon be stripping the paper off the walls looking for it. No, it's no use leaving it here.' Biggles paced the floor deep in thought. 'There's only one thing to do,' he decided at last. 'It's a big risk, but then so is anything else we might do.'
The others watched with intense curiosity as he proceeded to put his plan into action. From the mantel-piece he took a small, cheap china image about four inches high. Folding the letter into the smallest possible compass, he pushed it through a small hole in the base. Then from the fire-place he took a piece of newspaper, discoloured with age, that had been arranged behind the bars to conceal the empty grate. This he rolled round the image in the form of a loose ball. 'Come and watch where this falls,' he said, and led the way to the bathroom window.
He peered out. Below lay a yard. Not a soul was in sight. Beyond the yard, and adjacent to it, was a piece of waste land which, judging by its appearance, had been used for a long time as an unofficial rubbish-tip.
'What on earth are you going to do?' asked Ginger in alarm.
'Watch,' Biggles told him, and hurled the paper ball, with its precious contents, far out beyond the yard.
It landed on the rubbish dump, bounced, rolled a little, and came to rest.
'I can see it,' said Ginger.
'I think we can all see it,' murmured Biggles. 'If we can keep together, so well and good. If for any reason we get split up, any one who gets clear will have to make for this spot, collect the paper, and try to get it through to Whitehall. And while I think of it, you'd both better have some money in case of accidents. All I have would not be enough to get any one of us back home, I'm afraid, but a little is better than nothing.'
As he spoke Biggles took out his wad of notes and divided the money between the three of them. 'Now let us see if we can do anything about this door,' he suggested when they had put the money in their pockets.
They returned to the bedroom, but before they could reach the door there was a confused murmur of voices outside, followed quickly by a peremptory knock.
'Entrar*,' called Biggles at once. 'That is, if you can,' he added under his breath.
* Spanish: come in
The handle of the door turned, and it creaked as a force was applied to it, but the door remained closed. There was an exclamation of irritation outside, and another knock.
'Entrar!' called Biggles again.
The noise of some one attempting to open the door was repeated. Then a voice spoke sharply in Spanish.
'No comprendo**'' called Biggles. 'English-Ingles.' He turned to the others. 'This is an awful nuisance, not being able to speak the language properly,' he muttered impatiently.
** Spanish: I don't understand
'Open the door,' ordered a voice outside, in English but with a strong foreign accent.
'I can't. We are locked in. The man took the key,' replied Biggles to the unknown speaker, although he thought he recognized the voice. 'I think it's friend Goudini,' he whispered.
Came another murmur of voices outside. There was a delay of two or three minutes, d
uring which time the silence was broken only by a loose, wheezing cough, which confirmed what Biggles already suspected. Then a key was inserted in the lock, and the door opened abruptly. The hunchback stood in the doorway. Behind him were five black-coated men. Two wore black Homburg hats; two wore berets. The other, hatless, was clearly the hotel manager, or secretary.
The hunchback's eyes darted round the room as he advanced. They came to rest on Biggles. He held out his hand. 'Give it to me,' he demanded.
Biggles, of course, knew well enough what he meant. 'Give you what?' he asked blankly.
'The paper.'
Biggles raised his eyebrows. 'What are you talking about?' he said. 'What paper do you mean?'
Goudini walked to the bed and sat down on the edge of it. The other men remained just inside the doorway. His dark, piercing eyes regarded Biggles steadily, but a faint curiosity came into them. 'Who are you?' he asked.
'I might ask you the same question,' returned Biggles lightly.
'Zat is no secret in Barcelona,' was the prompt and unexpected reply. 'I am Juan Goudini, Deputy Commissar Special of Intelligence and Propaganda. Now, who are you? Speak.'
Biggles stared at the Spaniard, not a little startled by this information. It had not occurred to him that Goudini might be an important official of the Barcelona Government, so the announcement came as a complete surprise, leaving him uncertain whether he was glad or sorry. But he answered frankly.
'In that case I must, of course, answer your question,' he said readily. 'Although it will convey nothing to you, I may say that my name is Bigglesworth. These are my friends. This morning we were on a ship, on a convalescent cruise. The ship was bombed by an aeroplane which appeared to come from the direction of Majorca. The ship sank, and we were thrown into the water, and we were fortunate enough to be able to reach the shore not far from this city. Having no Spanish money, we went to the station bureau and changed some English pounds into pesetas. The man will no doubt remember us because the notes were wet. They were wet, and we were wet because we had just come out of the sea. It was our intention to report to the British Consulate, but having no shoes, we bought those we now wear. Next door was a bar. Feeling cold and tired, we went in for a drink. I think I am right in saying that you saw us there. As we were about to leave we discovered that a man had been stabbed to death. Fearing that we, strangers and without pass-ports, might be involved in this, we tried to leave the bar—foolishly, perhaps—by the back door. As we did so we were attacked by unknown men. A motorcar came up the street. The driver invited us to enter. Naturally, in the circumstances we did so. He brought us here. In this room he spoke of a paper. I answered him as I answered you, whereupon he went out and locked us in. That was about ten minutes ago. Through this window we saw the man prepare to enter his auto-mobile. He was shot. We were still thinking of how we could get out when you came.'