Biggles In Spain

by W E Johns

  Biggles felt—and hoped—that his story sounded plausible, but he was well aware that there were weak spots in it. He feared Goudini would perceive them. And he was right.

  'There was another man in the Casa Reposada,' said Goudini.

  'Yes, I saw him.'

  'You knew him?'

  'I thought I did. I thought he was a man I knew in France many years ago, but when I accosted him he denied it.'

  Goudini's eyes narrowed. His tone became menacing. 'He gave you something—a paper to take to Eng-land.'

  'Señor Goudini,' replied Biggles wearily, 'I have already told you that we are here through force of circumstances, not through choice. If you think we have something, a paper or whatever it is, I suggest that you endeavour to find it. We are at your disposal, but please do not delay us too long because our clothes, as you may see for yourself, are wet, and we are anxious to dry them. We are also anxious to get to the Consul-ate, in order to obtain the necessary papers to take us across the frontier into France, from where we can get a train home.'

  The hunchback rose abruptly to his feet and gave a swift order in Spanish. The other men advanced upon the prisoners and began stripping their clothes from them. When they were completely denuded they were taken into the bathroom, one of the men remaining with them. To this they submitted without protest, more than a little thankful that they had disposed of the document.

  Twenty minutes passed, during which time their clothes were thoroughly searched, as was the room itself, and the bathroom. Goudini then announced in a voice charged with anger that they could put their clothes on again. This they did, finding the task by no means pleasant, for their garments were now cold as well as damp. When this was done the hunchback walked towards the door, beckoning them to follow.

  'May I ask where you are taking us?' inquired Biggles.

  'Yes, I am taking you to the prison,' replied the hunchback, coughing and spitting into the fireplace. 'In the prison you will either recover your memory, or—you will not,' he said suavely.

  'But you can't do that,' protested Biggles. 'We are British subjects. I demand to see the British Vice-Consul.'

  'You may be British subjects but you are now in Republican Spain,' returned Goudini icily. 'In any case, there would be no purpose served in taking you to the British consulate.'

  'Why not?'

  'Because it was struck by a bomb two days ago and completely wrecked,' returned the hunchback evenly. 'All those within were killed,' he added.

  Biggles caught his breath. 'That is very unfortunate,' he said bitterly.

  'Very unfortunate indeed—for you,' agreed Goudini. 'Not that it would make any difference. Come.'

  The whole party went down the stairs and out through the front entrance to where the car was waiting. The body of the murdered man, and his car, had disappeared. The three airmen were told to get in. A word to the driver and Goudini and his assistants followed. The car sped away through the now quiet streets. A quarter of an hour's drive and it pulled up outside a forbidding-looking building. There was no need to ask what it was. Half a dozen members of the famous Catalonian Guardia Civil* stood at the massive double doors; they moved aside to allow the car to enter.

  * Civil police guards—one of the most celebrated police forces in the world. Like most continental police, they are armed like soldiers.

  The car stopped again at a smaller door within, and the occupants got out. There was a brief wait, and then a small, pompous-looking officer of senior rank arrived. Goudini spoke to him in low tones for a few moments and then returned to where the prisoners were standing. 'Perhaps you remember the paper now?' he suggested quietly.

  'You will be sorry for this,' retorted Biggles grimly.

  Goudini bowed slightly. 'Adios, caballeros**,' he said, and re-entered the waiting car. An escort of guards, in their curious flat black hats, closed on the prisoners. A short march along a stone corridor and they were pushed into a fairly roomy cell. The door slammed and a heavy bolt shot home.

  ** Spanish: goodbye, gentlemen

  Biggles sat down on one of the several trestle beds which comprised the only furniture in the cell. 'We've had what you might call a fairly active day, haven't we?' he observed cheerfully.

  Chapter 7

  A Nasty Shock

  Algy joined him on the bed. 'Yes,' he agreed, 'we have done quite a lot of hard work. I don't mind that, but what annoys me is that we don't seem to be making much progress. We've been in a few jams in our time, but this is about the stickiest. I'm not usually given to pessimism, but I'm dashed if I can see any way out of it—can you?'

  'Don't be impatient,' smiled Biggles. 'I haven't looked yet.'

  'Can you think of any way of getting out of this dungeon, for a start, because if so I'd like to hear it,' continued Algy. 'I'm hungry, I'm tired, and I'm slightly damp.'

  'So am I. So are we all.'

  'And as far as I can see we're likely to remain so,' murmured Algy. 'If you can get us out of this hole, I shall tell the world that you are a very clever fellow.'

  'In that case I shall have to see what can be done about it,' grinned Biggles.

  'Go right ahead,' Algy told him.

  'Oh, shut up, Algy,' put in Ginger. 'What's come over you? We've got out of worse messes than this. Let's get down to brass tacks. The only way we shall get out of here is by breaking out or giving old stick-in-the-mud the letter.'

  'Don't flatter yourself that giving Goudini the letter will get us out,' Biggles told him.

  'But he said—'

  'Yes, I know what he said. Forget it. Once he gets his hands on the letter he'll have all the more reason for keeping us here.'

  'How do you make that out?'

  'Do you suppose he is going to let us go back to London and report what happened to Frazer? Is he going to let us tell the Foreign Office that he, Goudini, has got the letter? Not likely. And don't overlook the point that we might have memorized the contents of the letter for all he knows. It's my opinion that our only chance lies in Goudini not finding the letter. Once he's got it, the sooner we are where we can't tell tales the better it would suit him.'

  'That's cheerful.'

  'It's no use blinking at facts.'

  'You don't think he believed your story? It sounded pretty good to me.'

  'It probably sounded pretty good to Goudini, but there were one or two things unexplained, and he didn't overlook them.'

  'Such as?'

  'The envelope. He found the envelope in that fellow's pocket after he was shot. Where could he have got the envelope from but from us? I think it's pretty certain that Goudini knows that we know more about the letter than we pretend.'

  'What's it all about, anyway?' murmured Algy.

  'I think it's pretty clear,' returned Biggles thought-fully. 'Frazer is—or was, until he was killed—a secret agent. He picked up an important document—in Rome, I imagine, judging from what the fellow with the car said. He was followed to Barcelona. The Spanish Secret Service, headed by Goudini, got wind of it. Frazer, possibly because he knew that it was going to be difficult for him to get out of Spain, arranged with another agent to take the letter home. The rendezvous was the Casa Reposada. We know what happened there. The messenger was murdered. Frazer, realizing that Goudini and Co. were outside waiting for him, took a desperate chance that we might get through.'

  'Why didn't Goudini walk straight into the Casa Reposada and arrest him, I wonder?' murmured Ginger.

  Biggles shook his head. 'That's something we don't know. Perhaps his own plans weren't ready. No doubt he would have come in if Frazer hadn't gone out. He could watch him through the window, so there was no fear of his getting away.'

  'I wonder what happened to poor Frazer.'

  'I'm afraid there isn't much doubt about that. They shot him as he went out. It looks as if they must have spotted us speaking to him. Although we were blissfully unaware of it, it seems that several people were taking a great interest in the pub which we unfortunately
chose for a drink. Our trouble was that we never got a fair start. We were up against it from the very beginning. I doubt very much if we should ever have got away from the Casa Reposada if that fellow hadn't come along with his car. From what he said he was just a mercenary, playing his own game, which might be true, or it might not. You can never be sure of anything in this spy racket. He's finished with it now, anyway.'

  'And here we are,' murmured Ginger.

  'Precisely,' agreed Biggles.

  'What's Goudini up to now, do you think?'

  'I should say he is pulling that room in the hotel to pieces, looking for the letter. He knows that it went in there. He knows that the man who took us there hadn't got it on him when he came out. He knows that we haven't got it on us. It must therefore seem to him that it is still there. When he discovers that it isn't, not being a fool he will realize that we managed to dispose of it. When he reaches that point he will come back here, I fancy, and apply more drastic measures to induce us to produce it.'

  'So what?' asked Ginger.

  'That is something we shall know more about presently,' answered Biggles.

  'Is it any use asking them to dry our clothes, do you suppose?'

  'I shouldn't think so. Mine are getting dry on me, anyway. We might tell the jailer that we could do with a spot of food, though.' As he finished speaking Biggles walked over to the heavy door and hammered on it with his fists.

  After a short delay it was opened and two members of the Guardia Civil appeared.

  'Comida,' demanded Biggles pointing to his mouth. 'Food—pan—hungry.'

  The men smiled faintly and departed, locking the door behind them.

  'Not knowing the language properly doesn't make things any easier,' complained Biggles. 'They seemed to understand what I meant though. What's outside here, I wonder?' he continued, walking over to the window, where the others joined him.

  It was small and heavily barred, and it did not take them long to ascertain that escape that way was out of the question, for the bars were thick and firmly embedded in the stonework. There was just sufficient light to enable them to see that they overlooked a wide, gravelled courtyard, not unlike a barrack square. In spite of the hour, a few uniformed figures were walking across it in various directions, evidently engaged on some duty.

  Biggles glanced at the sky. 'It will pretty soon be getting light,' he remarked.

  'This place is going to take a bit of getting out of, I'm afraid,' muttered Ginger, who was now examining the bare walls.

  'The main idea about a prison is to make it difficult for people to get out,' replied Biggles. 'The usual thing in books is for the place to be littered with trap doors, secret tunnels, and whatnots. Either that, or the bars in the window are conveniently loose. But this happens to be a modern prison, and as is usually the case with modern prisons, unofficial exits have been omitted.'

  'Sure! You bet I will,' came a cheerful voice from the direction of the window.

  Biggles sprang round as if he had been stung. 'Who said that?' he asked.

  'It's somebody talking outside,' flashed back Ginger.

  They all ran to the window.

  A few paces away two soldiers were engaged in conversation.

  'They're English,' whispered Algy tersely.

  'Americans—or one of them is,' corrected Biggles. 'They must be legionnaires*. There are all sorts of nationals here, fighting for the Spanish government. Hey, Buddy!' he called.

  * Foreign volunteers fighting for the Spanish Government loyalists against Franco.

  The man who was speaking broke off short; he looked quickly at the window.

  'Come over here; I want to speak to you,' went on Biggles.

  One of the men, after a few words to his companion, turned and walked away. The other came to the window and smiled through the bars. 'Say, what's the idea?' he asked. 'Are you from the States?'

  'No,' Biggles told him quickly. 'We're British, and we're in a mess. We came ashore off a boat and got picked up by the cops. They took us for spies and popped us in here.'

  'Too bad. Why don't you send word to your consul?'

  'No use. The consulate was blown up a couple of days ago.'

  'Say, that's not so good.'

  'You're right, it isn't. How about doing a pal a good turn?'

  'What do you want me to do—get shot for trying to get you out?'

  'Of course not; but if we had a file or a hacksaw we could get out ourselves.'

  'Are you guys on the level?'

  'As level as a billiard table,' declared Biggles. 'It's all a mistake, but we can't make the cops see that. Not being able to talk the lingo makes it harder. Come on, be a pal, or as like as not they'll leave us here till the end of the war.'

  The légionnaire took a furtive glance around. 'I don't carry files about with me,' he said.

  'But I reckon you could get hold of one if you wanted to.'

  'Maybe.' The legionnaire hesitated, while the prisoners, realizing how much hung on his decision, held their breath. 'Okay,' he said at last. 'I'll see what I can do; but don't you pull me into this.'

  'Whatever happens you'll be left out,' swore Biggles.

  'See you later, maybe,' said the legionnaire, and after a glance round, walked quickly away.

  'By gosh, that was a bit of luck!' muttered Ginger in an excited whisper. 'I—' He broke off as a key rattled in the door, and one of the guards entered with a tray.

  'Thanks,' cried Biggles cheerfully, eyeing a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a jug of coffee. 'Gracias, señor, gracias*.'

  * Spanish: Thank you, Sir, thank you.

  The guard who was carrying the tray put it down on a bed, and then withdrew.

  No cutlery had been provided, so Biggles seized the long Spanish loaf and broke it into three parts. 'This is better,' he declared. 'Things are looking up.'

  'If that American—' began Ginger, but Biggles interrupted him.

  'Not so fast with the American,' he said quietly.

  'What do you mean?'

  'That fellow may have spoken English like an American, but I'll bet my boots that he isn't one,' declared Biggles firmly. 'Didn't you notice the little lisp behind the vowels? I should say that he is either a Spaniard who has lived in the States, or a South American from Argentina.'

  'It doesn't matter, does it, as long as he brings us a file?'

  'Not a bit—but I wouldn't reckon too much on the file. There was something about that fellow that I didn't like. I merely mention it so that you won't be surprised if the file doesn't arrive. If it does, then I'll apologize mentally for doubting him,' concluded Biggles.

  He had only just finished speaking when there came a quiet rap on one of the window bars. 'Say, are you guys still there?' came the voice of the man they had just been discussing.

  'We certainly are,' replied Biggles, hurrying to the window.

  'Okay, boys—there she is,' came the voice from out-side the window.

  Biggles picked up a small but efficient-looking hack-saw. When he looked back at the window the man had gone.

  'Gosh! He didn't waste any time,' remarked Ginger.

  'I'll take back all I said about him,' answered Biggles. 'We all make mistakes sometimes. You two go on eating while I start on the middle bar. When you have finished, come and take over while I have a bite. We've no time to lose; I reckon it will be light in an hour.' With that he set to work on the centre bar, muffling his jacket round it to deaden the sound.

  He was nearly through it when Algy relieved him, so he went over to what remained of the food and ate it ravenously, taking the precaution, however, of placing Ginger on guard with his ear to the door in case any one came to remove the tray. The men who had brought the food did, in fact, return shortly afterwards, but Ginger having given warning of their approach, the prisoners had ample time to throw themselves on their beds in attitudes of passive resignation. But the footsteps of the guards had no sooner died away than they were hard at it again, taking it in turn to us
e the hacksaw so that they could expend the maximum amount of energy.

  The tool bit into the soft iron so readily that in three-quarters of an hour two bars—which they thought would provide an opening large enough for them to get through—were held in place only by the merest thread of metal. A few seconds would be enough to remove them altogether.

  Biggles glanced at the sky and noted that it was turning grey. 'We are only just in time,' he said. 'I reckon this square will be stiff with people as soon as it gets light, so we had better be moving while there is nobody about.'

  The two bars were swiftly cut through and placed quietly on the floor. Another minute and the prisoners were outside, standing close against the wall taking stock of their surroundings.

  'That looks like the main entrance over there,' observed Biggles in an undertone. 'I don't suppose there's another exit, so we shall have to try our luck.' He started walking quickly down the side of the square on which they had emerged.

  'That's the gate, right enough,' murmured Ginger a moment later. 'But it looks to me as if it's shut.'

  'I was afraid of that,' rejoined Biggles. 'But if it's the only way out we've got to try to get through it. One thing is certain: the longer we remain inside, the less chance we shall have of getting out. If those guards come back for any reason and find that we have gone, this place will be buzzing like a beehive inside five minutes.'