Biggles In Spain

by W E Johns

  At such a range there was, of course, only time for a short burst, or a collision was inevitable. But it could hardly fail to be effective. From the manner in which the Fiat's nose jerked up Ginger knew that the pilot had been hit. How badly he did not for the moment know. The other machines were turning towards him, so he dragged the stick back, and, after holding his breath for an instant, when a collision seemed certain, he zoomed back up into the sun. At the top of the zoom he flicked round to meet head-on the other machines if they had followed him.

  One glance was enough to reveal the situation. One Fiat was spinning earthward. The other two were flying away, one, nose down, in a panic retreat.

  Ginger's gasp of relief was drowned in Jock's yell of triumph.

  'Shall I follow them?' shouted Ginger, half wild with exultation.

  'No, ye fool,' roared Jock. 'Ye can't catch 'em; they've the legs of us.'

  Ginger pushed up his goggles with a trembling hand, for now that the danger was passed reaction at once set in. He looked down for the spinning Fiat. It took him a minute or two to find it. Then he saw it. It was no longer spinning. It had crashed. The country around was strange, and he realized that he was lost. 'Where am I?' he asked through the speaking tube.

  'A'richt. I'll take her,' said Jock.

  Ginger was quite prepared for him to do so. He took his feet off the rudder-bar and settled himself back in his seat with a feeling of pardonable satisfaction. Jock had asked him if he could fly. He had answered that question in a manner more conclusive than anything he could have said. For the first time for three days he felt like singing.

  Jock took the machine home without further incident. Almost before it had stopped running over the dusty turf he had reached over and clapped Ginger on the shoulder. 'Guid boy,' he said delightedly. 'I couldna hae done it better mysel'.'

  Ginger smiled a trifle sheepishly.

  'Who taught ye to fly like that?' inquired Jock.

  'Biggles,' answered Ginger unthinkingly. The word slipped off his tongue. He regretted it instantly—not that there seemed to be any serious reason why he should.

  The broad grin on Jock's face died away instantly. It was replaced by a look of curious inquiry. ' Who did you say?' he asked in an odd tone of voice.

  'Biggles,' repeated Ginger, slowly. There was nothing else he could say.

  'Biggles?

  'Yes. A friend of mine—my boss really. His proper name is Bigglesworth.'

  Jock glanced around. There was something almost furtive in his manner. Then he got back into his seat and taxied quickly to the hangar, where he jumped out and beckoned to Ginger. 'Come over here,' he said, in a voice that made Ginger's heart sink.

  Ginger followed him into a small room roughly furnished as an office. Flying kit hung from pegs on the wall, on which, too, was pinned a map showing the trench lines, and small circles which obviously indicated aerodromes. He closed the door behind him.

  'What's wrong?' asked Ginger wonderingly, startled by Jock's sudden change of manner, and unable to find any reason for it.

  The Scotsman faced him grimly. The corners of his mouth were drawn down. 'And so ye're Mr. Hebblethwaite, na doot?' he asserted harshly.

  'Why, yes—that's right,' agreed Ginger. 'What's the matter?'

  'I'll show ye what's the matter, ye spyin' rat,' snarled the Scotsman, whipping an automatic out of a drawer and thrusting it into Ginger's stomach. 'Stand still, ye skunk, before I blow ye in halves.'

  Ginger felt the blood drain from his face. He stared at the irate Scotsman in horror and alarm. In a moment of time all his plans had been swept away. 'What on earth are you talking about?' he cried, although in his heart he realized that McLannoch had an inkling of the truth.

  'Ye low-down sneaking spy,' snarled the Scotsman.

  'You're wrong. You're all wrong,' cried Ginger desperately. 'Where did you get that idea from?'

  'Never mind where I got it from, but I know ye're a spy. Now deny it.'

  'I'm sorry to have to remind you of it, but a few hours ago I risked being shot to get you out of a mess. Just now I shot down a Fiat. Does that look like the work of a spy? Should I do that if I was on the other side?'

  The Scotsman hesitated. Clearly, this was an angle of argument that he found hard to parry.

  'Listen, Jock,' went on Ginger quickly, 'we're both British. I'm going to put my cards on the table. What happens after that is for you to decide. But give me a hearing. I'll tell you how I came to be here—me and Biggles.'

  Again a strange expression swept over McLannoch's face. 'This name Biggles reminds me of something,' he said. 'I've got it. There was a mon o' that name in France, in—'

  'In two-six-six squadron.'

  'Ay, that's right.'

  'At Maranique.'

  'Ay—that's it.'

  'This is the same man.'

  'I'll no' believe it.'

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

  'Ay, ye may as weel.'

  'May I sit down?'

  'Ay —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.

  'It's the truth,' replied Ginger simply.

  'An' 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.

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

  'You read about it?'

  'Ay—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. 'Bad 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.'

  'And 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?'

  'In the morning.'

  Chapter 11

  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.

  'Ay, 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.'

  'Ye'll 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.'

  'I suppose you—ought to give me up.'

  'There's no suppose aboot that.'

  'Are 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.'

  'I'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?'

  'It's a ship—in the harbour.'

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

  'Makes what harder?'

  'Rescue.'

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

  'I 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?'

  'I 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. 'It 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'.'

  'If 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?'

  'Enough 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?'

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

  'I'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.

  'Ay. 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. 'I'll be seeing you.' With that, and a cheerful nod, he went out again.

  'One 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.'

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

  'I'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.

  'It 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?'

  'Ay. 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. He 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 thou-sands, 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 bar-gain 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. He 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 heaven-sent.

  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, Señor Goudini, if you don't mind,' he said softly.