Biggles In Spain

by W E Johns

  Chapter 12

  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.

  'Ah,' 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.

  'Señor Goudini,' went on Ginger, 'at the first sign of trouble I shall shoot you, so whatever happens after-wards 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 pain-fully, 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 some-thing; 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 hut 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.

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

  There was a sheaf of documents, but he was not concerned with them. In any case, he knew that any written matter would be in Spanish, and therefore unintelligible to him. He repressed the grunt of satisfaction that rose to his lips as he found what he was looking for in one of the narrow compartments —a few spare sheets of writing paper. The fact that they bore a printed heading was all the better for his purpose. He took out the paper, laid it on the portfolio, and passed it to Goudini.

  'Write what I tell you,' he said. 'Write in Spanish, of course.'

  'What do you think to do?'

  'You are going to do it, not me. You are going to write an order for the release of my friends.'

  Goudini laughed shortly. 'Do you think that the commandant would be such a fool as to hand two prisoners over just like that?'

  Ginger pursed his lips. 'Very well; say they are to accompany me to your office.'

  'You think he would not remark that it was strange for two prisoners to be given to an escort of one man— yes?'

  Ginger groped in his mind for an alternative. He realized that Goudini was right. 'Then you shall write a letter authorizing me, as an interpreter, to visit the English prisoners for the purpose of interrogation,' he said.

  'Has it occurred to you that, since you cannot read Spanish, the message that I write might differ consider-ably from the one you dictate?' Goudini's manner was one of slightly amused tolerance. It was apparent that he thought not all the advantages of the strange game they were playing lay with Ginger.

  'The message you write will be the one I dictate,' returned Ginger grimly. 'To prevent—er—accidents, perhaps I had better make my intention plain to you. I shall, of course, take the letter straight to the commandant of the prison ship, hoping—as you will have supposed—that I shall then be able to find a way of releasing my friends, by which time my success will be as important a matter to you as to me; for before I go I shall tie you securely and leave you in some place I have yet to decide upon—probably the stone farm building over on the left. This tying up business is as distasteful to me as it will be to you; it is sort of cheap drama; but to be quite frank, I can't think of any alternative. If my mission is successful I shall at once come back here to release you. I need not enlarge upon the consequences of failure to achieve my object; you will probably die a miserable death from hunger and thirst. Now you know just what I mean when I say that your prayers should be for my success. In your own interest you will give me all the help you can. Now write the letter. Word it as you like, but the gist of it will be that I am to be given access to my friends.'

  'And if I refuse?'

  'I shall shoot you here and now. Your disappearance will probably help my cause by giving your pet sleuths something else to
think about than me and my friends. Go ahead and write.'

  Goudini looked at Ginger curiously for a moment, and then wrote rapidly on the top sheet of paper. He signed it with a flourish, and handed it to Ginger.

  'Address the envelope and mark it "Personal" and "Urgent",' ordered Ginger.

  Goudini obeyed.

  Ginger laid the two documents on the back seat of the car for the ink to dry. 'Now get out,' he said.

  The sardonic smile still played about the corners of the Spaniard's lips as he opened the door on his side of the car, and got out on to the roadside. Ginger followed.

  Now apart from the fact that the action of getting out of a motor-car demands a certain amount of attention, as well as some minor contortions of the body, it may have been that Ginger's original suspicious alert-ness had been somewhat dulled by Goudini's submissive attitude. However that may be, Ginger was quite unprepared for what happened as he slid out of the car, feet first, in the most natural manner. He still held the automatic in his right hand, but at the moment of his emergence it was resting against the inside of the door frame to steady his descent. It was at that moment that Goudini leapt at him, his dwarf, misshapen body moving at a speed that could not have been suspected.

  Ginger saw the gleam of moonlight on steel as Goudini's arm swung upward and down in a vicious half circle. Instinctively he flung up his arm to shield his body—his right arm, that being the side from which Goudini had launched his attack. The immediate result of this was that, losing his support, he fell backwards; which was, actually, to his advantage, since the fall was away from the knife. The weapon, therefore, swept short of his body, but struck his forearm.

  Ginger did not consciously pull the trigger of the automatic. His entire faculties were concentrated on avoiding the knife. His grip may have tightened on the pistol instinctively, or the blow may have been responsible for his fingers tightening convulsively. Anyway, the pistol exploded. Ginger went over back-wards. He twisted sideways as he fell, and was on his feet again in an instant, crouching, panting, staring at Goudini, who lay moaning feebly on the white road. As he watched, the moans died away to silence.

  Ginger felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. The moonlight faded to a swimming blackness, and for a horrible moment he thought he was going to faint. He nearly did. But he managed to reach the running board of the car, and squatting down on it, allowed his head to sag between his knees—which was the best thing he could have done.

  The nausea passed. He sat up, but he still felt weak and shaky. His legs had no strength in them, and he knew that he was unable to stand. He felt something hot running over his hand; looking down, he saw blood dripping from his fingers, forming a little pool, black in the moonlight in the dust of the road. He looked at Goudini. He was lying quite still, his face buried in his arms. Pulling himself to his feet by hanging on to the side of the car, Ginger stood for a moment fighting another wave of sickness, and then went over to him. He turned him over. The body was horribly limp. The Spaniard's face was ashen. Ginger kicked the knife aside and, bending down, felt for the fallen man's heart. It was beating. 'Thank God, he isn't dead,' thought Ginger. 'Poor devil, I ought to do something for him. I can't leave him here to die.'

  The shock having passed, his strength began to come back quickly. He took off his coat and examined the wound in his arm. It was not very long, but it was deep, and bleeding copiously. He knew that he would have to stop it.

  It took him some time to adjust a bandage, using Goudini's handkerchief for a wad, and his own to tie it on. With no medical appliances available, there was nothing more he could do. He picked up the automatic, which still lay where it had fallen, and put it in his pocket. Then he returned to the Spaniard with the intention of lifting him into the car. What he was going to do with him he did not know. He only knew that he could not leave him there. Then, to his consternation, he found that single-handed he could not lift the limp body.

  He stood staring down at the white face. He was on the point of giving up altogether. He felt sick and weak, and was deadly tired. He wanted to creep away some-where and sleep, and then awake from what was becoming more and more like one of those nightmares that seem to go on indefinitely without leading any-where. The situation was getting beyond him.

  He was still staring at the fallen man when the jangle of a bell made him look up in the direction whence it came. Coming towards him over the brow of a hill a few hundred yards away was a line of mules with men walking beside them.

  Ginger scrambled into the car in something like a panic. To stay was to be accused of murder, or attempted murder, by men whose language he could not speak; he would not be able to explain—not that explanation was likely to benefit him. The new-comers would have to look after Goudini. There was nothing else for it. Not without difficulty, for the road was narrow, he managed to turn the car. Another moment and he was tearing back towards Barcelona.

  Chapter 13

  A Memorable Night

  Ginger never forgot that drive. His arm ached unmercifully; his eyes burned in their sockets as if he were in a fever; he was racked by fears arising from the uncertainty of his plans, and anxiety for Biggles. But he had passed the stage of being excited. He was calm, and his movements were made with the cold deliberation of something not far from despair. True, he had the letter Goudini had written: it was the one ray of hope in an inky sky; but he did not attempt to deceive himself as to just how feeble that ray was. But of one thing he was certain: either he would effect the rescue or die with the others; in short, he had arrived at a condition of desperation where he was prepared to do anything, regardless of consequences, for—as he reflected, gloomily—whatever happened, things could hardly be worse than they were already.

  The city was silent and deserted when he reached it, for the hour was long after midnight. He drove straight down to the harbour where, somewhat to his surprise, Jock's car was still standing just as he had left it. He did not know why he was surprised; there was no particular reason why any one should move the car; yet things had gone so awry during the last few days that he fully expected to find it gone.

  He parked Goudini's car beside the other and, with the letter in his pocket, walked briskly to the edge of the quay. No purpose would be served by delay. Indeed, he realized that if Goudini recovered consciousness there was a chance that he might start a hue and cry either by sending a messenger or by using a distant telephone. The prison ship lay as she had been when he last saw her; there were fewer lights on board, that was the only difference. The first question was how to get to her. There was no small boat available where he stood, so, remembering the dinghy, he walked along the edge of the quay towards the place where Goudini had come ashore. He was not surprised to find steps leading down to the water; and at the bottom of them the dinghy floated on the black water. He looked about for the boatman, but he was nowhere to be seen. Ginger had rather hoped that he would be there; it would have given his visit a more authentic touch. However, he had to do without him.

  He got into the boat, cast off, and rowed as quickly as his wounded arm would allow towards where the black hull of the prison ship rose high against the starry sky. The last thing he wanted was that his approach should appear furtive. He could not hope to get on board without being seen, so his only chance lay in sheer open-handed bluff. At a distance of forty or fifty yards he let out a hail, which was answered immediately from the deck; somebody called out something in Spanish, but as he did not understand he took no notice, but went on rowing towards his objective.

  He had almost reached the ship's side when a small searchlight stabbed the darkness, flooding him and the dinghy with blinding white light. It lasted only for a few moments, at the end of which time the operator, thinking probably that there was nothing to fear from a single man, switched the light out.

  Ginger, seeing that the dinghy now had enough way on her to reach the ship, pulled his oars in, and looking round, saw, as he expected, a companion-way leading from the d
eck down to a mooring raft. Unhurriedly he made the dinghy fast, and then walked evenly up the steps to the deck, where he was halted by two sentries with rifles and bayonets fixed.

  'Speak English?' inquired Ginger as he took Goudini's letter from his pocket.

  'English—no comprendo,' replied one of the men.

  The other took the letter and held it near a light so that he could read the address. He said something to his companion, and leaving his rifle leaning against the bulwark, walked away down the deck.

  Ginger affected a yawn, purely for effect. He was quite cool, although he realized that if Goudini had written anything but what he, Ginger, had dictated, then he was spending his last night on earth. The thought did not worry him unduly. He was past caring about himself. If he was arrested he would at least be able to lie down and sleep.

  The sentry, who, like most Spanish sentries, appeared to take his duties easily, offered him a cigarette.

  'Légionnaire—si?' smiled the sentry, tapping Ginger's uniform.

  Ginger nodded. 'Si,' he replied, stiffening a little in spite of himself as he heard the footsteps of the other sentry returning along the deck. A bunch of keys jangled in his hand.

  He tapped Ginger on the shoulder, and, picking up his rifle, beckoned him to follow.

  Ginger followed his escort down the deck. His heart was beginning to thump now at the prospect of success. He felt that the sentry would not treat him with such indifference if the letter had aroused suspicion. So he followed his guide down a companion-way and along a narrow corridor with doors on either side— doors which normally would have given access to the ship's state-rooms. On each door a number had been crudely written in red chalk.

  The sentry stopped before the one numbered four-teen, put the key in the lock, and pushed the door open. The room was in darkness. The sentry stepped across the threshold, and reaching up with his hand, switched on an electric light. Then he stood aside. Ginger stepped forward.