Biggles In Spain

by W E Johns

  Biggles and Algy, still in legionnaire uniforms, had both been lying down on rough mattresses on the floor. Now they were resting on their elbows, looking towards the door as if seeking the cause of the intrusion. Both stared speechlessly at Ginger.

  'Go steady,' snapped Ginger. 'The sentry doesn't speak English, but don't let him see you know me. He thinks I've come to interrogate you. I'm trying to get you out.'

  But as he spoke Ginger's heart had gone down Into his boots, for he saw that both the prisoners were hand-cuffed to a chain fastened to the wall. This was some-thing he had not reckoned on. However, he kept his head, and playing his role, walked across and stared down at Biggles. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the sentry leaning against the door.

  'I didn't reckon on chains; what shall I do?' he snapped at Biggles belligerently, realizing that he would have to make a pretence of asking questions. As he spoke he pointed an accusing finger.

  Biggles' answer nearly took Ginger's breath away. 'The key is on the bunch the sentry is holding,' he muttered sullenly.

  Ginger drew a deep breath. 'I see,' he said, and then bent down and stared at Biggles' wrists as though there was something remarkable about them. Then, affecting alarm, he looked back at the sentry and beckoned to him to come over. The sentry came quickly. Ginger pointed to Biggles' wrists. The sentry leaned forward. The butt of Ginger's automatic crashed down on the back of his head and he slumped forward with a grunt across Biggles' feet. Ginger darted to the door and closed it quietly. The whole incident had occupied perhaps ten seconds.

  By the time Ginger got back to the others Biggles was swiftly going through the keys on the sentry's bunch, seeking the right one. It was typical of him that he wasted no words on thanks or congratulations that might turn out to be premature.

  'What's the position outside?' he asked. 'You can tell me while I'm doing this.'

  'All quiet,' whispered Ginger. 'One sentry only at the gangway. There's a dinghy below.'

  Biggles by this time had found the right key. He laid his shackles aside on the bed and then, working swiftly but quietly, released Algy. They both stood up.

  'What's our best plan?' asked Biggles. 'Any idea? You know the layout of the place better than we do.'

  'We'll all go to the head of the companion,' answered Ginger. 'You wait there while I go back and stick up the sentry. He knows me by sight, so he won't be alarmed when he sees me. He might be if he saw us all. If there's trouble, then we'll have to fight it out.'

  'That suits me,' returned Biggles in a low voice.

  Ginger gave him Goudini's revolver, which he still carried in his pocket. Then he crossed over to the door and listened. All was as silent as a tomb. 'Come on,' he whispered.

  Algy picked up the unconscious man's rifle. Then in single file they crept noiselessly along the corridor and up to the head of the companion-way. Ginger put out his hand for the others to halt. 'Come when I cough,' he whispered. Then he went on alone.

  The sentry did not move when he saw him coming, but went on puffing at his cigarette. He smiled a sleepy greeting, but the expression on his face changed like magic when Ginger, mouth set and eyes glittering, thrust his automatic into his face. 'Don't move,' he hissed.

  The sentry may not have understood, but Ginger's expression must have been enough to convey his meaning.

  Ginger jerked the rifle from the sentry's hands. Then he coughed. A swift patter across the deck and the others joined him. 'What shall we do with this fellow?' he asked. 'He'll raise the place if we leave him here.'

  'Take him with us,' replied Biggles promptly, and taking the matter into his own hands, with the muzzle of his revolver he urged the now terrified sentry down the steps into the dinghy. All was silent on the ship. Algy untied the painter and pushed the dinghy clear. Biggles picked up the oars and under Ginger's guidance rowed towards the quay steps.

  'By gosh, we've done it!' whispered Ginger exultantly. He felt that he could have laughed aloud.

  'These things either go like clockwork or else they go all to blazes,' grunted Biggles.

  Ginger's chuckle made Biggles look at him sharply. 'Are you all right?' he asked.

  'Right as rain—except I've had a knife in my arm,' replied Ginger weakly.

  'Keep your eyes on him, Algy,' ordered Biggles, redoubling his efforts.

  They soon reached the steps, and hurrying to the top, Ginger pointed to Jock's car. 'That's ours,' he said.

  Biggles whistled softly. 'You have certainly done the job properly,' he said.

  They took the sentry with them as far as the car, where they decided that they could do nothing else but let him go, reckoning that by the time he could call assistance they would be some distance away. A yell that floated across the water from the ship told them their escape had been discovered, anyway. So leaving the sentry to make his way back to the ship, they got quickly into the car and started the engine.

  Biggles took the wheel. 'Do we go anywhere in particular?' he asked Ginger. 'We've been out of touch with things lately.'

  'You bet we do,' Ginger told him. 'Straight up the road ahead of you; then follow my directions.'

  He guided the car through the city and the suburbs to the road that led to the aerodrome. 'Now go straight on,' he said. 'We've a long way to go, so you can put your foot down.' And with that Ginger, with a weary sigh, collapsed into Algy's arms.

  Some time later he opened his eyes, and then spluttered violently as he clambered into a sitting position. His throat felt as though it had been scalded. Then he saw Biggles in front of him, with a cup in one hand and a bottle in the other. He was still in the car. Algy was supporting him.

  'What happened?' he asked.

  'You passed out,' smiled Biggles. 'Don't wonder at it either, with that hole in your arm. I knocked up a tavern and bought a bottle of brandy and a few other odd things, including a linen napkin with which I've just bandaged your arm. Feel better?'

  Ginger nodded. 'I'm O.K.,' he said. And he really felt better. 'Where are we?'

  'Don't ask me,' replied Biggles. 'We are on the road you told us to follow. We stopped to buy the things I just told you about; then we drove on to a quiet spot and brought you round. I avoided staying at the tavern for fear of causing comment.'

  Ginger looked out of the car window and saw that it was just beginning to get light. 'How far up the road did you come?' he asked.

  'About thirty to thirty-five miles, for a guess.'

  'Then we haven't got much farther to go,' declared Ginger.

  'Have something to eat?' invited Biggles, indicating four paper parcels which had been torn open to disclose bread, cheese, grapes, and figs.

  'Yes, by gosh! I can do with some of that,' replied Ginger with alacrity. He helped himself and the others did likewise.

  'What happened to you?' asked Biggles.

  'That's a long story,' answered Ginger with his mouth full of bread and cheese. 'I'll tell you all about it presently. What happened, to you?'

  'We were caught. That's all,' Biggles told him.

  'You mean, when you threw me the letter?'

  'Yes. It's no use arguing with a score of rifles.'

  'And have you been in that ship ever since?'

  'We have.'

  'I heard you were to be shot.'

  'We should just about have been marching out to the execution deck if you hadn't come along. How did you hear about it? What have you been doing all this time? How the deuce did you get aboard the ship as you did? You might have been Goudini's best friend from the way you behaved.'

  Ginger laughed quietly. 'One at a time,' he pleaded. 'I've had a devil of a time, I assure you; but I don't think Goudini, personally, will trouble about us for a bit.'

  "Why not?'

  'I pretty nearly bumped him off—if not quite—an hour or two ago. It was he who stuck the knife in my arm. My pistol went off and plugged him somewhere— I don't know where. I didn't stop to see.'

  'Good Lord!' gasped Biggles. 'But Frazer's
letter? I saw you catch it. You've still got it?'

  'As a matter of fact, I haven't.'

  'You haven't! Where is it?'

  'Jock McLannoch has got it.'

  'Who the deuce is he?'

  'A Scotch pilot fighting for the Republicans.'

  'But how—?'

  'I'd better tell you the whole story, then you will know everything and understand how the situation stands now,' interrupted Ginger. 'Otherwise one question will only lead to another. I've been pretty busy, believe me.'

  And forthwith, while the sky turned from the pink of dawn to the blue of day, he told the story of his adventures from the time he had bolted with the letter in his hand to the rescue from the prison ship.

  Biggles and Algy listened in frank amazement.

  'My word!' exclaimed Biggles when he had finished. 'You have had a time, and no mistake. I think you were wise to hand the letter over to Jock—who sounds like a good scout—but the sooner we relieve him of the responsibility of it the better.'

  'I daren't risk bringing it down into the city with me.'

  'Quite right. Well, let's get the letter for a start. Then we'll see about getting out of this perishing country as soon as we can. It's getting a bit too hot to hold us.'

  'It shouldn't be difficult to get hold of a 'plane at the aerodrome,' opined Ginger. 'There were all sorts there.'

  'That's the quickest way,' agreed Biggles. T believe there are some British ships in Barcelona harbour, but it would be a shocking risk to go back there. The ordinary frontiers are closed, of course, so an aeroplane seems to be the only way.'

  'There is this about it,' offered Ginger; 'Goudini's crowd know nothing about our being able to fly, so they won't be likely to look for us at the aerodrome.'

  'Yes, that's all in our favour; it should be all plain sailing now,' returned Biggles as he got back into the driving seat and started the car.

  They were soon speeding along the winding road. With the exception of one or two peasants going to work, they saw nobody.

  'There's the aerodrome, straight in front of us,' remarked Ginger as the flying-ground came into view. 'We can drive right up, I think. Several people saw me about with Jock; most of them knew I was the chap who pulled him out of the crash, so nobody will be likely to ask us our business. They'll take you for friends of mine.'

  Biggles was driving past the hangars towards the living quarters when Ginger suddenly told him to stop. 'That's Cy Harkwell going towards the sheds. He's an American pilot. Jock introduced me to him yesterday. I might as well ask him where Jock is. If he's up at the sheds it's no use our going down to his quarters.'

  As he spoke, Ginger got out of the car and hailed the American. 'Hullo, Cy!' he called. 'Do you happen to know where Jock is?'

  The American changed his direction and came over to them. 'What did you say?' he drawled.

  'Have you seen Jock?'

  'Why—you looking for him?'

  'Yes.'

  The American's face set in hard lines. 'I guess you won't find him here,' he said quietly.

  Ginger felt something like a cold hand settle on his heart. 'Why?' he faltered.

  Harkwell took a cigarette from a flimsy packet and tapped the end on the back of his hand. 'Jock went down over the other side on a late patrol yesterday— 'bout half an hour after you left,' he drawled.

  Chapter 14

  Winged Warfare

  The silence that followed this staggering announcement was broken by the noise of a machine taking off.

  Ginger looked helplessly at Biggles. Biggles looked at Algy.

  Ginger moistened his lips and turned back to the American pilot. 'These are friends of mine,' he said, indicating the others with his hand. 'I wanted them to meet Jock. Was there any chance for him? I mean— was he a—flamer*?'

  *Term for an aircraft which has been shot down in flames.

  'Not as far as I know. I was with him. A coupla Fiats dropped on us when we were doing a reconnaissance. They got his engine, I reckon. He cracked up amongst the rocks near Ortrovidad village. I got one of the skunks; then a big bunch of Fiats showed up so I pushed along home. There wasn't any time to go down and get a closer view of the crack-up. That's all there was to it. S'long, boys. See you later.' The American strode away towards the hangars.

  'That,' murmured Biggles, 'has just about torn it— as they say in the classics. It's a million to one he had the letter in his pocket.'

  'I saw him put it in his wallet,' said Ginger miser-ably. 'It was my fault. I should never have—'

  'Don't talk rot,' broke in Biggles. 'Any one in his right mind would have done what you did. You weren't to foresee that this would happen. It's just a bit of bad luck, that's all. Things are being as difficult as they can be. Never mind, the luck is bound to change if we ride it hard enough. But come on, this is no time or place for philosophy; we've got to make up our minds what we are going to do, and waste no time about it— not that we've much choice.'

  'Absolutely, old boy; but what the dickens can we do?' inquired Algy.

  'What about Jock's car?' asked Ginger.

  'We'll decide what we'll do with the car when we know what we are going to do ourselves,' replied Biggles. 'At the moment we're on the horns of a dilemma, so the thing to do is—'

  'Take the bull by the horns,' suggested Ginger naïvely.

  Biggles laughed. 'Smart work, laddie. You've said it. Bull-fighting is the national sport in Spain, so this is where we shall have to—'

  'Butt in on it,' grinned Ginger.

  'You certainly know all the answers,' declared Biggles, laughing again. 'But seriously, chaps, we've got to get busy. This is the position as I see it. We can't stay here—not that there would be any sense in staying if we could. The first question that we've got to decide is, do we abandon Frazer's letter altogether and see about getting ourselves home? In that case we can either go back to the docks at Barcelona in the hope of getting on board a British ship—if there is one— or help ourselves to one of those machines I can see over yonder. Since all our lives are now definitely jeopardized, every one ought to have a say in that.'

  'It's a rotten thing to simply push off without the letter,' muttered Ginger.

  'You're absolutely right there, laddie, but it's a rotten thing to have to go on chasing it,' observed Algy.

  'Which means that it is going to be rotten anyway,' put in Biggles.

  'Honestly, do you think there is the slightest hope of our ever seeing that letter again?' asked Algy.

  'Yes, but I should be deceiving myself, and you, if I pretended that it was more than a thousand to one chance. You say that Jock put the letter in his pocket, Ginger? I think he would carry it on him. Very well. It's now somewhere over the other side. If Jock was killed, the letter would either be buried with him, or handed over to General Franco's intelligence people for deciphering. In either of these cases it will have gone for good, and it would be sheer suicide to try to get it back. On the other hand, if Jock wasn't killed, then he will either be in hospital or a prison camp, in which event he might still have the letter in his possession. It doesn't follow that he has got it, because it might have been taken from him by his captors. There is, however, a chance that Jock is alive, and that he still has the letter. If that is so, there is just a hope that we may be able to make contact with him and get hold of it again.'

  Algy shook his head. 'I don't jib at long shots as a rule, but that all sounds crazy to me. Why, it would mean going into Franco country.'

  'Of course; what of it? We should be in less danger there than here. Franco has nothing against us, whereas before to-day is out half Catalonia will be hunting for us.'

  'How would you prepare to visit General Franco's domain?' inquired Algy.

  'Fly there. There is no other way.'

  'And be shot down on the way?'

  'Possibly. We shall be shot for certain if we stay here.'

  'Three republican soldiers in the uniforms of the International Brigade arrivin
g in Franco country by air are more likely to be handed a bullet apiece than a bouquet.'

  'I agree. But the result is by no means a foregone conclusion. We should have to invent a plausible story: say we are sick of the republicans—and that would be true enough, in all conscience. At a pinch we could offer to fight for them—fly for them if necessary. I'd do that if I thought there was a chance of locating Jock when we were off duty. If we got the letter we could then fly home.'

  'Do you seriously think they would trust us, Inter-national deserters, with an aeroplane?'

  'Why shouldn't they?'

  'And risk losing a perfectly good machine?'

  'There would be no need for them to think that if we, in the first place, made them a present of one. The thing wouldn't be logical.'

  'Just what do you mean?'

  Biggles pointed to the big Italian Caproni bomber that still stood on the aerodrome some distance away from the other machines. 'That's one of Franco's 'planes,' he said quietly. 'We may be sure that he would be glad to have it back. As far as I can see there is nothing to prevent us taking it—always assuming that it is in order,a matter which we can soon ascertain. That American fellow knows Ginger. He's seen us all here. Several people have. After all, we are in uniform, so there is absolutely no reason why they should suspect our design. True, they might ask us to keep away from the machine, but I fancy the very last thing any one will imagine is that we are going to pinch it and fly it over Franco's lines. Why, if we told them that they'd think we were joking—or else they would think we were mad.'

  'They wouldn't be far wrong, either,' growled Algy sarcastically.

  'Well, let's make up our minds,' said Biggles, with a gesture of finality. 'It's either that—or France. I'd rather go to France—don't make any mistake about that. But if we did fade out like that, without making any attempt to get the letter, we should feel pretty sick about it for the rest of our lives. May I remind you that Frazer did not hesitate to sacrifice his life on the mere off-chance that we should get the letter through?'

  'Oh, I'm not protesting,' murmured Algy. 'But you must admit that chasing this confounded letter is becoming a sort of nightmare. What you say goes for me.'