Biggles In Spain

by W E Johns

  'No.'

  'Don't lie.

  Biggles flushed. 'I'm not a liar,' he said coldly. 'We are not spies. A week ago we were on the sea. The ship was bombed and—'

  'You came ashore at Barcelona,' put in the officer smoothly. 'We know the story, Mr. Bigglesworth.'

  Biggles stared. 'You know the story?' he exclaimed incredulously.

  The officer picked up a newspaper that was lying on his desk. An item had been boldly boxed round in blue pencil. 'Am I to understand that you do not speak Spanish?'

  'We do not.'

  'Then I will tell you, briefly, what this paragraph is about. The paper, by the way, is the latest issued in Barcelona. It was delivered to us, by air, by our special messenger an hour ago. A week ago a British spy in Rome managed to get possession of a very important document which concerned operations in this theatre of war. As a result, it became necessary for him to go to Barcelona to verify certain facts, and to denounce to the Bolshevik leaders a certain important official. But we have an intelligence service too. The official was warned, and the English spy was killed. You know his name? No—you wouldn't. I need not ask you. His name was Frazer—the man who, Mr. Bigglesworth, you met in the Casa Reposada. The man who, Mr. Spy, gave you the document to take back to England. But you were arrested. The man who caused your arrest was Señor Goudini—am I right?'

  'Quite right.'

  'You knew Señor Goudini?'

  'Yes.'

  'He was deputy chief of the Barcelona secret police.'

  'That is what he told me.'

  'He was much more than that, Mr. Bigglesworth.'

  'I shouldn't be surprised.'

  'It might surprise you to know, however, that he was our chief agent in Barcelona.'

  Biggles stared. 'Yes, that does surprise me,' he confessed.

  'So you shot him.'

  'Goudini was shot whilst attempting to murder some-body.'

  'An English spy.'

  'No.'

  'Yes!' The officer's face was white. He struck the desk with his fist.

  'If he was a double-crossing spy he deserved all he got,' said Biggles icily. Seeing at last how deep were the waters they were in, he abandoned caution, knowing it to be useless.

  'Goudini is dead.' The officer pointed to the news-paper.

  'I didn't know that, but I shall shed no tears on his account.'

  'No? Then perhaps you will shed some on your own account.'

  Biggles smiled. 'No, I shan't do that, either,' he answered.

  The other's manner changed. 'Does it not alarm you that you have killed our most important agent in Barcelona?'

  'Not in the least. Would it have made any difference to us, in this situation, if he had not been killed?'

  The officer eyed Biggles with a curious expression. 'You know why you were brought here, of course?'

  'For the purpose of interrogation, I presume.'

  'Interrogation? Come, Mr. Bigglesworth, surely I have told you more than you have told us.'

  'I have nothing to say.'

  'I think you have.'

  'What is it you want to know?'

  The officer rose from his chair and held out his hand. 'Give me the letter,' he said.

  Biggles shook his head. 'I'm afraid you are going to be very disappointed,' he said quietly. 'I haven't got it.'

  'I will have you searched.'

  Biggles opened his hands, palms outwards. 'You will be wasting your time,' he returned. 'Should I adopt a course so futile, as well as prove myself a liar, if the letter was in my possession? I haven't got it. Neither has either of my friends. That you will easily be able to verify.'

  'Where is it?'

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders. 'If I could answer that question I would not. But as it happens, I can't.'

  There was silence in the room, a silence broken only by the soft ticking of a clock on the mantelpiece.

  The officer drew a deep breath. 'I will give you to-night to think better of your decision,' he said softly. 'But to-morrow my patience will expire—you under-stand?'

  'Perfectly.'

  The officer gave some crisp instructions to the escort, who took their places on either side of the prisoners. They were then marched back to the car, and ordered to resume their seats.

  'We seem to be doing a lot of travelling,' remarked Algy cheerfully.

  'The trouble is, we don't go far enough,' returned Biggles. 'Next time—if there is a next time—I intend to keep going until I get to a country where they don't speak Spanish.'

  The car glided forward down the dusty road.

  Chapter 17

  An Unexpected Meeting

  Meanwhile, Ginger had found that it was farther to the top of the hill than he had thought. The heat was intense, and the fragrance of the pines almost over-powering. These factors alone would not have worried him, but he was still feeling more than a little shaken, the after-effects of his last terrifying experience. He was also sick at heart at so soon being separated again from the others. However, he staggered on with frequent rests towards the top of the hill, from where, he thought, he would be able to get a good view of the surrounding country.

  It was during one of his brief rests, near the summit, that he heard voices calling to each other. Springing to his feet, by listening intently he could hear the noise of breaking twigs, and other sounds that told him beyond question that a number of people were not very far away, and hurrying towards him—or, more probably, towards the fire, which was now throwing up a mighty pillar of smoke.

  He was not particularly alarmed. His state of mind was such that it would have taken a great deal to alarm him. Still, he did not suppose that the people now approaching were soldiers; he imagined, rather, that they were peasants coming to ascertain the cause of the fire. But he would avoid them if he could, he decided, and with this object he made his way to one of the several gnarled old olive trees amongst which he was standing, and pulled himself up into the branches.

  At one time or another throughout history hundreds of fugitives have chosen this ready means of evading discovery; but Ginger was not thinking about that. He was watching the brow of the hill. And when, presently, a line of Italian troops came into view, he expressed his opinion of them in muttered invective. His fears that they were searching for him soon passed, however, for they rushed down the hill without so much as a glance in his direction.

  He did not linger. Dropping from his perch, he hurried to the top of the hill and surveyed the country-side below. It told him little, if anything, although had he struck the ridge of the hill a little higher up it would have been different, for he would then have seen the Caproni standing by the roadside, surrounded by troops, which would have given him food for thought. As it was, all he could see was a broad valley through which wound a grey ribbon of road. There were one or two isolated houses near it, and it was upon these that he concentrated his attention, for they seemed to offer the only hope of slaking his raging thirst. Where there was a house there must be a water supply, he reasoned, and as he had to drink or die, he selected one of them as his first objective. He chose the nearest—a fair-sized whitewashed villa with a pantiled roof, in the usual Spanish style, which snuggled in a clump of conical cypress trees about a mile away.

  It took him some time to reach it, both on account of the nature of the hill-side down which he scrambled, and often stumbled, and the Italian troops who, in twos and threes, appeared over the brow of the hill, on their way back from the fire to wherever they belonged. When this happened he took cover until they had gone rather than risk being seen. Where they went he neither knew nor cared; he was only concerned with keeping clear of them, and quenching his thirst.

  Reaching the foot of the hill, he made his way over level ground, through an area of sparse pines, to the road, striking it at a point about a quarter of a mile from the nearest house. Towards this he now turned, but keeping amongst the trees, parallel with the road, both for concealment and the shade they offered.r />
  Presently he had reason to be glad that he had taken this precaution, for he heard a motor cycle coming down the road. Taking cover behind a tree, he was not surprised to see that it was ridden by a soldier, evidently a dispatch rider; but to his intense chagrin and annoyance, the rider, instead of going right on, stopped outside the very house for which he was making. Leaving the motor cycle on its stand, he disappeared inside.

  Ginger crept along until he was nearly opposite, and then sat down to await, with all the patience he could muster, the man's departure. Naturally, he had assumed that it was a private house, and while he was prepared to confront civilians, he was not anxious to come face to face with a soldier, who might remark his tattered appearance, or ask questions which he would have found difficult to answer even if he had been able to speak the language. So he waited, while the sun dropped down the steep slope of the western sky.

  Once a lorry filled with soldiers went past. They did not see him. An ambulance came slowly down the road, the driver singing to himself, and disappeared round the next corner, leaving a trail of grey dust hanging over the road. But of the motor cyclist there was no sign.

  Ginger fidgeted with impatience, deriving a crumb of comfort from the fact that it might have been worse had the dispatch rider arrived a few minutes later while he was begging a drink.

  He had just made up his mind to move on, hoping to come to another house, when he heard a motor-car coming from the direction opposite the one from which the other vehicles had appeared, so he shrank back into the trees to allow it to pass before he moved on. With disinterested eyes he saw it come round the corner, travelling fast. He was not particularly concerned with it. He merely wanted it to pass so that he could go on. Nevertheless, he looked at it. There was nothing else to look at. But as he looked he suddenly grew rigid. His eyes opened wide and his lips parted.

  The car swept past, leaving him transfixed, staring, his heart pounding, fingers trembling, thirst forgotten. For in the car sat the last two people on earth whom he expected to see in it—Biggles and Algy.

  For a few seconds he stood rooted to the ground in stunned consternation and amazement. Then, prompted by something he did not stop to consider, he made a rush for the motor cycle. It was facing in the opposite direction to the one taken by the car, but he soon altered that. He slammed up the stand, and before he really knew what he was doing, he was tearing down the road through the dust raised by the car. He did not so much as glance behind him.

  Far from having any fixed plan in his mind, he had not the remotest idea of what he was going to do, or what he hoped to do. His one concern, as far as he was able to think, was to keep the car in sight so that he would at least know where Biggles and Algy were, for the presence of an escort told him that they were prisoners. How this had come about he could not imagine, but when, presently, he roared past the Caproni standing still beside the road where it had landed, he began to suspect; although whether this was the machine that had shot him down, or the one which had recently been at Barcelona, he had no means of knowing. Nor did he particularly care. The only thing that mattered was that Biggles and Algy were down and had been captured. He himself would rather be with them than wandering about Spain, a fugitive, with little hope of ever finding them.

  He could now see the car, about a quarter of a mile ahead. It was slowing down, although for what purpose he could not yet discover, for there was no building that he could see. But presently, as he drew slowly nearer, he perceived the reason; a section of the road was being repaired by a long line of workmen, leaving only a single track through which traffic could pass.

  Ginger was really beyond curing what happened, which may have accounted for what happened during the next few minutes. In the first place, he drew so close to the rear of the car that had he raised his voice he could have spoken to Biggles and Algy, who sat staring in front of them. He even smiled wanly as it occurred to him what a shock they would have if they happened to look round. But they did not.

  He was still watching them, his machine stationary but with the engine running, with his feet on the ground, when a voice close at hand made him start violently. For the words were said in English, and the voice was strangely familiar.

  'Blimey, if it ain't Ginger!'

  Ginger swung round, and nearly fell off his machine. It was Fred Summers, saucer-eyed with wonder. 'Great heavens! What on earth are you doing here?' he gasped.

  Summers winked, and went on shovelling stones. 'The blighters got me in the last push,' he said in a low voice.

  Ginger, looking about him, saw soldiers with rifles under their arms standing at intervals, and for the first time grasped the situation. The workers were prisoners of war, working under an armed guard.

  At that moment the car moved off. Ginger raced his engine ready to follow. Then madness came upon him. 'Feel like a ride, Fred?' he asked, in a curious high-pitched voice.

  'Strewth! Not 'arf!'

  Ginger looked along the line and saw that the nearest guard was rolling a cigarette. 'Get aboard,' he said.

  Summers dropped his shovel as if it had suddenly become red-hot, and flung himself astride the carrier, clutching Ginger round the waist.

  The motor cycle shot forward, raising, as Ginger had reckoned on, a cloud of dust, blotting out everything behind it. Whether any of the prisoners, or the guards, saw what happened, he never knew.

  'Where are we 'orf to—Blighty?' yelled Summers in Ginger's ear.

  'No,' shouted Ginger. 'My pals are in that car in front. I've got to see where they go.'

  'Are they prisoners?'

  'Yes.'

  'Then they'll be taking 'em to the camp, I reckon,' howled Summers, for the machine was touching sixty miles an hour.

  'What camp?'

  'Prison camp. 'Bout a couple of miles ahead. All the prisoners are there. Jock's there. They shot—'

  'What?' In his agitation at this unexpected piece of news Ginger nearly went into the ditch. He had forgot-ten the very existence of Jock McLannoch, and the letter which had been the cause of all their troubles.

  'Crikey! Look out! You'll 'ave us 'orf,' yelled Summers.

  Ginger, seeing the car not very far ahead, slowed down, and did his best to collect his thoughts, which these new developments had thrown into a state of chaos.

  'There's the prison camp, straight ahead,' announced Summers.

  Ginger retarded the throttle. The piece of road which they were on was deserted, and pine trees from the slopes above had here and there advanced to the edge of it. He could see what he supposed was the prison camp, an area of barbed wire surrounding some wooden hutments and one or two tents. Just beyond it was a village.

  Ginger brought the motor cycle to a stop, and dropped his feet.

  'There you are; what did I tell you?' said Summers.

  The car had stopped. A moment later it turned, moving slowly, towards the hutments inside the wire.

  'Get off,' ordered Ginger.

  Summers obliged. 'What are you goin' to do?' he asked.

  'Get this motor bike out of sight, for a start.' Ginger began pushing the motor cycle amongst the trees; nor did he stop until he was satisfied that it was well out of sight of the road.

  'What's the idea?' Summers asked. 'Why not get a bit farther away from that blinkin' compound?'

  'Because I want to stay close to it,' returned Ginger, briefly.

  'Wot for?'

  'My pals are inside.'

  'Oh—I see. And you're goin' to git 'em out?'

  'That's the scheme.'

  'You're daft.'

  'I'm afraid you're right, Fred, but it can't be helped. You can have the bike if you like. I've finished with it.'

  'Not me. I couldn't ride it, anyhow. I'll stick with you. 'Ow did yer come to be in this jam?'

  'I was shot down this afternoon. Don't ask so many questions. Just answer some for a change. What sort of a place is this camp?'

  'There's two camps, one fer officers and one fer the o
thers—like me. The officers have got an 'ut; we poor blighters 'ave to lay out in the open. There's wire round the 'ole thing.'

  'Do the officers' quarters join up with the men's?'

  'Yes. There's only wire in between.'

  'Anybody in one could talk to those in the other?'

  'Yes—of course.'

  'Where's Jock?'

  'He's in with the officers. They don't go to work like us poor blighters.'

  'Would it be very difficult to get out of that camp?' was Ginger's next question.

  'Not if you could bite your way through the wire and cosh the blinkin' sentry on the nut.'

  'That's all I want to know,' declared Ginger. 'You must please yourself what you do. On your own, I reckon you've got a poor chance of getting out of the country. With us you might manage it, because once my pals are outside the wire we shall aim to pinch an aeroplane.'

  'I'll stick with you,' decided Summers promptly.

  'You'll get it in the neck if we're caught,' Ginger warned him.

  'I've bin gettin' it in the neck, anyway,' snarled Summers.

  Ginger turned to the motor cycle, and taking all the things out of the tool bag, laid them quietly on the ground. There was the usual miscellaneous assortment of articles—pieces of rag, an old plug, spanners, tyre levers, and the rest. But the tool he hoped to find was there, too. It was a pair of strong pliers with an edge for cutting wire. There was also a small file and a heavy wrench. He put the pliers and file in one pocket of his trousers, with his automatic, and the wrench in the other.

  'Blimey! If a London cop dropped on you with that little lot he'd-'

  'He won't—more's the pity,' interrupted Ginger sadly. 'Nothing would please me better at the moment than to see a line of good old London bobbies. But I'm afraid we shall have to manage without them. Hark! What's this coming—more troops?'

  'No. It's the fellers who've bin out working coming back to the compound. We knock off half an hour before dark. They come past here.'

  Ginger, alert, thought swiftly. 'By gosh, Fred, I've got it,' he whispered. 'I reckon this prison camp would be harder to break into than to break out of.'