Biggles Fails to Return Page 2

  ‘Why so far away?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Because, apparently, there is nowhere nearer. Monaco is a tiny place. All told, it only covers eight square miles. Almost from the edge of the sea the cliffs rise steeply to a couple of thousand feet, and, except for a few impossible slopes, the whole principality is covered with villas and hotels. The fashionable resort, Monte Carlo, occupies most of it. The actual village of Old Monaco, and the palace, are built on a spur of rock. There is no aerodrome. In fact, there isn’t an airport nearer than Cannes, some thirty miles to the west.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ said Ginger.

  The Air Commodore resumed. ‘Well, Biggles went. Precisely what occurred in Monaco we don’t know; it seems unlikely that we shall ever know, but as far as we have been able to deduce from the meagre scraps of information that our agents have collected, what happened was this. Biggles walked into a trap. The Princess was not at the villa. She had been betrayed by her supposed friend, presumably for the big reward that had been offered, and was in custody, in the civil prison, awaiting an escort to take her back to Italy. It seems that not only did Biggles extricate himself from the trap, but almost succeeded in what must have been the most desperate enterprise of his career. He rescued the Princess from the prison, and actually used an Italian police car to make his getaway. In this car he and the Princess raced to Nice, using that formidable highway that cuts through the tops of the mountains overlooking the sea, known as the Grande Corniche. The car was followed, of course, but Biggles got to the landing ground just ahead of his pursuers. Ducoste was there, waiting. The moon made everything plain to see.’ The Air Commodore paused to light a cigarette.

  ‘The story now becomes tragic,’ he continued. ‘What I know I had from the lips of Ducoste. Biggles and the princess left the car and ran towards the aircraft, closely followed by the Italians. To enable you to follow the story closely I must tell you that the machine was an old Berline Breguet, a single-engined eight-seater formerly used by the Air France Company on their route between London and the Riviera. As a matter of detail, this particular machine was the one in which Ducoste made his escape from France. The decision to use it was his own. Between the cockpit and the cabin there is a bulkhead door with a small glass window in it so that the pilot can see his passengers. I’m sorry to trouble you with these details, but, for reasons which you will appreciate in a moment, they are important. As I have said, Biggles and the princess, closely pursued, ran towards the machine. Ducoste, who was watching from the cockpit, with his engine ticking over, saw that it was going to be a close thing. Biggles shouted to the princess to get aboard and tried to hold the Italians with his pistol. We can picture the situation—the princess near the machine, with Biggles, a few yards behind, walking backwards, fighting a rearguard action. The princess got aboard, whereupon Biggles yelled to Ducoste to take off without him. Naturally, Ducoste, who does not lack courage, hesitated to do this. What I must make clear is, the princess actually got aboard. Of that there is no doubt. Ducoste felt the machine move slightly, in the same way that one can feel a person getting into a motor-car. He looked back through the little glass window and saw the face of the princess within a few inches of his own. She appeared to be agitated, and made a signal which Ducoste took to mean that he was to take off. I may say that all this is perfectly clear in Ducoste’s mind. He looked out and saw Biggles making a dash for the machine; but before Biggles could reach it he fell, apparently hit by a bullet. Ducoste, from his cockpit, could do nothing to help him. By this time bullets were hitting the machine, and in another moment they must all have been caught. In the circumstances he did the most sensible thing. He took off. Remember, there was no doubt in his mind about the princess being on board. He had actually seen her in the machine. He made for England, and after a bad journey, during which he was several times attacked by enemy fighters, he reached his base aerodrome. Judge his consternation when he found the cabin empty. The princess was not there. The cabin door was open. Poor Ducoste was incoherent with mortification and amazement. The last thing he saw before he took off was Biggles lying motionless on the ground, and two Italians within a dozen yards, running towards him. The last he saw of the princess she was in the machine.’

  Algy drew a deep breath. ‘And that’s all you know?’

  ‘That is all we know.’

  ‘No word from Monaco?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Ducoste has absolutely no idea of what happened to the princess?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘None whatever, although the obvious assumption is that she fell from the aircraft some time during the journey from the South of France to England. What else can we think?’

  ‘No report of her body having been found?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘What an incredible business,’ muttered Algy. ‘As far as Biggles is concerned, the Italians must know about him from their Nazi friends. One would have thought that had he been killed the enemy would have grabbed the chance of boasting of it—that’s their usual way of doing things.’

  ‘One would think so,’ agreed the Air Commodore. ‘But it seems certain that if he wasn’t killed he must have been badly wounded, in which case he would have been captured, which comes to pretty much the same thing. But I don’t overlook the possibility that it may have suited the enemy to say nothing about the end of a man who has given them so much trouble. From every point of view it is a most unsatisfactory business.’

  ‘Tell me, sir; how was Biggles dressed for this affair?’ asked Ginger. ‘Was he in uniform?’

  ‘Well, he was and he wasn’t. I know he has a prejudice against disguises, but this was an occasion when one was necessary. He could hardly walk about Monaco in a British uniform, so he wore over it an old blue boiler suit, which he thought would give him the appearance of a workman of the country.’

  ‘And you don’t expect to hear anything more, sir?’

  ‘Frankly, no. There is just one hope—a remote one, I fear. I had a private arrangement with Biggles. Realizing that there was a chance of his picking up useful information which, in the event of failure, he would not be able to get home, he took with him a blue pencil, the idea being that we could profit by what he had learned should he fail, and should we decide to follow up with another agent. He said that should he be in Monaco he would write on the stone wall that backs the Quai de Plaisance, in the Condamine—that is, the lower part of Monaco in which the harbour is situated. If he were in Nice he would write on the wall near Jock’s Bar, below the Promenade des Anglais. His signature would be a blue triangle.’

  ‘Have you checked up to see if there is such a message?’ queried Algy.

  ‘No,’ admitted the Air Commodore.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The place is swarming with police. In any case, there seemed to be no point in it, because whatever Biggles wrote before the rescue would be rendered valueless after what happened on the landing ground. Right up to the finish he must have hoped to get home, and after that time it seems unlikely to say the least that he would have an opportunity for writing.’

  ‘But, sir,’ put in Ginger, ‘haven’t you thought of trying to rescue Biggles?’

  ‘I have, but it seemed hopeless.’

  ‘Why? Nothing is ever hopeless.’

  ‘But consider the circumstances. Biggles was last seen lying on the ground, dead or unconscious, right in front of his pursuers.’

  ‘Yet you admit that if they had got him they would probably have issued a statement?’

  ‘That doesn’t necessarily follow.’

  ‘Why should they withhold the information?’

  ‘I could think of several reasons. The princess has friends in Italy, and Mussolini might fear repercussions, if it became known that she had been killed. Again the enemy might think that if they kept silent we should send more agents down to find out what happened, and thus they would catch more birds in the same trap. Neither side willi
ngly tells the other anything, for which reason we have refrained from putting Biggles’ name in the casualty list.’

  ‘You don’t hold out any hope for him?’

  ‘How can I?’

  ‘And the princess?’

  ‘The chances of her survival seem even more remote. If she was not killed on the landing ground, then she certainly must have lost her life when she fell from the aircraft.’

  Algy looked straight at the Air Commodore. ‘I think it’s about time somebody found out just what did happen, sir,’ he said curtly.

  ‘Absolutely—yes, by Jove—absolutely,’ breathed Bertie.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I have no one to send.’

  ‘Then perhaps you would use your influence to get me ten days leave, sir?’ suggested Algy meaningly.

  The Air Commodore’s expression did not change. ‘Are you thinking of going to Monaco?’

  ‘I shan’t sleep at night until I know what happened to Biggles.’

  ‘That goes for all of us, sir,’ interposed Ginger.

  ‘But be reasonable, you fellows,’ protested the Air Commodore. ‘I know exactly how you feel, but war isn’t a personal matter . . .’

  ‘You didn’t take that view when you were trying to rescue the princess,’ returned Algy shortly. ‘Frankly, I don’t care two hoots about her, because I’ve never seen her and I’m never likely to; but Biggles happens to be my best friend. Apart from which, he is one of the most valuable officers in the service. Surely it is worth going to some trouble to try to get him back—or at least, find out what happened to him?’

  ‘I agree, but the chances of success are so small that they are hardly worth considering.’

  ‘I am sorry, sir, but I can’t agree with you there,’ replied Algy bluntly. ‘Until I know Biggles is dead I shall assume that he is alive. Get me ten days leave and I’ll find out what happened to him.’

  ‘Include me in that, sir,’ put in Ginger.

  ‘And me, sir,’ murmured Bertie.

  The Air Commodore looked from one to the other. ‘Just what do you think you are going to do?’

  Algy answered. ‘I don’t know, except that we are going to find out what happened to Biggles. If the thing was the other way round, do you suppose he’d be content to sit here knowing that we were stuck in enemy country? Not on your life!’

  ‘It is my opinion that Biggles is dead,’ asserted the Air Commodore.

  ‘I had already sensed that, sir, but I don’t believe it,’ retorted Algy. ‘Call it wishful thinking if you like, but I’ll believe it when I’ve seen his body, not before.’

  The Air Commodore shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right,’ he said crisply. ‘Have it your own way. Think of a reasonable scheme and I’ll consider it.’

  Algy rose and picked up his cap. ‘Thank you, sir. It is now twelve o’clock. We’ll go and have some lunch, and be back here at two.’

  The Air Commodore nodded. ‘Very well.’

  Chapter 2

  The Reasonable Plan

  Over lunch, and afterwards, in a secluded corner of the Royal Air Force Club, in Piccadilly, Algy, Bertie and Ginger, discussed the situation that had arisen. Neither Algy nor Ginger had ever been to Monaco, so they were somewhat handicapped; but it turned out that to Bertie the celebrated little Principality was a sort of home from home. For several years he had gone there for the ‘season’ as a competitor in the international motor car race called the Monte Carlo Rally. He had competed in the motor-boat trials, had played tennis on the famous courts, and golf on the links at Mont Agel. He had stayed at most of the big hotels, and had been a guest at many of the villas owned by leading members of society. As a result, he not only knew the principality intimately, but the country around it.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell the Air Commodore this?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Never play your trump cards too soon—no, by Jove,’ murmured Bertie, and then went on to declare that if only they could get to Monaco he knew of places where they could hide.

  ‘It seems to be taken for granted that we are all going,’ observed Algy.

  Bertie and Ginger agreed—definitely.

  ‘Then the first question we must settle is, how are we going to get there?’

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be much choice,’ Ginger pointed out. ‘Either we can land on this beach aerodrome near Nice, or we can bale out. But however we go down, someone will have to bring the machine back. We all want to stay there, so I suggest that we ask Raymond to lend us his Monégasque pilot—the bloke who flew Biggles. He must know the lie of the land a lot better than we shall find out from the map.’

  ‘That’s a good idea,’ agreed Algy. ‘Do we land or do we jump?’

  ‘If this lad knows the country I’m in favour of landing,’ declared Bertie. ‘It’s pretty rough for jumping—rocks and things all over the place.’

  ‘All right. Let us say that we land,’ went on Algy. ‘Having landed, do we stay together or do we work separately?’

  ‘I’m in favour of working separately,’ said Ginger. ‘That gives us three chances against one. If we stay together, and anything goes wrong, we all get captured. If everyone takes his own line we shall avoid that, and at the same time cover more ground. I propose that we work separately, but each knowing roughly what the others are going to do. We might have a rendezvous where we can get in touch and compare notes.’

  ‘Yes, I think that’s sound reasoning,’ agreed Algy, and Bertie confirmed it. ‘How are we going—I mean, we can’t stroll about Monte Carlo in uniform? I speak French pretty well, so I could put on a suit of civvies and pretend to be a French prisoner of war just repatriated from Germany. That would account for my being out of touch with things. What about you, Bertie?’

  ‘Well, I speak the jolly old lingo, and I know my way about. That ought to do.’

  Algy looked doubtful. ‘People may wonder what an able-bodied chap like you is doing, strolling about with no particular job.’

  ‘I’ll take my guitar and be an out-of-work musician—how’s that?’ Bertie smiled at the expressions on the faces of the others. ‘Strolling players are common in the South of France,’ he explained. ‘They make a living playing round the pub doors, and that sort of thing. By Jove, yes; I could do the jolly old Blondin act, playing a tune round the likely places, trusting that Biggles would recognize it if he were about. Biggles would know that piece I play with all the twiddly bits. He once told me he’d never forget it.’

  Algy smiled. ‘All right. What about you, Ginger?’

  Ginger looked glum. ‘My trouble is I can’t speak French—or not enough to amount to anything. I can speak a bit, enough to make myself understood, but I couldn’t pass as a Frenchman. I speak better Spanish. Before the war we spent more time in Spain, and Spanish America, than in France.’

  ‘But we’re not going to Spain. We’re going to France,’ Algy pointed out sarcastically.

  ‘Just a minute though, I think I’ve got something,’ put in Bertie. ‘Yes, by jingo, that’s it. Ginger can be a Spaniard.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Selling onions. In the same way those chappies from northern France used to come over to England with their little strings of onions, the lads from Spain surge along the Riviera selling the jolly old vegetable. Or if he likes he can be a bullfighter looking for work—they still have bull-fights in the South of France.’

  ‘Not for me,’ declared Ginger. ‘I might be offered a job. I’ll sell onions.’

  ‘Where are you going to get the onions?’ inquired Algy.

  ‘Plenty on the aerodrome. You forget our lads have turned market gardeners.’

  ‘Okay, then we’ll call that settled. But we seem to have overlooked the most important thing of all. How are we going to get back?’

  ‘By Jove, that’s a nasty one,’ muttered Bertie. ‘I’d clean forgotten about the return tickets.’

  ‘There’s only one way,’ asserted Ginger. ‘Assuming that Ducoste will take us over, he’ll have to pick
us up again. We should have to fix a place and time. Naturally, we should all have to keep that date, whatever happened. If we don’t locate Biggles, or find out what happened to him, in that time, the chances are that we never should. If we finish before that time we should just have to lie doggo until the plane came for us. We could flash a light signal to Ducoste to let him know that it was okay to land.’

  ‘I can’t think of anything better than that,’ admitted Algy. ‘Of course, if we made a mess of things we shouldn’t be there, anyway, in which case Ducoste would push off again. We couldn’t ask him to hang about. Anything else?’

  ‘That seems to be about as far as we can get,’ opined Ginger. ‘When we get back to the aerodrome, are you going to let the others in on this?’

  ‘No,’ decided Algy. ‘The whole squadron would want to come. We can’t have that—the show would begin to look like a commando raid, or an invasion. Angus can take over while I’m away. Well, let’s get along and put the proposition to the Air Commodore. We can fix the details later.’

  ‘What details?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘We shall need French money, forged identity papers, and so on. Raymond will get those for us if he approves the scheme.’

  ‘If he does, when are we going to start?’

  ‘Obviously, just as soon as we are ready,’ answered Algy. ‘The sooner we are on the spot the better. We ought to be away by to-morrow night at latest.’ He got up. ‘Let’s get back to the Ministry. I’m anxious to get this thing settled.’