Biggles (19 page)

‘How do you mean?' asked Biggles in surprise.

‘Officially, of course, the death was accidental. That's what I've entered on the police report. But there was more to it than that. Look monsieur!' With a gesture formed by long experience, he flicked back the sheet to reveal the body. The legs were badly smashed, but the head and trunk were more or less intact. ‘Here!' said the doctor, lifting up an arm. ‘Do you notice anything?' Feeling slightly sick by now, Biggles examined the lifeless limb. On the inside, from the elbow to the wrist, was a row of livid dots.

‘You know, of course, what that means?' said the doctor.

Biggles shook his head.

‘The poor man was an addict. When I analysed his blood I discovered strong evidence of heroin. It would have made him over-confident and blurred his judgment, and I imagine that that was how he died.'

It was a nasty business, but the discovery of Gordon-Bell's addiction solved a lot of problems — the change of personality from the character they had known, and his involvement in the drug-ring. It also helped explain his wild flying and the manner of his death. The drugs had helped him overcome his fear, then made him increasingly reckless so that obviously his judgment had been impaired.

‘Poor silly devil,' mused Biggles to himself as he strolled back across the harbour to the hotel, ‘but at any rate I have something to report to Colonel Raymond.'

He looked along the quay and was not entirely surprised to see that the
Evening Cloud
had gone. What did surprise him was that there was no sign of Algy when he got back to the hotel, so he waited in the bar and put his call through to Colonel Raymond.

‘Bad business,' said the Colonel when Biggles told him about Gordon-Bell. ‘An ex-officer too. Can't think where they get these filthy habits. Tell you the truth, we'd had our eye on him for quite some while. He'd been dabbling in espionage for the Eastern Powers as well. Thoroughly bad hat. Still,
de mortuis
and all that, Bigglesworth.'

‘Exactly, sir,' said Biggles. ‘No point in judging the poor fellow now he's dead.'

‘Quite. Of course, the real villain is that woman friend of his. What did you say her name was?'

‘Torelli, sir. Contessa Torelli. At any rate, that's what she calls herself. Appears to have done a bunk. Her yacht has disappeared and nobody has seen her.'

‘I'm not entirely surprised,' replied the Colonel drily. ‘Still, she's Nisberg's headache and not ours, thank God! She won't get very far. How much longer are you and Lacey planning to stay?'

‘Another week, sir — if you'll let us.'

Biggles heard Colonel Raymond chuckle to himself.

‘That's a good one, Bigglesworth. Yes of course I'll let you. Very grateful too for all you've done. Have a good holiday. See you when you're back.'

Devoted though he was to Colonel Raymond, Biggles felt understandably relieved to have heard the last of him — for a few days at least — and could hardly wait to tell Algy that their holiday task was over, but there was still no sign of him. Nor was there any message at reception.

‘Rum,' thought Biggles to himself. ‘Probably spotted something in a skirt, if I know Algy.' He was not particularly concerned. Algy would be back in time for luncheon, that was for sure. In the meantime he would sit on the terrace, drink a
crème de cassis,
and study the crime pages of the
Nice Matin.
It was a treat to have a spot of relaxation in the sun at last.

By one o'clock, Biggles had finished his aper from cover to cover and consumed three
crèmes de cassis,
but there was still no sign of Algy. This was annoying. Biggles was hungry and could smell the aroma of delicious cooking wafting from the kitchens. So it was with some impatience that he approached Gaston, the head porter, to inquire if there was any news of his friend, Monsieur Lacey.

Gaston shook his head. No, he hadn't seen him since he went out two hours earlier. Did he say where he was going, Biggles asked.

‘Not exactly, sir.'

‘What do you mean, not exactly, Gaston?'

‘Well, sir, he was with a lady. Very beautiful too, sir.'

Something about the way the porter spoke made Biggles suddenly anxious.

‘Did you recognise the lady, Gaston?'

‘
Mais bien sur, monsieur,
' said Gaston cheerfully. ‘It was the
friend of the English
aviateur
who died. They went off together in her white Rolls-Royce.'

Biggles no longer felt like eating but there was little he could do. He tried to tell himself that he was getting alarmed over nothing and that Algy was more than competent to take care of himself with a mere woman. Perhaps he was, but all the time he had a vision of the Countess as he had seen her, calmly watching her lover's body dragged from the harbour. Algy would be so much human putty in the hands of such a creature.

Biggles had no alternative but to hang on at the hotel waiting for the telephone to ring. It did — but not for him, and by five o'clock he knew the time had come to make a move.

‘But no, Monsieur Bigglesworth. It is impossible, impossible!' exclaimed the local
Commissaire de police,
when Biggles tried explaining what had happened. He was a barrel of a man with pink-rimmed eyes and an immense moustache. ‘There is no way in which your friend Monsieur Lacey can have been with the Countess Torelli. Her yacht left Monte Carlo yesterday, and,
entre nous
monsieur, it was not a moment too soon. The French police are after her. A most distressing matter.'

‘I know,' said Biggles grimly. ‘Most distressing. But that's neither here nor there. The fact is that my friend has disappeared. Gaston, the head-porter at the Hotel de Paris, believes that he was with this woman. If he is, his life could be in danger. Would you please start inquiries.'

The Frenchman was clearly not accustomed to dealing with characters as resolute as James Bigglesworth. He shrugged, he picked his teeth, he attempted to prevaricate, but Biggles was insistent and, as usual, got his way. ‘Very well, monsieur,' the Commissaire said grudgingly. ‘I will alert my men. They will be on the lookout for your friend, Mr Lacey. If there is any news I will telephone you at the Hotel de Paris, instantly.

But there was no news — not until next morning when the Commissaire rang in person, sounding more polite than he had been the day before. The white Rolls-Royce had been discovered — abandoned at the Aeroport in Nice. A man and a woman fitting the descriptions of Algy and the Countess had been at the airport
the previous evening. They had hired a small two-seater and flown off.

‘Did anyone know where they were going?' Biggles asked.

‘They said Toulon, along the coast,' the Commissaire replied, ‘but I've telephoned the airport there. They've not arrived.'

‘Where are you now?' asked Biggles terselv.

‘Why, at the Aeroport of Nice.'

‘Would you please wait, Monsieur le Commissaire. I'll be with you in twenty minutes.'

In any other circumstances, Biggles would have enjoyed the Aeroport of Nice. There were palm trees round the perimeter of the field, a pleasant bar, an orange-coloured wind-sock flapping lazily in the sea-borne early morning breeze, but he was not in the mood to appreciate such niceties. Algy was in danger. That was all that counted now.

The Commissaire was there to greet him.

‘My apologies, Monsieur Bigglesworth,' he said. ‘How do you English say, the bird has flown.' He laughed, but Biggles silenced him.

‘Monsieur le Commissaire, this is urgent. My friend, Captain Lacey, is in danger with that woman. As you must know by now, she is a criminal, at the head of a network of other criminals. I intend to find him before it is too late.'

The Commissaire sucked at his moustache before replying.

‘That will be difficult, monsieur.'

‘Not at all,' said Biggles. ‘If that woman could hire an aircraft, so can I.'

‘Ah, so you are an
aviateur
as well? That is very good, Monsieur Bigglesworth, but how will you know where to search for him? The Mediterranean is a large pond to search for such a tiny fish.'

‘If I know my friend,' said Biggles, ‘he would not have gone without leaving me some clue to his destination. I wish to talk to the mechanic who saw them off last night.'

‘I already have. He could tell us nothing.'

‘Just the same, monsieur, with your permission I would like to talk to him myself.'

The mechanic was a typical Frenchman from the
Midi
— small, wiry, with a slightly puzzled smile. Biggles knew the type, and got on with him at once, particularly when they started talking about aircraft. Yes, he had seen the couple off. The aeroplane? A small,
two-seater Darravaux. Its range? Five hundred kilometres normally.

‘Normally?' said Biggles. ‘Why do you say normally?'

‘Well, it was strange, particularly as they said that they were only going to Toulon, but the woman would insist on taking extra petrol. Several cans of it.'

‘How much exactly?' Biggles asked.

The mechanic scratched his head.

‘About 100 litres. Quite a lot. She was particularly anxious about it.'

‘And how far could they fly with all that extra petrol?' Biggles asked.

‘Oh quite a way. Eight hundred kilometres at least.'

‘That's interesting,' said Biggles. ‘Now cast your mind back. Did you hear anything they said?'

The mechanic smiled at this and raised his hands apologetically.

‘Mais non monsieur!
They spoke in English and I have no English.'

‘But you don't remember a single word? A name? Anything? Think hard.'

The little man sucked his teeth with concentration. Finally he spoke.

‘The Englishman, he did say something I remember. He said it several times, a woman's name.'

‘What name was that?' asked Biggles quickly.

‘Lily, monsieur. I think he was trying to tell me that he was going to see Lily.'

Biggles racked his brains to think of any woman he and Algy knew called Lily. There had been one in Maranique but she had been married to the local chemist and, well, that was another story. Lily? Lily? There was Lily Pons the opera singer — hardly Algy's cup of tea — and there was the Lily of Laguna. No, nothing there. His mind went blank, and yet he was positive that if only he could think straight that simple female name must hold the clue he needed. He discussed the problem with the Commissaire, but he had nothing to suggest except for a notorious nightclub called Chez Lily in Antibes.

‘Sounds just the sort of place he would enjoy, but he'd hardly need to fly there with a double load of fuel aboard.' As Biggles spoke these words they gave him an idea.

‘Monsieur le Commissaire,' he said, ‘have you a large-scale map of this whole area of the Mediterranean?'

‘Of course,' replied the Commissaire. ‘There is a very good one in the office. Come and see for yourself.'

‘Now,' said Biggles, as he looked down upon the map, ‘the mechanic tells me that with the extra fuel abroad, the aircraft can fly 800 kilometres.'

The Commissaire nodded, and Biggles continued thoughtfully, picking up a pair of compasses from the navigation desk.

‘Suppose I set these compasses to exactly 800 kilometres against the scale of the map, then draw a circle with its centre here in Nice — its perimeter will mark the furthest distance that the plane can reach.'

‘D'accord,'
said the Commissaire nodding sagely, as Biggles began to draw.

‘We can obviously ignore the French mainland as she wishes to escape from France, so where does that leave us?' He traced his finger along the lower part of the circle he had drawn. ‘They could just about reach the Spanish border here south of Perpignan, or anywhere here in southern Corsica. That's possible, but somehow I feel Italy's more likely. She has an Italian title and must know the country. The only question is whereabouts along this line in Italy?'

The Commissaire shook his head as if all this was far too much for him, and Biggles spent several minutes studying the map in silence. The names of the main Italian cities were familiar to him — from Venice in the east, down through Gubbio and Perugia to the coast below Grosseto — but none of them suggested anything to him, and it would obviously take days to search so large an area. Then suddenly the Commissaire thought Biggles had gone mad, for he gave an enormous whoop of joy, seized him by the arm, and yelled excitedly in English.

‘I've got it! Algy dear old boy, I've got it! Here monsieur, for Pete's sake, have a look at that!'

He jabbed a finger on the map, but the Commissaire shook his head in mute incomprehension.

‘What does it say?' shouted Biggles.

‘Isola del Giglio,' said the Commissaire wearily. ‘An island off the coast of Italy. What's so special about it, monsieur?'

‘The name,' said Biggles. ‘What does it mean,
Giglio?'

The Commissaire shrugged his shoulders.

‘How should I know, monsieur? I'm a policeman, not a linguist.'

‘It means Lily!' shouted Biggles. ‘The Island of the Lily. I'll bet a brand-new Bentley to a pair of braces that that's where dear old Algy is.'

Twenty minutes later, Biggles was in the air, at the controls of a long-range Breguet biplane, heading south-east towards the coast of Italy.

Only one thought obsessed him now — would he still be in time? Before leaving, he had taken the precaution of putting through a quick call to Colonel Raymond, who had promised to do everything he could from London, including calling his old friend, General Maltesa, head of the Italian
Carabinieri
in Rome.

‘He's a good egg, Maltesa, but you know that the Italians aren't renowned for speed. If you value Lacey's life, I would suggest you get to Giglio in double-quick time yourself. I've been talking to Nisberg about this Countess friend of yours. A very dangerous lady. Several murders to her credit under an early alias, and cunning as a snake. The network that she ran in France is broken, but she has other interests and accomplices and will already be planning some fresh devilment or other. Once Lacey has served his purpose to fly her out of France, I'd not give much for his chances of survival with a woman like the Countess.'