Biggles (25 page)

‘A risk we have to take,' said Algy cheerfully. ‘I'm quite easy about it all, and I must say I agree with Ginger. We really haven't any choice. Besides, in a ghastly way, old Elberton's quite right, It is a challenge — and it will stop you getting bored.'

Two days later, all the personnel of Biggles and Co. were gathered on the tarmac of an aerodrome near Winchester, gazing excitedly at the sleek green monster which a group of Lord Elberton's mechanics had just wheeled out of his aircraft company's secret hangar.

‘So that's the Swallow,' exclaimed Algy. ‘Not so dusty. You must certainly hand it to old Elberton, he knows how to build aeroplanes, and no mistake, What's her speed, Biggles?'

‘They're claiming something like 280 m.p.h. for her,' said Biggles cautiously. ‘I'd like to test her for myself.'

‘And range?'

‘Two thousand miles between each refuelling stop. Again, that's what they claim.'

‘Jehosaphat!' said Algy. ‘You realise what that means, Biggles,
if the claims are right? There's not an aircraft in the world to equal her. As long as we get to Singapore and back we'll keep the Bentley yet. When do we get a chance to fly her?'

‘Any minute now. His Lordship wanted to be here in person when we tried her out. And unless I'm much mistaken, this is the unpleasant old gentleman now.'

As Biggles spoke an enormous black Rolls-Royce purred along the tarmac. It stopped, and Lord Elberton got out.

‘Ah Bigglesworth! Lacey! Well, what d'you think of my latest toy?'

‘Looks jolly good, sir,' Algy replied enthusiastically.

‘Can we try her out?' asked Biggles briskly. ‘We'd love a chance to see how she performs.'

‘Of course, of course. But I've got news for you. The entries to the race are hotting up. I was lunching in the House of Lords with Lord Carbury, whose paper's running it, and he tells me more than twenty entries have now arrived. Some of them look like giving you a good run for your money — or rather, for mine.'

‘Any news of who they are?' asked Biggles.

‘Several from America, and half a dozen or so from France, including Lamartine who flies for Breguet. Doesn't he hold the record to Brazil and back?'

Biggles nodded. ‘Splendid flier. Knew him in the war. We've got real opposition with him around. Any news from Germany?'

‘Interesting that you ask. Carbury seemed a little vague about the Huns, but thinks the German government was backing someone flying a revolutionary aircraft built by the Heinkel Company. There are a lot of rumours about it, and the government is making it a matter of national prestige to win. Sure you don't want to back out while you've got the chance?'

‘D'you think we're likely to, sir?' replied Biggles.

‘Frankly, Major Bigglesworth, I don't'

‘Not bad, eh?' shouted Biggles over the roar of the slipstream as he pulled the Swallow out of a power-dive and sent the machine hurtling across the aerodrome at fifty feet.

Algy's freckled face grinned back in boyish enthusiasm as he gave the thumbs up from the seat beside him. This was excitement such as neither had experienced since combat flying
in the war. The controls were perfect, and after the faithful Cormorant, Biggles felt like a driver who had just exchanged an old Ford for a racing car. He took the aircraft up to 14,000 feet then opened up the throttle to the maximum. The dial on the dashboard was quivering around 300 m.p.h. as the English coastline disappeared behind them and the wave-flecked waters of the'English Channel beckoned them to France. The Swallow seemed to fly herself, and Biggles would have cheerfully flown on to Istanbul, but he knew that Elberton was waiting, and reluctantly turned the Swallow's elegant nose for home and brought her in to land with the sort of three-point landing he had made his trademark.

‘Well?' said Lord Elberton, grinning like a very old malicious dwarf. ‘And what's your verdict on my aeroplane now, Major Biggles worth?'

‘Words fail me, sir, and that's a fact!' said Biggles, whose nerves were still tingling with excitement.

‘Come now, Major. Reticence is all very well, but I do expect a clear report from my associates. Is the Swallow up to scratch?'

‘I'd like to fly her round the world,' said Biggles.

‘Just get her out to Singapore ahead of everybody else. That's all I ask,' replied Lord Elberton.

The beginning of the race was still a week away, and Biggles and Algy had last-minute preparations to complete, when disturbing rumours reached them. The first was from America — a report in the New York
Herald Tribune
that Charlie Bray, the stunt-man from Milwaukee, had signed up with the Cessna Corporation to fly their latest long-range aircraft in the race.

‘Not
the
Charlie Bray?' exclaimed Algy with alarm. ‘The man's a flaming lunatic, and a frightful bounder. He's generally drunk. When he gets in the cockpit, anything can happen.'

‘Admittedly he's not a gent — but then, who is these days?' said Biggles in reply. ‘But Charlie's not a loser. When he flies he flies to win, and with him at the controls of the latest Cessna we'll have our work cut out, Algernon my boy.'

‘Oh, we can cope with Charlie,' said the ever-optimistic Ginger Hebblethwaite. ‘It's the Huns who worry me. Do we
know yet who is piloting the Heinkel that Lord Elberton was so concerned about?'

Biggles shook his head.

‘The old boy's been trying everything he knows to get the details of their team, but Berlin's suddenly clammed up. Not a dicky-bird,' Algy explained.

‘Somehow I don't like that,' said Biggles. ‘I never trust our sauerkraut-loving friends when they start getting secretive. I wonder just what they're concealing up their grimy sleeves?'

‘We'll find out soon enough,' said Algy with a grin. ‘We've licked them before and I'm quite confident that we can lick ‘em now. Let'sjust concentrate on the Swallow. That's all that should concern us now.'

As it soon transpired, Algy spoke more accurately than he realised, for barely half an hour later, as the friends were relishing Mrs Symes's bacon, sausages and chips, the telephone pealed through the tiny flat.

‘One day I'll throw that confounded instrument straight through the window!' grumbled Biggles. ‘For Pete's sake answer it, Ginger, there's a good fellow. Oh, and Algy, easy with the tomato ketchup! That's all there is.'

Algy pulled a face, and Ginger dutifully went off to deal with the telephone. He was gone a long time and when he returned his face was grave.

‘Ginger, my dear old chap, what is it?' ejaculated Biggles. ‘You look as if you've seen the ghost of Christmas.'

‘I only wish I had,' said Ginger. ‘That was the Duty Officer from the airfield. Someone has sabotaged the Swallow.'

Less than five minutes later, the Bentley was thundering along the road to Winchester, with Algy at the wheel.

‘You never know,' bawled Algy in his usual optimistic vein, ‘it could easily be nothing very much. Once Smyth gets going on the damage, I'm sure he'll have the old bus shipshape in no time at all.'

‘I wouldn't count on it,' shouted Biggles in reply. ‘It sounded pretty bad to me. With only six days left before the race begins, it's really serious.'

‘Let's wait and see,' said Ginger reasonably.

But as it turned out, Biggles was, as usual, right. As they reached the barbed-wire fence of the small airport, a fire-engine
was just leaving, and a hideous stench of burning greeted them. By the Swallow's hangar, Smithson, the Duty Officer, greeted them, grim-faced with misery.

‘How bad is it?' asked Biggles quickly.

Smithson shook his head.

‘Go and see for yourselves. It couldn't be much worse.'

Biggles was the first inside the hangar.

‘Well, Algy, dear old chap,' he muttered, ‘It doesn't look as if we'll get to Southend — let alone to Singapore.'

‘You're sure you know who it was?' inquired Lord Elberton.

Colonel Raymond nodded bitterly. ‘No doubt at all. The chaps in Special Branch have traced him to the German Embassy — a secretary attached to their trade delegation. Blighter by the name of Krueger. Been on our files for years. Several people have identified him as being near the airport on the night the fire occurred.'

‘So why don't you arrest him, man!' exclaimed his Lordship with a vehemence that Biggles recognised at once.

‘Lord Elberton,' replied the Colonel wearily, ‘you know as well as I do why I can't. There's not a scrap of proof that would stand up in court, and anyhow, the wretched fellow's covered by diplomatic privilege. If we tried to arrest him we'd have the Foreign Office on us like a ton of bricks. No, I'm sorry gentlemen — there's nothing we can do.'

‘But this is preposterous! Preposterous!' shouted Lord Elberton. ‘What do you blighters at New Scotland Yard imagine that we pay you for?'

The Colonel shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply, and it was Biggles now who butted in.

‘One question, sir. Have you discovered why the Huns wanted to destroy the Swallow? I mean, it is a little strange to take so big a risk over a single aeroplane.'

Colonel Raymond looked up sharply. ‘Good question, Bigglesworth. Something I've been asking myself ever since I heard the news. I sent out a query to our fellow in Berlin about it. His reply might interest you. He thinks that someone rather high up in the German government is determined that their entry in the Singapore air race will win at any cost.'

‘You mean as a matter of national prestige?' asked Biggles.

‘No, rather more than that. It's almost as if it had become a personal affair.'

‘And did your man find out who was behind all this?'

‘No. No, he didn't.'

‘Then he should have done,' barked Elberton.

‘Not a great deal we could do about it if he had,' replied the Colonel logically.

‘Well, I'm not satisfied,' said Elberton. ‘Not satisfied at all, and I intend to raise the question in the House of Lords. Good God, man, do you realise how much that aeroplane of mine cost? The time and talent that have gone into it? And now to have to scratch it from the race like this! The whole thing is a damned disgrace.'

‘Now, steady on, sir,' interjected Biggles. ‘I don't think you're being fair to Colonel Raymond. And who said anything about scratching from the race?'

‘Well, obviously we've got to, man. There's no alternative. The Swallow's ruined.'

‘Then so are we my Lord. You seem to be forgetting that we have a little bet.'

‘Oh, come now Major. Surely you don't think that I'd insist on that, given the circumstances? I may be a hard man, but I like to think I'm fair.'

‘Lord Elberton,' said Biggles gravely, ‘I was brought up to believe a bargain is a bargain and a bet's a bet. I've never been defeated by a German yet, and I don't intend to be defeated now. As far as I'm concerned, the bet's still on. All I would ask of you is help from all your people down at Winchester to rebuild the Swallow.'

‘You'll never do it, Major Bigglesworth. There are only six days left before the race begins. The thing's impossible.'

Biggles smiled coolly. ‘That's another thing that I was taught when I was a boy in India. When you decide to do a thing there's no such word as “impossible”.'

For Biggles and Co., the race to Singapore began that morning — a desperate race against the clock to get the Swallow rebuilt in time. The flat at Mount Street was vacated, and Biggles, Algy
and Ginger Hebblethwaite moved into the hangar at Winchester. For the next six days it was their home and their headquarters.

At first sight, the damage to the Swallow seemed appalling — the fuselage was gutted by the fire, the tail destroyed and the undercarriage had collapsed.

‘You really think we'll get to Singapore in this, old chap?' said Algy with a hollow laugh. ‘You must be joking!'

But Nobby Smyth was not so pessimistic.

‘Well, sir,' he said to Biggles, ‘there were times in France when we had to deal with worse than this. Remember when von Richthofen brewed up the hangars and the workshops at Maranique with incendiary bombs? We still got the Squadron in the air. At least the Swallow's engines are all right, and the cockpit and forward section are more or less untouched. I can't promise miracles, but at least we'll have a go.'

And have a go they did. For the next four days the labour went on round the clock, with shifts of workers from the factory slaving through the night. Biggles and Algy joined them, whilst Ginger served as Smyth's assistant. The noise at times was deafening, and no one had much sleep. But gradually, like a phoenix rising from the ashes, the Swallow was reborn. The race was due to start on Saturday. By Wednesday night the tail and fuselage had been rebuilt and the hangar reeked with the fumes of dope and varnish. By Thursday morning, the entire body of the aircraft was raised from its trestles and the rebuilt undercarriage put in place. On Thursday night no one slept as the final checks were made and the wiring and controls meticulously installed. And then on Friday morning, just as dawn was breaking, the doors of the great hangar were drawn back, and a cheer rose from the weary men inside as the Swallow cautiously emerged to face the world outside.

‘This calls for a little celebration,' exclaimed Algy.

But Biggles, hollow-eyed with tiredness, said, ‘No, old lad. We've just been making up lost time. We've still a lot to do before we celebrate.'

Normally the testing of a brand-new aeroplane takes weeks. Algy and Biggles did the whole thing in a day. Just after breakfast-time the Swallow's twin Rolls-Royce engines started up, the chocks were pulled away, and taxiing trials began. By
lunchtime she was in the air. Whilst Biggles and Algy grabbed a hurried snack, adjustments were completed, and they were soon back in the cockpit for yet further trials, which went on till dusk made further flying dangerous.