Biggles (26 page)

‘Well, what d'you think of her?' asked Ginger.

Biggles shrugged his shoulders.

‘Well,' he said, ‘I could be happier, but she'll have to do. At least she flies and Smyth will be working flat out on her all tonight. We can't do any more.'

‘But what about you and Algy?' Ginger asked, solicitously. ‘You're both done in before you start.'

‘Oh, we're all right,' said Biggles gamely. ‘We were brought up on lack of sleep.'

‘That's nonsense, and you know it,' replied Ginger. ‘The pair of you will crack up long before you get to Singapore if you go on like this. Why don't you and Algy drive across to Croydon straight away in the Bentley, have a good dinner there, and spend the night in the hotel. I'll fly the Swallow over first thing tomorrow morning. That way at least you'll both have had a good night's sleep before the race begins.'

Biggles bit his lip, then said, ‘Good notion, Ginger. Thanks. We'll do exactly as you say. But just one thing — go easy with the Swallow when you fly her over. If you prang the old crate now, I'll not forgive you.'

It was a fine September morning, and it could have been a gala Saturday at Croydon Airport as the entries for the biggest race in history started to assemble on the tarmac under the shadow of the squat tower of the airport hotel. Most of the planes had flown in the day before, and when Algy and Biggles strolled down from the hotel breakfast room, they started sizing up the opposition. The mechanics were already scurrying like ants around the aircraft, making last-minute checks and adjustments. Take-off was billed for ten o'clock, and already there was a touch of frenzy in the air. Lamartine, the famous Frenchman, seemed to be having hysterics as his mechanic changed his sparking plugs. Charlie Bray's big white Cessna monoplane was being wheeled out from its hangar, and Watanabe, the bespectacled Japanese air-ace, was grinning like a cheerful frog as he posed for
photographs beside his biplane with the rising sun painted on the tail.

‘What news of the Huns?' muttered Algy to Biggles as they passed among the crowd of journalists and fans. ‘Doesn't appear to be a sign of them.'

‘Probably suffering from a guilty conscience — or simply scared of a touch of their own medicine,' replied Biggles grimly. ‘From what I hear they're keeping their aircraft under wraps until the last minute, just to make sure nothing can go wrong. It's in that hangar over there, with a gang of specially imported German thugs to keep the nosey parkers off the premises. Pity we didn't do the same, old thing.'

Algy nodded. ‘Any news of the crew?'

‘Under wraps as well. Old Elberton has done his best to get their names, but even he has failed. There's something very fishy going on, old trout. Not that I'm particularly concerned. All that worries me now is the Swallow. She should be here by now. What d'you think old Ginger's playing at?'

‘He'll be all right,' said Algy, glancing at the big clock on the hotel tower. ‘We've still got fifty minutes. I've arranged for lastminute refuelling. Hallo, what's this?'

The doors of the German hangar were opening, and a hush fell on the crowd as they caught their first glimpse of the gleaming aeroplane within.

‘Ho-ho!' said Algy, ‘so that's what all the fuss has been about. Looks pretty powerful. Twin-engined, swept-back wings. Must be a special version of the Heinkel bomber we've been hearing so much about. Dirty dealings apart, it looks as if we'll have our work cut out.'

As he spoke, the German aeroplane was towed across the tarmac and swung into position for the start.

‘Very pretty piece of hardware,' murmured Biggles. ‘Where the heck is Ginger? P'raps we'd better get ourselves togged up and ready while we're waiting.'

When they had changed into their flying suits (with just a touch of superstition, Biggles had brought along his ancient Sidcot suit) the stewards were already announcing the departure draw. To avoid the danger of the aircraft taking off together, it was decided they would leave at five-minute intervals, and Lord Carbury's curvaceous daughter had the honour of drawing the
pilots' numbers from one of her father's old top hats. It was a chance for the press photographers to take their final pictures, and the competitors were soon lining up along the tarmac for the draw.

‘Hi-yah, Biggs, you ole palookah,' shouted the fresh-faced Charlie Bray. ‘Where's your aeroplane? Wanna borrow mine?'

‘I wouldn't risk it, Charlie. Not if you had anything to do with it. No, our old crate is on its way. She'll soon be here. Incidentally, Charlie, any sign of our friends from Deutschland?'

The American shook his rumpled head. ‘Perhaps that plane of theirs doesn't need a pilot.'

‘I'm not so sure if this isn't the answer to the mystery now,' said Algy.

A large Mercedes from the German Embassy had driven out from the front of the hotel, and as it sped towards them they could see two men in flying gear sitting behind the chauffeur. Suddenly Algy shouted with amazement.

‘Biggles! By the Kaiser's cami-knickers, do you see who it is?'

The car drew up near the table where Lord Carbury's daughter stood smiling, with her father's topper in her hands, and a leather-clad figure descended and saluted. There was an unmistakeable scar that ran from his hair-line to the angle of his jaw.

‘I should have known,' hissed Biggles. ‘Von Stalhein!'

There was no time however now for useless speculation. The draw had started and one of the earliest to have his name chosen from the hat was Charlie Bray.

‘Yippee!' he shouted, giving Lord Carbury's startled daughter a resounding kiss.

Lamartine, the Frenchman, was another of the lucky early leavers. Several unknowns followed, and then Biggles heard the name he hated more than any other in the world.

‘Number sixteen, Hauptmann Erich von Stalhein of Germany, with his co-pilot, Herr Ludwig Ingelbacher.'

‘Wonder who Ingelbacher is when he's at home?' whispered Algy.

‘Shh!' said Biggles as the draw continued.

‘Followed by Major James Bigglesworth of Great Britain and his co-pilot, Captain the Honourable Algernon Lacey.'

‘He'll have us flying right behind him,' muttered Algy.

‘Not for long, old boy,' said Biggles. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it. Some people think the war stopped with the Armistice Where the flaming heck is Ginger?'

‘Don't worry, Biggles. He'll get here on time if I know Ginger. Now, this looks interesting. Count Frankenstein is about to pay us his respects!'

With the completion of the draw, the pilots were dispersing to their aircraft to await the beginning of the race, but von Stalhein and Herr Ingelbacher were advancing towards them. The Hauptmann clicked his heels and bowed with elaborate Teutonic courtesy.

‘Ach, Major Bigglesworth! We meet again.'

Biggles gave the Prussian the iciest of nods.

‘A pleasure to be up against a real enemy,' replied Biggles. ‘But von Stalhein, I never realised that you could fly. I thought sabotage was more your speciality.'

A flash of hatred blazed for a moment in the Junker's eyes, but he replied with studied self-control. ‘That was wartime and the war is over, Major Bigglesworth. Now with the peace this old dog has, as you British say, learned new tricks. But where is your aircraft, Major? Fifteen minutes now to starting time. You're running things a little close.'

‘Precision timing, von Stalhein,' replied Biggles airily. ‘We had a spot of trouble with some friends of yours who should have known better, but that's been dealt with now. Unless I'm much mistaken this is our aircraft now, warmed up and ready for the race.'

Even as he spoke the graceful silhouette of the Swallow skimmed across the boundary of the airfield, flashed past the hangars and with perfect airmanship landed and came taxiing towards them.

‘I expect that we'll be seeing more of one another, von Stalhein,' said Biggles. ‘Now if you'll excuse me, there is work to do.'

Beneath his apparent calm, Biggles was furious with Ginger for the delay, but as the hapless Yorkshireman explained, there had been trouble with the starboard engine and he and the mechanics had been up all night replacing it.

‘Get her refuelled fast,' said Biggles. ‘Everything else O.K.?'

Ginger nodded. ‘We've done our best with her, and Smyth deserves a medal if anybody does.'

‘Good man,' said Biggles. ‘I'll remember to bring one back for him from Singapore. Ready, Algy? Looks as if the show is just about to start.'

But there was one final interruption. As the stewards checked the line-up for the start, a big Rolls-Royce came screeching up and a tiny figure with a large bald head got out.

‘Holy mackerel!' Algy groaned. ‘Old Elberton himself. What does the old trouble-maker want? He could have waited till we're in the air.'

‘Ah, Major Bigglesworth, Captain Lacey! Glad that I'm in time,' piped the ancient millionaire. ‘Just thought I'd come to wish you both good luck. Trumper and I have been to Fortnums and we've a little something just to keep your spirits up en route.' As he spoke, his bull-like chauffeur brought a massive hamper from the boot of the car and humped it over to the Swallow.

‘Think you'll have room for it?' he queried.

‘I should just say so, sir,' answered Biggles. ‘Even if it means dumping Algy. Terribly decent of you, sir, and much appreciated.'

His Lordship raised his hand.

‘Please, Bigglesworth, don't thank me. Makes me feel uncomfortable. And don't forget, that bet of ours still stands.'

‘We won't forget,' said Biggles, with a grin.

‘Well, how's she going, Biggles?' Algy inquired as the coast of England disappeared behind them in the morning haze.

‘Like a dream, old boy. I never thought we'd make it, but by gosh, it's all been worth it.'

The plane was flying like the thoroughbred she was and Biggles was in his element at last. The double cockpit was cramped — particularly with Lord Elberton's hamper between the seats — but the two friends could take turns at the controls, and they had already overhauled several of the slower entrants in the race. Algy was navigating and according to their plans the first stop would be Athens, in eight hours' time.

‘Any sign of von Stalhein?' Algy asked.

Biggles shook his head. ‘That Heinkel is the only plane that really worries me. She could be a bit faster than we are, Algy. Still, for that matter, so is Charlie's Cessna. But I can't believe they've got the range that we have.'

‘Nor the experience, old bean. Von Stalhein's not a real flier and the true test will come once we get over Asia Minor on the next leg to Karachi. That's what will really sort out the men from the boys.'

A slow smile spread over Biggles' still boyish countenance. ‘Revenge will be very sweet,' he said.

The Swallow was flying on a straight line to Athens, and in perfect autumn weather they saw northern France and the Black Forest float beneath their wings. By mid-afternoon Biggles was already gaining height to approach the Dolomites, and it would soon be time for Algy to take over.

‘How's about some grub, old bean?' he inquired.

‘Algy, my dear chap, gluttony will be your downfall,' he replied. ‘Still, if you must, you must. There are some raisins and potato crisps underneath your seat, but go easy with them, there's a good fellow.'

‘Potato crisps be blowed,' said Algy mutinously. ‘What about his Lordship's hamper?'

‘Algy, you know your self-indulgence never ceases to amaze me. This is supposed to be a record-breaking flight, not a gourmet tour. Still if you must, you must...'

The first shadows of the Mediterranean dusk were shrouding Athens in a purple haze as they came in to land. The Parthenon was on its little hill, the street lights twinkling far below and a crowd had gathered at the airport.

‘Quite a reception committee by the look of it, old scout,' said Biggles cheerfully, but then a note of horrified amazement crept into his voice.

‘Good grief!' he said. ‘The blighter's already here before us.'

As he pointed to the tarmac, Algy could see the object of his consternation — von Stalhein's Heinkel was at the far end of the runway like a huge grey shark.

Algy whistled softly through his teeth.

‘Just how the heck d'you think he managed it?' he asked. ‘I never thought he had the range to beat us.'

‘Must have done, old fruit,' said Biggles philosophically. ‘But
never say die, Algy lad. It's quite a stretch from here to Singapore and a lot can happen on the way.'

Under the rules of the competition, and to avoid the danger of fatigue and night flying, the competitors were to spend the night at Athens, before flying on at daybreak to Karachi. But before going off to their hotel, Biggles and Algy spent some time watching the mechanics working on their aircraft and picking up the news of their competitors. Several, it seemed, had scratched already, and all the others, lacking the Swallow's range, had been forced to stop en route to refuel. But Charlie Bray's Cessna was not far behind them, and while they talked to the mechanics his powerful single-engined aircraft roared in to land, closely followed by Solario, the Italian ace.

‘Hi folks! How's tricks?' bawled the shambling American as he swung down from the cockpit. ‘Boy, could I use a drink! You joining me?'

‘You bet,' said Algy. ‘How did you get on?'

‘Not bad, not bad. That poor damned Frenchman Lamar-something copped it in the Alps. Tried drilling Mont Blanc with his propellor. Mont Blanc won.'

‘Good Heavens! Is he dead?'

‘Probably. There was a dreadful mess on the mountainside. But say, how did that Kraut get here before you?'

‘That's what we'd like to know,' said Biggles.

Later that evening over dinner in the Hotel Grande Bretagne the mystery of von Stalhein's record speed to Athens cropped up again. Von Stalhein and his bullet-headed co-pilot were already celebrating with a number of their countrymen at a far table when Algy, Biggles, Charlie Bray and the British Consul entered. The Consul, an egg-like man called Owen, had once been in the Marines and had already responded to a request from Biggles for an all-night guard on the Swallow.