Biggles (24 page)

It suited Colonel Raymond to employ a freelance operator he could trust implicitly, yet disown if anything went wrong. And, thanks to no fault of Biggles', go wrong they had. Karminsky had changed his mind at the last minute and refused to come, the
Italian seaplane sank on its trials on Lake Garda, and the great Duval had blown up his factory and himself. As a perfectionist, Biggles found it difficult to cope with failure and these three setbacks in a row had depressed him terribly. Algy had done his best to cheer him up — as Algy always did — but Biggles remained firmly in the dumps, and it was the faithful Algy who had finally rung Colonel Raymond to suggest he have a word with him — hence the invitation out to dinner in the hallowed precincts of the Blazers' Club.

The dinner had been excellent as ever — the best smoked salmon this side of the Firth of Forth, a partridge slaughtered at Balmoral, claret from the cellars of a former President of France — and as the meal progressed, Biggles' spirits had undoubtedly improved.

‘The trouble is, sir,' he confessed to Colonel Raymond, ‘I really feel I'm getting soft.'

‘Never heard such nonsense in my life,' replied the Colonel, jabbing at the Stilton with an eighteenth-century silver scoop, ‘you and Lacey are the toughest pair of fliers it has been my privilege to meet.'

‘That's very kind of you, sir. But the fact is that it's been years since the ending of the war. We've flown a lot, we've been around the world, and been delighted to perform the occasional odd job for you, but I feel that we require a challenge.'

Colonel Raymond gave an icy laugh.

‘I'd have thought you'd had enough of them to last a lifetime, Bigglesworth my boy. But, if that's what you really want, I'll have to see what I can do.'

This was the point at which the small man sitting opposite them butted in. He was a gnome-like creature with a large head, hooded eyes, and a fringe of thin white hair around a naked cranium.

‘That's what all the bored young idiots these days are saying. Challenges my foot! Why don't they get off their backsides and do a job of work for once?'

Biggles was just about to drink his port and, rather than embarrass Colonel Raymond, took no notice. But the small man opposite was clearly in no mood for giving up.

‘It makes me sick, you know, to hear the way they talk. Mollycoddled lot. Never do anything for themselves. It's always other
people who must look after them and pay for their mistakes. That's why the country's in the mess it's in.'

‘At least they won the war for you,' said Biggles, doing his best to hide his mounting anger.

‘That's what they always say. Pure self-pity, nothing else. This present generation loves feeling sorry for itself. They think the world owes them a living.'

‘And what about your generation, if we're being personal, sir?' asked Biggles quietly. ‘Weren't you the ones who landed us in the war, and then left us to do the fighting for you?'

‘That's quite enough, Bigglesworth!' said Colonel Raymond quickly, and turning to the small man opposite, added, ‘I suggest we change the subject, sir!'

‘Blowed if I will,' the man retorted. ‘I believe in saying what I think, and since your friend has chosen to insult me, I can only say that were I a younger man myself, I'd give him the answer he deserves.

‘And if you were a younger man,' said Biggles evenly, ‘I'd punch you on the nose.'

Colonel Raymond rose abruptly.

‘Bigglesworth,' he said. ‘I think it's time we left.'

‘Phew!' said Biggles when they were safely in the ante-room. ‘I'm sorry about that, sir, but there are some things a man can't take from anyone.'

‘Quite so. All the same, it was a pity that they had to come from him. You know who he was, of course?'

Biggles shook his head.

‘Elberton. Lord Elberton. They say he's the richest man in England.'

Algy had just returned from an evening with a Venezuelan divorcee at the 400 Club, and was in predictably high spirits when Biggles arrived back at the flat in Mount Street. The irrepressible Ginger Hebblethwaite was there as well, preparing a night-cap of his patent hot rum punch.

‘Gorgeous little creature,' Algy was remarking. ‘Says that she'd like a spin in the old kite. Any objections, Biggles, if we flip across to Paris for the weekend?'

‘Do as you please,' said Biggles glumly.

‘Steady on now,' Algy said, swinging his long legs off the battered sofa. ‘What's up, old scout?'

‘Oh nothing!' Biggles replied irritably, but Algy wasn't having that.

‘Can't have this sort of thing. Trouble with that blasted bank manager of yours again? I'll skin his hide and use it to repair the Cormorant's fuselage.'

‘Not such a bad idea,' replied Biggles, grinning now despite himself. ‘No, it's not old money-bags this time. There was an oaf who picked on me tonight at the Blazers' Club with Colonel Raymond, and I rather lost my rag with him. Dashed embarrassing. I wish it hadn't happened.'

Algy smiled at this. ‘Is that all? For a moment you really had me worried. Thought that we were just about to lose our precious overdraft. Who was this frightful bounder?'

‘Somebody called Lord Elberton. Quite the most offensive man I've ever met.'

Algy's habitually placid countenance was suddenly aghast.

‘Biggles, old man, you must be joking!'

‘Not at all. A frightful hound.'

‘But didn't you know about Elberton before?'

Biggles shook his head. ‘What was there to know, except that I can't stand him?'

‘Lord Elberton, dear boy, is a great pal of the Pater's, and we are relying on him to back us for our entry into the race to Singapore and back. Or rather, we were.'

‘Great screaming seacows!' Biggles said limply. ‘Somebody should have told me.'

The aerial race from London to Singapore and back was being billed as the most exciting race in history. It had been sponsored by a London paper, with a prize of £50,000, and already several entries had been made from Europe and America.

Biggles and Co. had been amdng the earliest to enter – partly for the fun of it, and partly too from sheer necessity. The rich days of the twenties were behind them. The Slump had come. Their life of high adventure had been marvellous, but for several years now it had failed to pay the bills. The occasional commissions Biggles got from Colonel Raymond were done from a sense of
duty, not for cash, and but for Algy's now distinctly shrunken legacy, it is hard to see how Biggles and Co. could possibly have survived.

It was small wonder therefore that the prospect of the race had appeared as something of a chance of real salvation to them all. However, there were certain problems if they were to have any hope of winning. Most of them, as usual, involved money, or the lack of it. Apart from the inevitable expenses of entering the race — food, fuel, landing fees, and a hundred-and-one incidentals which the layman never thinks of — there was also the question of an aircraft. The Cormorant was ancient — and looked it. She had seen service now in every quarter of the globe, and was undoubtedly what Biggles called her when he was feeling pleased with life — ‘a very fine old bus indeed'. But fine old buses don't win races, and the fact was that the Cormorant was obsolete and past her prime — hence Algy's efforts in the last few days to find a wealthy backer who would help finance a new machine.

Easier said than done. Backers that autumn were as rare as four-leafed clovers, and nothing but the direst desperation could have impelled Algy to discuss the matter with his father. For Lord Lacey had been growing more eccentric and more difficult with every year that passed. The failure of the critics to appreciate his life-work on the wild flowers of Sussex had embittered him, and he and Lady Lacey were both anxious now to get Algy to adopt a settled calling, find himself a suitable young bride, and act as was expected of the heir to a distinguished title. (Biggles' mother was still trying to persuade her son in the same direction, but with even less success.)

To Algy's considerable surprise, Lord Lacey had been more than helpful, and had actually introduced him to Lord Elberton during a family weekend at Lewes. For some reason the cantankerous old man had taken quite a shine to Algy, who had used all his charm and talked enthusiastically about the vital role of flying for the British Empire. Elberton, who owned the second largest aircraft factory in the land, had all but promised to entrust the company's hush-hush, long-range, twin-engined monoplane to Biggles and Co. for the race.

‘All we can hope,' said Algy, ‘is that the old boy fails to realise that Biggles and Co. has anything to do with the man who threatened to punch him on the nose at Blazers'.'

‘He might,' said Biggles.

But he didn't. Next morning, scarcely was breakfast over, than the telephone was ringing in the hall.

‘Someone wants you Biggles,' shouted Ginger. ‘Sounds pretty urgent.'

‘Can't a fellow finish
The Times
crossword puzzle in peace without being pestered by the blasted telephone?' Biggles grumbled, leaving an unfinished slice of toast and Coopers on his plate. ‘Yes? Who is it?'

‘Lord Elberton's secretary here. His Lordship asked me to convey his compliments to Major Bigglesworth and to say he'd like a word with him about the air race as soon as possible. Could you manage this afternoon?'

‘Yes,' said Biggles. ‘Yes, I can.'

Elberton House was just behind the Ritz, and Biggles had a final pink gin in the Rivoli Bar with Algy to keep his spirits up.

‘Remember how you used to feel when faced with a pack of Halberstadts?' said Biggles as he drained his glass. ‘Well, that's how I feel now — only rather worse.'

‘Good luck, old scout!' said Algy. ‘Do your best. You can't do more.'

‘I'll try, old bean, but don't expect too much. I did threaten to punch the blighter on the nose.'

But when he was finally led in to meet the millionaire, no reference was made at first to their argument the night before. The little man looked more than ever like a gnome as he perched behind a vast desk with a view across the park.

‘So, Major Bigglesworth,' he said, ‘you are the friend of young Algy Lacey who wants to enter for the race to Singapore?'

Biggles nodded.

‘And you wish to fly my aeroplane and have my full financial backing?'

Biggles felt tongue-tied and could only bring himself to nod again.

‘I see.' The old man smiled to himself and peered at Biggles with extraordinarily sharp eyes. ‘A bit unfortunate in the circumstances that you spoke to me the way you did last night.
No, don't apologise, it'll do no good. But tell me Bigglesworth — what would you do if you were sitting here in my position?'

‘Rather a tough question, sir,' answered Biggles turning very red.

‘It's meant to be.' He tapped reflectively against the desk, then lit a large cigar.

‘If I remember rightly, Major Bigglesworth, you started our, er, conversation at the Club last night by saying that you'd like a challenge. Well, Major, I feel inclined to give you one.'

‘That's very decent of you, sir,' said Biggles hurriedly.

‘Now not so fast. Hear me out, young man. I said a challenge, and I mean exactly what I say. I'm quite prepared to stick to my part of the bargain, and back you both, on one condition.'

‘Which is?' asked Biggles.

‘That we have a little bet, just you and me. If you win, you and Lacey take everything — £50,000 prize money, and to make it more exciting, I'm prepared to double it.'

‘But if we don't?'

‘Ah-ah!' replied Lord Elberton, rubbing his bony hands together. ‘I gather, Major, that you and Lacey are joint owners of a small company which you call Biggles and Co. Am I right?'

Biggles nodded, and Lord Elberton continued.

‘Its assets, correct me if I'm wrong, include two aircraft, somewhat past their best, a Bentley motor-car, a lease on a flat in Mount Street, and a part share in a hangar down at Brooklands aerodrome.'

‘Your Lordship is extremely well informed,' said Biggles, somewhat shaken by the old man's accuracy.

‘A practice to which I owe what small success I've had in life,' replied the old man, smiling like a cheerful toad. ‘Now, what I would suggest is this. Against my offer you would stake your company. Win the race and you get £100,000. Lose it, and I get Biggles and Co. What d'you say now, Major? At least I'm trying to make life just a bit more interesting for you.'

‘Extremely kind of you, I'm sure,' said Biggles tactfully, ‘but you must realise that I can't possibly take a decision like this on my own account. There's Algy Lacey to consider, and our old pal, Ginger Hebblethwaite — not to mention our mechanic, Smyth. They're all involved.'

‘So much the better,' said the millionaire, who was grinning wickedly by now. ‘Very well, then. I'm quite prepared to wait for your decision till tomorrow at noon. If I don't hear from you by then, the whole deal's off. Good day to you, Major Bigglesworth.'

‘If pigs could fly,' mused Algy, ‘I'd send a flock of them right over Elberton House, old chap.'

‘Might improve the place no end,' replied Biggles, ‘but since they don't, what
are
we going to do? I feel dashed bad about it all. It really is my fault.'

‘Fiddlesticks!' exclaimed Algy. ‘I'm beginning to wish you'd punched the old windbag on the nose and had done with it. It might have improved his manners. What's your opinion of his offer, Ginger?'

‘Well,' said the Yorkshireman, frowning with concentration, ‘I don't see what we've got to lose. If things go on as they've been going lately, Biggles and Co. will have ceased to exist a year from now anyway.'

‘But what about this flat?' asked Biggles gloomily. ‘If we don't win we'll be out on our collective ear. We'll lose our home — and poor old Algy's Bentley.'