Biggles (21 page)

Tact had never been Biggles' strongest suit, and whilst he would do anything for Algy when in trouble, he expected absolute devotion in return. Indeed, the truth was that Biggles was an autocrat who couldn't bear the idea of anybody challenging his authority over his little group of friends — and this was where the real trouble lay. But for Ginger's constant efforts to smooth things over, Biggles and Co. would certainly have broken up that spring — and even now the Yorkshireman was having his work cut out ‘just keeping the show on the road', as he referred to it.

Biggles' approaching birthday suddenly appeared a godsend — and Ginger made his mind up to exploit it to the full.

‘Listen, Algy,' Ginger said conspiratorially, ‘it must all come as a great surprise.'

‘If you say so, dear old chap,' replied Algy, stifling a yawn,' but birthdays never have been Biggles' cup of tea. To tell the truth, they always used to bore the old thing stiff.'

‘But this is different! Biggles will be thirty and it's a sort of milestone in a fellow's life. I really think we owe it to him to do something that will soften the shock of growing old.'

‘
Tempus fugit
and all that, Ginger! Yes, I suppose I see your point. I'll ask Deborah to choose him a new tie from Liberty's. She's got simply splendid taste and it's time we had a change from that Old Maltonian one he always wears.'

Ginger shook his head.

‘No, Algy, that just won't do. We must do this properly.'

‘Not a tie, old sport? Perhaps some socks then. The little woman bought me a very dashing pair the other day to go with my plus-fours. They'd be just the job for Biggles.'

Once again Ginger shook his head.

‘Well what the heck then, Ginger? Gentleman's Relish, cocktail biscuits, or how's about a bottle of his favourite Bollinger champagne?'

‘Algy,' said Ginger, looking profoundly serious, ‘you don't seem to realise that this is an occasion we should celebrate in style. A chap's only thirty once in his life, and we really must do something to show Biggles how much we appreciate him.'

‘So what do you suggest?' asked Algy dubiously.

‘I'm not too sure, but I do feel we should really push the boat out.'

‘You mean a jolly old party? What about the Café Royal? They do one very well, and Biggles rather looks upon the place as a sort of home from home. We could have lashings of champagne, all his old chums and the surviving members of the family. Might cheer him up a bit.'

Ginger shook his head. ‘Algy, for goodness sake,' he said. ‘You should know Biggles better than that. It would embarrass him to death. Speeches, great hordes of people — that's not his thing at all.'

‘Well I don't know then,' Algy replied, snorting with exasperation. ‘Why don't we take him off to Timbuctoo?'

Ginger paused thoughtfully before replying.

‘You know, Algy,' he said finally, ‘I really think that that could be a frightfully good idea.'

Once the idea of Timbuctoo was mooted, Ginger began to work on it with his customary dedication. Algy, of course, had no glimmering of what his essentially facetious suggestion had begun, and would probably have been quite put out if he had. But luckily for everyone, his romance was taking up almost all his tme and Ginger had the field to himself. His main conspirator in the project was the invaluable Nobby Smyth, and before long the whole extraordinary plan started taking shape.

The essence of it all was that it had to take the form of a surprise, so everything was done in secret — provisions for a fortnight's expedition were carefully laid in at Brooklands, the Cormorant was overhauled, the latest air charts of the Sahara obtained. Ginger was the most methodical of men and was determined that nothing should go wrong. An afternoon was spent at the Army and Navy Stores, purchasing mosquito nets, water-purifying pills, and a patent toilet set for travellers. A bakery in Curzon Street prepared a birthday cake — in the shape
of an aeroplane, with thirty candles. As part of French Sudan, Timbuctoo was administered by the French. The French Consulate raised no objection to the trip, and was helpful over the question of accommodation.

‘No,' the French Consul-General explained to Ginger, ‘there is unfortunately no real hotel in Timbuctoo, but we have what we call a
campement
— a sort of rest house in the city built to accommodate occasional travellers. I'm told it's somewhat primitive, but if you're really set on going, you can at least be sure that all of you will find a bed.'

‘That's all we need,' replied Ginger cheerfully. ‘It sounds the perfect place for what we want.'

‘But what exactly
do
you want, monsieur?' asked the puzzled diplomat.

‘A place to hold a birthday party,' Ginger answered, pulling a somewhat rueful face. ‘You see sir, I have a friend, a rich, eccentric Englishman, who's made a bet that he will celebrate his birthday out in Timbuctoo. And so you see ...'

‘Ah-hah!' replied the Frenchman, brightening at once. ‘A bet, monsieur. I understand.'

‘A telegram?' groaned Biggles with his mouth half full of kidneys and fried bread. ‘Really, Mrs Symes. You might have waited until after the repast. Always trouble, telegrams! And trouble's very bad for the digestive juices — particularly at this unearthly hour of the morning.'

He pulled a face and opened the yellow envelope with the butter knife.

‘Well, old chap, what is it?' asked Algy inquisitively from the far side of the breakfast-table. ‘Tell us the worst. Your mother's coming up to stay?'

‘Not that, thank God,' said Biggles quietly, as a look of deep preoccupation spread across his face. ‘No, this sounds rather interesting. It's from our old friend, Jacques Nisberg from the Paris
Sûreté.
He's in the Southern Sahara of all incredible places.'

‘What on earth's he doing there?'

‘Investigating some expedition that has disappeared in the desert. It seems he wants help.'

‘Good grief,' said Algy, nobbling
The Times
while Biggles' attention was diverted. ‘These Frenchmen really are the bitter bottom. Next thing they'll be asking us to blow their noses for them. The Sahara's their responsibility, so why the heck pick on us?'

‘Because, old fruit, the bally expedition's British. Don't like the sound of it at all.'

‘Oh come now, Biggles,' exclaimed Algy. ‘Surely you can't be seriously considering going? You've never liked the desert — and besides, it's your birthday tomorrow.'

‘Birthday be blowed,' said Biggles angrily. ‘When have I ever let a birthday interfere with what is obviously our duty? Algy, old lad, our countrymen are probably dying of thirst or being massacred by tribesmen, and you talk of birthdays.'

‘I can't help that,' said Algy, ‘I've promised Deborah to drive her down to Hurlingham.'

Biggles was momentarily aghast.

‘You've
what?
' he asked incredulously. ‘You sit there stuffing toast and marmalade and refuse to come on an adventure just because you've promised that young lady that you'll take her down to Hurlingham? What are you, Algy Lacey? Man or mouse?'

‘But she'd be furious, Biggles,' said Algy in a tortured voice.

‘Then brave her fury like a man. For God's sake, Algy, we won't be away for long. A week at the maximum, and absence makes the heart grow fonder.'

‘Not with Deborah, old chap. Not with Deborah.'

When Ginger sent the telegram in Nisberg's name, he had not been prepared for quite as positive a reaction as it got from Biggles, but luckily he and Smyth were ready. The Cormorant was packed and fuelled, the documents in order, and by lunchtime they were in the air and flying at a steady 200 m.p.h. on the first leg of their journey south.

‘Can't think how you managed it so quickly, dear old boy,' said Biggles breezily as he handled the controls. ‘You and old Nobby here must have worked miracles to get us off on time. Anyone would think you planned the jolly trip yourselves.'

Ginger and Nobby Smyth were sitting in the rear two seats,
and at this Ginger felt an elbow nudge him in the ribs. Normally Ginger would have suffered from the pangs of conscience at the way he had deceived his friend, but he told himself that nobody enjoyed a practical joke more than Biggles, and knew quite well that once they got to Timbuctoo all would be forgiven. Already Biggles was looking happier than he had for months. His eyes were sparkling and he had that look of boyish concentration that he manifested only at the controls of a machine. Even Algy had recovered from the fit of sulks that followed a particularly stormy scene with Deborah when he announced the trip. The slightly hunted look about the eyes had gone already, and by the time they landed at Bordeaux the love-sick swain had been replaced by the Algy they had known of yore.

‘Just like old times to be off like this again,' he chortled as he gunned the engines and the chocks were pulled away. ‘Biggles, old lad, you were quite right to make me come. When I think of those poor devils in the desert, I wouldn't have forgiven myself if I'd left them to it simply to enjoy myself.'

The old Cormorant was flying beautifully, for all the world as if she too was bent upon a holiday. The sky was flecked with feather-like strands of cirrus clouds, the waters of the Bay of Biscay glittered in the summer sun, and soon the sunbaked landscape of Castile was steadily unrolling beneath them.

‘What are our plans?' inquired Algy.

‘We'll spend the night at Tangier' answered Biggles. ‘It'd be madness to attempt to fly across the Sahara overnight, and anyhow I've sent Nisberg off a telegram telling him to expect us early tomorrow afternoon. We can only hope we'll be in time.'

‘Not a great deal we can do if we're not, old scout,' replied Algy logically. Ginger thought that early afternoon would suit them very well, for he too had sent a telegram to Timbuctoo — to the manager of the
campement,
telling him to expect four English visitors, and to lay on a very special dinner for the evening.

Everyone enjoyed Tangier. They ate superbly in the Arab quarter of the city, booked in at the Rif Hotel, and visited a nightclub by the harbour where Algy was particularly taken by a belly-dancer rejoicing in the name of Fatima.

‘Just look at that body, dear old chap,' he whispered noisily to Biggles. ‘Sheer bliss on wheels. I really think you'd better let me order one more bottle of this terrible champagne.'

‘Not on your life,' said Biggles sternly. ‘Not even if they throw in Fatima as well. We've work to do tomorrow — and besides Algy, think of Deborah.'

‘I do, old chap,' said Algy sadly. ‘That's the trouble.'

Thanks to Biggles they were up at daybreak, and after breakfasting on rolls and steaming coffee at the airport they were away — this time with Ginger at the controls. For several hundred miles they followed the coast to avoid the mountains of the Anti-Atlas, then they struck inland to refuel at the French Foreign Legion outpost of Tindouf. Biggles took over then, and the flight continued almost due south, 1,000 miles across the waveless sea of the Sahara. Occasionally they saw a line of faint black dots against the endless yellow of the sand — a camel caravan making its way across the wilderness. But for almost all the flight, they saw nothing but the desert far below and the blazing sky above.

‘Not being pessimistic, Biggles,' Algy asked, ‘but what exactly
would
we do if we had a spot of bother here and had to land?'

‘Not much you could do,' replied Biggles, grinning cheerfully. ‘Apart from say your prayers and hope the Foreign Legion comes your way.'

But, thanks to Smyth's attention to the Cormorant's engines, the flight continued steadily until by three o'clock that afternoon the first faint sign of greenery appeared below. Shortly afterwards they saw the glint of distant water on the far horizon.

‘The Niger River!' shouted Biggles excitedly.

‘And that must be Timbuctoo!' said Algy as a minaret appeared. Soon they were right above the legendary city. From the air it looked exactly like an enormous ruin from the past, with row on row of now abandoned dwellings half swallowed by the sands of the encroaching desert. But in the centre of the city they could see newer buildings — the market-place the French had built, the barracks of the Foreign Legion, and several mosques with mud-brick towers rising like ant-hills over the crazy jumble of the flat-roofed houses. A mile or so away, as wide as the waters of an inland sea, flowed the majestic Niger River, one of the greatest rivers in the world, running for several hundred miles along the southern reaches of the desert.

‘Somehow I think I'm going to like this place,' said Biggles
with a grin as he brought the Cormorant in low over the dusty airstrip that did duty for an airport on the outskirts of the city.

Soon they were jolting in an ancient Renault truck through the dusty streets of Timbuctoo. The driver was a silent Frenchman with a squint.

‘Seems to know who we are,' said Biggles. ‘Nisberg must have told him. Wonder where on earth he is?'

‘Probably out in the desert with the search-party,' Ginger suggested.

Biggles nodded. ‘Devil of a job. Still, once we've cleaned ourselves up and had a spot to eat, we can join him. Wonder where this fellow's taking us?' He tried shouting to the driver over the racket of the engine, but the man's attention seemed to be entirely taken up with dodging the hordes of goats and small black children scampering between the houses.

‘We'll soon be there, monsieur,' was all he would say. ‘They're expecting you.'

‘Well, thank the Lord for that,' said Biggles, as the long-suffering Renault gave a last despairing lurch, and skidded to a halt before a long, low, yellow-painted building with the French tricolour hanging limply from its flagpole in the scorching heat.