Sir Biggles, Order of the Camel: Chapter 7.

By Sopwith

Disclaimer: I do not own, or claim to own, any of the Biggles series characters used in this work. This fan fiction was written for entertainment purposes only and should not be considered part of the official storyline.

Bertie and Ginger caught Thompson just as he was finishing up his report in the hotel manager’s office.

“Could we have a word, old boy?” inquired Bertie, casually leaning against the back of a chair as he polished his monocle. “In private?” he added, glaring at the hotel manager until the man nervously backed out of the office and shut the door behind him.

Thompson glanced at his watch. “I suppose so. Will it take long? I really should be getting back to the office.”

“Oh, no, it won’t take long at all,” replied Bertie smoothly. “We just need to ask a simple question.”

“What’s that?”

Bertie replaced the monocle and leaned forward earnestly. “Where’s Bigglesworth?”

&&&

“Down!” gasped Biggles, as a bullet cracked into the wall inches from where their heads had been only a second ago.

“Confound him!” muttered Algy. “Of all the luck!”

“There’s no time for regrets now,” declared Biggles. “We’ve got to get out of this before he sends one of his chaps over to this window above our heads. Careful!”

Zing! Went the second shot, splattering bits of gravel over the two airmen.

“Dash this game,” snapped Algy. “He’s a better shot then he looks!”

By now Biggles had his own gun out and was returning fire, snapping off two bullets of his own before a wild shot from the German forced him to duck back. “Did you come in a car?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“In the courtyard, over there. The blue one.”

Biggles took his eyes off the German for a brief instant to gauge the distance. His lips curled in a faint smile. “Well,” he concluded. “There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to get there. Tell you what, you go on ahead and get the engine started up. Go on, I’ll cover you.”

Algy did not move. “What about you?”

“I’ll just have to take my chances. Either that, or you’ll have to come back for me. Whatever you do, for goodness’ sake don’t get shot. That’s the last thing we need. Ready?”

“I suppose so.”

Biggles broke cover and stood, squeezing off bullet after bullet in von Stalhein’s direction, as Algy dashed for the car.

&&&

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Thompson, as Bertie continued to eye him steadily through the monocle. “I haven’t seen Bigglesworth since last night.”

“All right,” agreed Bertie. “Let’s say you haven’t. In that case, you’d better tell us what you two did last night before you parted ways.”

“Not much,” replied Thompson, and even though his voice was calm, Ginger noticed that his hands had suddenly begun to shake very slightly. “I took him to my office and, and...showed him a report that had just come in.”

“How jolly interesting,” said Bertie, in the same amiable tone as before. “And just what was the content of this report?”

Thompson licked his lips. “I…I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It’s confidential.”

“Oh, I’m sure no one would mind. Just between us, old boy.”

Thompson’s eyes darted briefly to the door, and then, in one abrupt leap, he was by the window of the office, which, unfortunately for the two airmen, happened to be open.

&&&

Algy scrambled wildly towards the car and almost broke the key when he turned it the lock. Tugging open the door, he dove inside just in time to duck the bullet that shattered through the car window, zipping through the space his head had been a mere second ago.

He started the engine, more through luck than skill: his hands were shaking so badly it was a wonder he managed to start it at all. Putting the car in gear, he mentally steadied himself and glanced around for Biggles.

He soon saw him, taking cover behind a large tree, the gun lying abandoned on the ground a few feet away from him. How this state of affairs had come about, Algy did not take time to speculate; he was too busy dodging the hail of bullets that sailed through the now glassless window.

“Dash this for a lark,” he gasped, as the car bumped its way over the paved stone path. The shortest route to Biggles’ tree was by cutting through the flowerbed to the left of the path, and without hesitation Algy took it, wincing as the car jerked and banged its way over the uneven surface.

“Come on!” he yelled to Biggles, bringing the car as close to the tree as he dared and pushing the passenger door open.

Biggles, keeping low, made a mad dash to the car, diving into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind him. “I’m in!”

“Right!” Algy swung the car around, and just as he twisted the steering wheel, something thudded into his shoulder, and he was overcome with instant pain.

&&&

The car lurched wildly and for one panicked moment Biggles thought it might tip over. “Here, steady on, Algy,” he protested, grabbing onto the door handle to keep his balance. Receiving no reply, he glanced over at his partner and was horrified to see blood staining one side of Algy’s face. “You’ve been hit!”

“I’m not sure yet.” Algy’s voice was tight, his teeth gritted. The knuckles of his uninjured hand were white as his fingers gripped the steering wheel, fighting to keep the car in control.

Biggles snatched a quick glance at Von Stalhein, keeping his head low as yet another bullet sailed through the broken window. “Are you all right to drive?”

Algy grunted. “Only one way to find out.” The car narrowly missed running into a bush; Algy righted the wheel at the last minute. “Hold tight,” he said grimly, eyes on the road. “This is going to be a hot spot in a moment.”

&&&

Thompson slithered out of the window much in the manner of a snake.

Both Bertie and Ginger had frozen at the sudden escape, neither having expected the man to run away, but they recovered quickly, Bertie dashing to the window, Ginger close behind, pulling out his gun as he went.

“Duck!” shouted Ginger, pushing Bertie down as he aimed at the running figure and fired, once.

Thompson started, looked back, and paused for the briefest of seconds with a panicked expression on his face.

“You’re not doing yourself any good by running away,” Ginger announced, preparing himself for a second shot. “That one was a warning, but the next one’s going to mean business.”

Bertie swung himself out of the window just as Thompson resumed his running. Ginger had just begun to follow when a crowd of policemen, no doubt attracted by the sound of the shot, came running into view.

At the sight of the policemen, Thompson began wildly waving his arms and shouting in Portuguese. It was obvious from his actions that he knew the policemen, and they him.

“What did he say?” panted Ginger, as he dropped down beside Bertie.

“I don’t know,” admitted Bertie. “But judging from the grim faces and the guns pointed at us, I’d say it wasn’t too much of a compliment.”

Goto Chapter 8.

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