Algy Goes Alone: Chapter 7. Biggles Presses On

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.

Ginger woke with a start and wondered for a brief instant where he was. It took him a few seconds to realize that he was lying on a soft bed with white blankets, and about another second to realize that it was a hospital bed. He looked to his right and saw Biggles sitting in a chair next to the bed, looking at him.

“How are you feeling?”

“All right, I suppose. What happened?”

“You passed out. The doctor says the bullet broke your arm.”

Ginger glanced dubiously down at his arm and found that there was now a cast on it. “Well, this is just perfect,” he muttered. “When can I leave?”

“The doctor wants to keep you here for a few days just to make sure you’re stable.”

“I feel all right,” declared Ginger.

‘You may think you are, but unless the doctor says you are I’m not letting you get out of bed,” asserted Biggles. “There’s no point in taking chances. In any case, there’s no hurry. We’re at a dead end.”

“What happened to Reeves?”

“He’s dead. I must say it’s a pity; he might have told us something about the gang. But there it is, and you can be sure I won’t shedding tears over that crook. He got what he deserved.”

Ginger tried to sit up, then abruptly winced as the room seemed to spin around him. He fell back on his pillows, breathless and somewhat exhausted by the effort. “Have you rung Algy yet?”

“No. He must be getting in a proper flap, wondering what’s happened to us. Still, it can’t be helped. Things have been moving too fast for us lately. I would have called him earlier, but I wanted to make sure you were all right first.” Biggles checked his watch. “It’s almost eleven, but he might still be up. Are you hungry? I can go downstairs and dig up some grub while I’m calling him. Will you be all right for a quarter of an hour?”

He was gone for about twenty minutes.

Ginger looked up expectantly as Biggles entered the room with a bag of food. “What did he say?”

“Nothing. He didn’t answer the phone. I tried the flat but he wasn’t there either. Either he’s on his way home, or he’s fallen asleep and didn’t hear it. Still, I don’t suppose it matters. There’s no news that won’t keep. I’ll try again in a bit. You might as well get some more sleep; you look all in.”

&&&

Bertie scowled at the rapidly darkening sky as he continued to follow the stolen plane in front of him. He glanced down at his watch and saw that he had been flying for more than three hours by now.

He was not best pleased at the current state of affairs. In just a few more minutes, he would be crossing the Iron Curtain—in the dark.

Just a few feet ahead, he saw a searchlight stab the sky before him. The radio buzzed with sound as he continued to follow the plane. Bertie ignored the instrument; in truth, he had no choice in the matter, for he could not understand a word that was being said.

The searchlights had found him by now, and the voices from the radio were starting to sound angry. Still Bertie remained silent, glaring at the plane in front of him through his monocle, wondering why none of the searchlights were targeting it. Doubtless the mysterious pilot was in communication with those below.

Another searchlight flashed in his face, and he recoiled in his seat, half-blinded by the glare. That brief second was enough for him to take his eyes off the plane and lose it, for once the spots had cleared from his vision, he could no longer see the other plane.

This, at least, solved part of the problem. Bertie half-heartedly circled for a minute or so, trying to find the plane, but finally gave it up as a lost cause.

And just as he had decided to turn back and go home, anti-aircraft gunfire cut through the silence of the night. The Auster rocked underneath him, and Bertie scowled as he fought to keep the plane steady.

He swung the plane round as best as he could, heading back the way he had come, hoping he could get away before significant damage was done to the machine.

In this he was doomed to disappointment, for just as the thought crossed his mind, the engine coughed ominously.

&&&

After making sure that Ginger was sleeping peacefully, Biggles left the hospital and made his way to the hotel room Marcel had managed to book for him. He was desperately tired and wanted nothing more than to collapse onto the soft bed and sleep for a week. But at the same time, there were too many thoughts rushing through his mind to allow sleep to come.

He felt chagrined that the crooks had escaped yet a second time. According to Eddie, they never struck the same place twice, so it was a foregone conclusion that they would not be returning to France. Where, then, would they go next? But were they even out of the country yet? They had been driving a car when they had escaped. Did they have a plane hidden away somewhere? And even if they did, how would they fly it without a pilot?

Exhausted by the never-ending stream of questions with no answers, Biggles crossed to the phone and tried again to get in touch with Algy. Again, there was no answer, either at the flat or at the office. Biggles was not unduly worried about this. Algy, he decided, had probably fallen asleep.

Had Biggles known that Algy was at that very minute in the process of stealing a plane and being threatened by a man with a gun, he might have felt less at ease as he got ready for bed.

He slept dreamlessly for what seemed like two minutes, when he was awakened by a knocking at the door. Reaching for his gun, he got out of bed and cautiously approached the door. As far as he knew, Marcel was the only person who knew he was staying at the hotel, but it was better to be careful.

In one swift motion, he unlocked the door and flung it open.

&&&

Two men stood on the threshold. One was Marcel, looking tired and somewhat rumpled. The other, muddy and disheveled, was Bertie.

“Where to goodness have you been?” demanded Biggles, fatigue making his temper short as he stood aside to allow his two visitors to enter. “I was starting to think you might have had an accident.”

“Steady on, old boy, there’s no bally need to shout,” murmured Bertie, taking out his monocle and polishing it. “I was following the blighter in the stolen plane, don’t you know. Took me over the jolly Iron Curtain. I would have followed him into the drawing room, but unfortunately some beastly chaps shot me down.”

Biggles glanced at him with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes. I managed to land on our side of the Curtain, though not by much. After that I had to walk for miles and miles before I could find a house with a phone. I’ve had a perfectly beastly time, I can tell you. Just look at my clothes!”

“You should be grateful that you’re alive to complain about it,” retorted Biggles grimly, as Bertie retreated into the bathroom. “Well, well, this changes things. They sold the plane to a man who flew it over the Iron Curtain. Are there going to be more transactions? I doubt that the people who bought the first plane will be satisfied with one.”

‘You think le crooks, they will come back to France, mon ami?” inquired Marcel, looking hopeful.

“This new information does put a new light on things,” admitted Biggles. “The thing is, I’m so tired I can’t really think at the moment. I shall have to deal with this in the morning, preferably after some breakfast.”

“Absolutely, old boy,” agreed Bertie, emerging from the bathroom.

“You can have the bed,” Biggles told him. “I can sleep in the armchair.”

“No need, old boy. I can sleep down here. It’s a nice bit of carpet. Just bung down some pillows and I should be all right. To tell the truth, I wouldn’t say no to sleeping on a jolly old bed of nails at the moment.”

Biggles smiled. “My thoughts exactly.”

&&&

Despite the late night, Biggles woke early the next morning. Once awake, he found, as is often the case, that having awakened it was impossible to get back to sleep again. Moving quietly so as not to wake Bertie, he made his way over to the armchair where he had sat the night before, searching for his cigarette case.

He opened it to find it empty. Frowning, he turned to see Bertie staring sleepily at him.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m out of cigarettes. I’ll just pop down and get some more. You can go back to sleep if you like, there’s no particular hurry one way or another. When you’ve rested we can go down and get some grub before we look in on Ginger.” Biggles was dressing as he spoke.

“Sounds jolly good to me, old boy,” murmured Bertie, before turning over and going back to sleep.

Biggles, smiling faintly, slipped silently out of the room and made his way out onto the street. It was still fairly early, and therefore it took him well over a quarter of an hour to find a shop that was open.

Walking back to the hotel, he reminded himself to call Algy once he was back inside his room, little dreaming that Algy was, in fact, watching his every move from the hotel window above.

Whistling softly to himself, he walked up the stairs and was just putting the room key to the lock when a man appeared at the end of the corridor. Biggles did not at first pay the man much attention, for he was more concerned with opening the door in front of him. But as the man continued to approach, he could not help but give him a quick glance in passing, a glance that turned into a long stare as he realized who the man was.

It was Algy. 

Go to Chapter 8. Algy--Secret Agent

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