Algy Goes Alone: Chapter 10. Algy Goes To War

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.

As the Auster’s wheels touched down on English soil, Algy was conscious of a nagging feeling of unease in his stomach. “The Chief isn’t going to be too happy about this,” was his unspoken thought. “Ginger’s already lost one Auster and now I’ve stolen the other one. I hope to goodness Biggles found the cigarette case.”

The worry topmost in his mind was that someone would recognize him and greet him under his own name, or, worse, greet him in his official capacity as an air policeman, for he was of course a regular visitor to the airport.

He decided that he would just have to hope for the best, and if necessary bluff his way out of any situation that happened to come up.

“So,” he said, striving to keep his voice casual. “What now?”

Konn said, “We need to find the guy who’s here to pick up the plane. Then I have to call Scott and see how he’s doing on that little job of his.”

Algy wondered what sort of job Scott had been assigned to do, but something in Konn’s voice warned him to be careful, so he merely said, “All right then. What d’you want me to do with the plane?”

“Move it to that hanger. This was arranged on short notice, so the guy might not be here yet. I’ll have to find a phone so I can see what’s going on. Clark can come with me. In the meantime, you two” –indicating Algy and Watkins—“can get our stuff out of the plane. We’ve got a car coming along later to take us to the hotel, and the driver is a pal of mine who doesn’t like waiting.”

“We’re staying in a hotel?” queried Algy, more to be saying something than with any real interest.

Konn winked. “What’s the point of having cash in your pocket if you ain’t gonna spend some of it once in a while?”

Algy did not know what to say to this, so he merely shrugged in reply. Konn and Clark clambered out of the Auster and left to find the telephone, leaving Algy and Watkins in the machine.

“Well,” said Algy, “might as well get started on the baggage.”

Watkins, who did not seem the talkative type, merely muttered something under his breath and started moving bags.

They had only been at work for about five minutes when Konn and Clark came back, the former looking rather annoyed. “Idiot who set up the deal messed up,” he growled. “The guy who’s picking up is at some airport called Croydon, not here. You know it?” The last question was directed toward Algy.

“Yes.”

“Know how to get there?”

“Yes.”

Konn frowned, furrowing his brow as if trying to come to a decision. “Listen,” he said finally, “I’ve got another deal going down in London tonight and I need these two for muscle. Do you think you could fly the plane over, leave it in a hanger, and then come back?”

“Come back here?” asked Algy, stalling for time while thoughts raced through his mind, wondering how he could turn the new situation to his advantage.

“Nah. You can meet us at the hotel. We’re staying at the Ritz. Name of Gold; Scott’s the one who booked it.”

“All right. I suppose I could do that.”

“Sounds good. Okay, come over here. Clark and Wats can get the rest of the stuff out while I talk you through it.”

And that was how Algy found himself flying his own stolen Auster through the London skies, alone at the controls.

&&&

Algy landed at Croydon, left the Auster in the appointed hanger, and made his way cautiously towards the manager’s office. He moved cautiously because he was not sure how good communication was between the gang and whoever would be taking charge of the Auster. “I’d be in a fine mess if they rang Konn up and said they’d seen me walk into the airport manager’s office as if I owned the place,” he muttered to himself.

However, no one seemed to take any notice of the fact that he was striding towards the office, although he did not fully relax until he had walked inside and closed the door behind him.

“Hello, Algy old man,” said Freddy Tomkins, the manager of Croydon, not looking up from his work. “What wind blows you here?”

“One that steals planes.”

Freddy looked up sharply. “Don’t say you’re working on that American gang who’ve moved in and started pinching planes at random?”

“I’m not just working on it; I’m a member of the gang.”

“By gosh. You air policemen do lead very exciting lives. How can I help you?”

“Well, for a start, you can lend me a phone so I can ring up Biggles and tell him where I am.”

Freddy indicated the telephone on his desk. “It’s all yours, old boy. Give my love to Biggles. Haven’t seen him in ages.”

“You’re not likely to see him for a bit longer if someone doesn’t do something about this case,” declared Algy empathically.

“I say, you’re cheerful. Has joining the criminal element done something to your sense of humor?”

“I won’t have any nerves left if I keep playing this game, never mind a sense of humor,” was Algy’s retort as he picked up the phone. “It’s like swimming with sharks. You never know when one of them is going to bite.”

&&&

Fifteen minutes later, Algy replaced the receiver with an expression of disgust.

“Any luck, old boy?” inquired Freddy, looking up expectantly.

“No. I rang up Marcel Brissac’s headquarters in France—which is where Biggles said he would be when I last saw him—but apparently he’s already left to come back here, and there’s no answer at either the Air Police headquarters or at the flat.”

“Maybe they’re not there yet.”

“That’s impossible. They left hours ago.”

“Well, maybe they’ve gone for a bite to eat. You know how Biggles is.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Algy doubtfully. He was more frustrated than worried, although had he known that Biggles was at that moment climbing into the spare Auster preparing to come after him, he might have been slightly more concerned. “Well, I’d better cut along and have a dekko at my plane. See you later.”

“Cheerio, old son. Let me know if I can help with anything.”

Algy made his way thoughtfully towards the hanger where he had left the Auster. He checked his watch; almost half an hour had passed since he had landed. Surely the man had picked up the plane by now? He quickened his pace, frowning as a light drizzle of rain began to fall.

To his astonishment, the Auster was still where he had left it. “Why hasn’t he come to collect it yet?” he muttered to himself. Konn had assured him that the man would be watching for him to land, and that he would take off with the plane as soon as Algy was a safe distance away.

“The guy doesn’t like people seeing him work,” explained Konn, with a sarcastic grin. From his tone, Algy presumed that the Americans were not ready to let their new pilot know all the ins and outs of their operation as yet. Hopefully, that would change in the near future.

“Don’t want to be doing this for months and months,” he said to himself gloomily.

He walked into the hanger and looked around, thinking he might find a clue as to why the mysterious man had not yet materialized, but nothing seemed to be out of place. With a sigh, he got into the Auster to have a look around inside. Again, everything seemed normal. It was not until he reached the back of the plane that he noticed a small bag in one corner.

“What on earth is that?” Hadn’t Clark and Watkins taken all the luggage out of the plane back at the other airport? “I suppose they missed it,” he mused to himself. “Well, I’d better take it with me. Wonder what’s in it?” He opened the bag and peered inside, but it appeared to be empty.

“Why would anyone leave an empty bag?” he wondered. “Or maybe it’s something Biggles and the others left behind?” This thought caused mild panic to rise within him, as he thought about what might have happened if Konn and his men had found it earlier and somehow made a connection between him and Biggles.

“I’d better get it out,” he decided. Holding the bag at arm’s length as if it were some sort of dangerous rodent, he got out of the Auster and looked desperately around the hanger for some place inconspicuous to leave it.

Just as he was making for the furthest corner, he heard a slight noise behind him. He turned to see what it was, but before he had time to get a glimpse of anything, something heavy struck him over the head, and the world collapsed into an inky void of black.

&&&

Algy woke to a searing headache. Actually, once he was fully awake, he realized that it wasn’t just his head that ached. His whole body felt as if it had taken a battering. Slowly, he sat up, feeling himself all over for signs of injury. There was a sizeable bump on the back of his head, but apart from that, he seemed to be all right, if slightly shaky on his feet.

Having finished his examination, he began to take stock of his surroundings. He soon discovered that he was still in the hanger where he had left the Auster—only there wasn’t an Auster there anymore. Remembering the bag he had taken out of the plane, he looked around for that too, but there was no sign of it.

“Well,” he mused grimly to himself. “Looks like the machine’s gone anyway.”

Checking his watch, he estimated that he had perhaps been out for an hour or so. “My hat! Konn and the others aren’t going to be happy. I’d better get along right away.”

Hurrying out of the hanger, he almost ran over Freddy Tomkins, who was running through the entrance. “Oh! Sorry, old boy, didn’t see you there. Are you all right?”

“Apart from a headache, right as rain. Why?”

“I just got a report of an Auster blowing up several miles east from here. I thought it might have been yours.”

“It might have been,” said Algy wearily, leaning against the side of the hanger. “Mine isn’t here anymore.”

“What—oh, I say!” muttered Tomkins. “Are you sure you’re all right? You look quite pale.”

“An unexpected knock to the head, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. Listen, I need to be somewhere, but if you can, would you mind ringing Biggles and letting him know that I’m off to the Ritz to meet with the gang? They’re booked under the name of Gold.”

“Of course. The Ritz, eh? There’s more to this plane stealing racket than meets the eye, I suppose. ”

“I wouldn’t advise it as a career change,” replied Algy drily, hurrying on his way.

&&&

He burst into the luxurious suite to find the three Americans looking impatient and dejected. “What took you so long?” demanded Konn.

“Paperwork,” lied Algy quickly.

“Any trouble?”

“None to speak of. The plane’s gone.”

“Good.” Konn lapsed into a sullen silence as he drained his glass. “Our deal didn’t go through,” he grunted. “Some people don’t know when they’ve got something good staring them in the face.”

Algy longed to ask more questions, but wisely kept silent.

“Drink?” asked Clark, proffering a bottle and gesturing towards an empty glass.

“Yes, thanks. I’m feeling a bit parched.”

Clark was just pouring out a generous measure when the door of the suite abruptly burst inwards and the glass shattered under a hail of bullets.

“What the—” snapped Algy, diving for cover behind a sofa. A quick look around revealed that the three Americans had also taken cover behind similarly large sticks of furniture. “What’s going on?” he demanded of Watkins, who was closest to him.

Before there was time for an answer, Konn shouted from his position by the bed. “Anton? What is this?”

“What is this?” Algy peered around the arm of the sofa and saw a bearded man in the ruined doorway. He spoke English with a faint Russian accent. “WHAT IS THIS? I ask you to send me Auster, and it go kaboom, that is what is this.”

“What?” said Konn, clearly unable to believe his ears. “What do you mean, kaboom? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It blew up!” snarled Anton, biting off each word as he fired viciously at a wall lamp. “And my pilot with it!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, buddy,” said Konn, holding out his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I didn’t blow nothin’ up. As far as I know, the delivery went fine. My own pilot’s just got back—”

“Where is he?”

“My pilot? There.”

“Hang on a second…” began Algy.

And then the worst possible thing that could have happened at that moment, happened. Clark, who was standing by the window, hissed a warning. “Cops’re here, boss.”

“What?” With a low growl in his throat, Konn turned to the window. Algy took a cautious step back and tilted his head so that he could see as well. What he saw made his heart sink. There were two police cars in front of the Ritz, lights flashing. The doors to the first had been flung open, the occupants clearly in too much of a hurry to bother with closing doors.

Familiar figures were emerging from the second car: Eddie, Bertie, Ginger—with his arm in a sling—and, finally, Biggles.

Konn turned on Algy with a curse and a snarl, the muzzle of his pistol pointed at Algy’s stomach. “I thought you said you killed him, pal,” he said softly, his tone overly friendly. “Guess he has two lives or something, right? You rat.”

The hard metal of the gun jammed against Algy’s stomach. From the doorway, Anton’s gun was trained unwaveringly at Algy’s head, as were the guns of the two other men standing behind the bearded Russian.

It would take Biggles at least a minute to reach the room, assuming he even knew where it was, and by then, Algy would already be dead twice over.

Go to Chapter 11. Biggles Gets His Men

Go back to Algy Goes Alone contents