Biggles Married Chapter 8.

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. 

Warning: Non canon type fan fiction works may contain severe time mix-ups and character deviations. 

“What on earth are we going to do about the plane?” asked Algy, as they made their way stealthily back to where they had left the machine.

“I don’t know, and that’s a fact. They’re bound to find it when the sun comes up, anyway. There’s no place to hide something that big.”

“And if they find the plane, they’ll start looking for us,” said Algy grimly.

“I’m afraid so. The way I see it, the best thing we can do right now is get away and fly back while we still have a plane to fly back in. There should be more than enough juice in the tank to see us back.”

Algy grimaced. “Too late,” he said, pointing.

Several hundred yards ahead of them stood the plane—or what was left of it. A half dozen men in uniform milled around the remains of the machine, clearly having just destroyed it.

Biggles ground out an expletive through his teeth. “That’s torn it. Come on, we’d better find somewhere to hide before they find us as well. I hope to goodness Mac doesn’t let anything slip.”

&&&

The next few days were a nightmare of broken sleep, continuous hiding, and unsatisfyingly small meals.

Biggles flung himself on a relatively hidden corner of the sandy beach and eyed his surroundings gloomily. "This is a nice mess,” he muttered savagely. "Here we are, on an island with old Mac, playing hide and seek with our good friend Erich and waiting for Bertie to get us out of this mess. I don’t know about you, laddie, but frankly I’m fed up with this."

Algy grunted. He was in a bad mood owing to the fact that he had been up half the night keeping watch and had had less than two hours of sleep the night before. "Any grub left?" he asked.

"What a fellow you are, always thinking of your stomach."

"Well, I'm hungry. I've been living off scraps for the past few days and I'm starved. Aren't you?"

"Have some chocolate,” suggested Biggles, handing him some.

"No thanks. If I eat it now I can't eat it tomorrow, and I'm sure that I'll still be hungry tomorrow. I wonder how Mac's doing. I haven't seen him for three days now."

"I--” began Biggles, than broke off as a sound came to his ears: the steady hum of two rapidly approaching plane engines. "Bertie!" he said in relief. "And Jane," he reminded himself, becoming glum again.

He started to get to his feet, but Algy pulled him back down. “Look what’s coming,” he muttered, nodding to a group of uniformed men who were fast making their way down the beach.

“By gosh!” cried Biggles, “it’s Von Stalhein!”

“What should we do?”

“I vote we stay put for the time being,” decided Biggles, moving back a little so that he was better hidden by the overhanging piece of rock next to him. “It’s better for us to wait for some opportunity to take advantage of the situation. There’s no sense in all of us being captured at once.”

So the two airmen stayed where they were and watched as the two planes landed. Bertie got out of the leading one, which was a single seater. Ginger jumped down from the other, and turned back to help the second occupant—Jane—down.

She was poised in her seat, unsure of how to get off of the machine. Ginger offered her his hand and Jane clutched at it the way a drowning man might cling to a straw as she inched slowly down to the ground.

Biggles stared at his wife in utter horror. Jane was wearing a brightly colored mini-dress, high heels, and sunglasses. She looked more like someone on holiday than a detective.

"Where is James?" she whined, as soon as she had reached terra firma.

"No idea, old girl," murmured Bertie, polishing his monocle.

"But why are we here if you don't know?"

"Because this is where he was supposed to be,” Ginger said patiently.

"But it doesn't follow that he's still here."

Bertie spun round and glared at Jane. "Look here, old chap. It's true that Biggles may not be here. In fact, he may even be in Africa, though I consider that bally unlikely. If you feel that's likely, however, you're jolly well free to go to Africa and find him."

Jane's mouth dropped open and she stared at him.

Ginger saw the tears first. Bertie was still polishing his monocle.

Wet drops rolled down Jane's cheek, and then she started to sniff. "You didn't have to yell at me," she whimpered, like a little girl.

"Awwww-" said Biggles, from his hiding place.

Algy gave him a funny look.

&&&

Bertie hadn't (or wouldn't) noticed Jane's tears. He was scanning the landscape, monocle in eye, an irate expression on his face. "Where do you think we should start looking, old boy?" he asked Ginger.

"Dunno," was the reply. "I think we should get the planes out of sight for a start."

"Right-ho," agreed Bertie, turning to get back into his machine.

"Watch out!" cried Ginger sharply, as his eyes caught sight of a group of uniformed men walking toward them. "There's-"

"I see them, old boy, I see them," answered Bertie coolly.

"Are they coming to get us?" Jane asked, in a near-whisper.

"No,” said Bertie sarcastically, "they're here to pick the bally flowers."

"What for?' Jane demanded wildly, staring about her as if searching for a means of escape.

"For the jolly funeral, of course," Bertie growled, as he reached for his gun. "You'd better get back in the plane, old girl. This is going to be jolly hot in a minute, what?"

&&&

Erich von Stalhein was, typically, in the lead of the approaching cluster of men. He was holding his gun in a confident manner, the business end of it aimed at the three of them.

Bertie's gun was covering von Stalhein, though he did not shoot—yet.

"Don't move, Lord Lissie,” warned Von Stalhein, in a brittle voice, the barrel of the gun shifting ever so slightly so that it was pointed straight at Ginger. “I would hate to have to shoot your young redheaded friend.”

"'Haven't you forgotten to say, 'one move and he dies?'" bantered Ginger, somewhat sarcastically.

"You can keep quiet...er…Hebblethwaite," replied the German coldly.

"What's going on?" demanded Jane, in alarm. Ginger turned slightly and saw that she now held a small gun in her hand, the sort that had a tendency of going pop without little warning and very little pressure.

It was also pink.

Von Stalhein turned to look at Jane and froze in space. "You!" he gasped, eyes widening.

In a trice the German’s manner changed. "What a pleasant surprise to meet you," he declared, bowing deeply from the waist and kissing Jane's hand.

Jane looked puzzled and startled. “Who are you?"

"My name is Erich. You may have heard something of me from-" he gestured vaguely to Bertie and Ginger. "And may I ask your name, Miss--?'

'He never talks to us like that," muttered Ginger to Bertie.

"Well, old boy, do you bally want him to?" Bertie murmured back in horror.

"My name's Jane," replied the owner of that name. "Jane Bigglesworth."

Von Stalhein's face fell. "Ah!" he exclaimed sadly, noting the ring on Jane's hand. "So once again I am too late."

"Too late!" growled Biggles from his hiding place. "I'll say you're too late! Keep away from my wife, you swine."

"I'll pay him to take her," muttered Algy, though under his breath.

Biggles ignored him. "Just wait till I get my hands on you, you dirty dog," he said savagely. "What wouldn't I give for a long range machine gun at this moment."

Go to Chapter 9. 

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