Author's Note: I have always been intrigued by Algy's statement in "Takes Charge" that Boris "wouldn't want to spend his life tucked away in a place like La Sologne. He had a good time in Monte. I know. I was there with him." I spent some time thinking of how this would play out in Monte Carlo before WW2 started, ignoring for storytelling purposes (as did WEJ) the fact that Algy said he'd never been to Monaco before in "Fails to Return", and what follows is my take on what Boris might have been up to in those days. I hope you will indulge me by reading this little tale. Thank you for your time.
Summer 1939
Algy stood at Victor's Bar of the famous Hotel de Paris clad in his best suit, a drink in his hand, making conversation with a surprisingly pretty girl in a light-blue summery evening dress with a discreet diamond pendant and matching earrings. She excused herself after flattering him at length on his tennis-playing abilities. With a broad smile on his face, Algy watched her walk away from him. Watching her walk away was the best part, he mused in silent admiration.
Boris appeared at his elbow wearing a faintly amused look. "Watch what you say in front of that one."
"Why?" Algy asked in surprise, turning to look at his recent tennis partner, freshly scrubbed of sweat and smelling faintly of soap and aftershave; he had changed from his tennis whites into immaculate evening wear.
Boris took a cigarette from his case and lit it carefully with a gold lighter. He inhaled deeply before saying softly "She's a German agent. Or at the very least, she's got strong pro-German sympathies."
Algy's eyebrows came together sharply. "How do you know?"
"She talks in her sleep."
"Oh," said Algy, then as realization of what Boris had just said burst upon him, he cried "What!"
"Keep your voice down," Boris murmured around his cigarette, staring out a window completely unperturbed, a faint smirk visible on his face.
"You dog," Algy's cheerful tone belied the seriousness of the statement.
Boris's smirk widened and he inclined his head slightly in a mocking bow and took a sip of his martini. Algy grinned.
"What do I do when she comes back?"
"You seem awfully certain that she's coming back," Boris replied smoothly, flicking an ash from his cigarette.
"I can be charming too," Algy retorted. "She'll come back."
"Don't be seen talking to me," Boris said, becoming serious. "I'll be in the casino," he continued. "At the blackjack table. Come join me nonchalantly in about an hour."
Boris slid away smoothly, leaving his empty glass on the tray of a white-gloved waiter.
Algy blinked and shook his head. A thought flitted across the back of his mind that perhaps his tennis partner was not quite who he appeared to be.
Boris looked up from the blackjack table as a stout man with untidy whiskers entered the room and suddenly jerked his head back to his cards. His behavior was not lost on the dealer, who asked softly if he was alright. Boris forced a smile and indicated the man with a twitch of his head.
"I lost badly to that man over there, two nights ago," he lied smoothly. "I'd rather he didn't play at my table again."
The blackjack dealer nodded understandingly and summoned a waiter with a flick of his wrist.
"Joseph, please escort Monsieur Prutski to the VIP lounge. You can tell him that the manager requested his presence at the roulette table this evening," the dealer said softly.
"Oui, monsieur," the waiter replied in a low voice and he drifted away.
"VIP lounge?" Boris asked.
The dealer raised an expressive shoulder. "It sounds important. Flatters the man's vanity, I think. Gets him out of the way of our best clients."
Boris chuckled softly. "I'll remember that if ever I am invited to the VIP lounge," he said.
The blackjack dealer maintained a straight face, but flickered an eyelid. Boris hid his grin by taking a sip of his drink and returned his attention to the game.
He looked up again a short while later as Algy slid into a vacant seat at the table.
"Did she come back?" he asked.
"'Fraid not," Algy said, pulling a rueful face.
Boris laughed. "It's better that way. There are plenty of other girls in Monte Carlo." He rose, pocketing his cigarettes and his lighter. He tossed a chip to the dealer, who caught it deftly and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. "C'mon. I've tired of blackjack."
Algy rose the next morning luxuriously late, contemplating as he shaved that it was rather nice to get away from Biggles from time to time. As best friends go, he was top-notch, but he liked getting up so damned early.
He had his breakfast on the balcony and watched the bustling scene below for some time. After a while he glanced at his watch and noted with a start that it was nearly noon. He decided to go over to the Country Club and see if anybody he knew was awake yet.
Poolside, a short while later, Algy sat at the bar with a glass of iced lemonade at his elbow, looking around to see if he could see anyone he recognized and was pleased to see Boris sitting in the shade, taking a drinking glass from a waiter's tray. He rose from his seat and wandered over casually.
"How's the head?" Algy inquired, grinning.
"That's the problem with Monaco," Boris told him, taking a sip of his drink from behind a tilted hat. "It's always so infernally bright."
"What did you order?"
"Hair of the dog," Boris replied a bit grumpily without looking up.
Algy laughed and folded himself into a cane chair, putting his feet up on the chair opposite. He opened his case and selected a cigarette. He offered one to Boris, who emerged from his refuge and accepted. Algy flicked his lighter. Boris leaned in to light his cigarette and paused in the act of doing so as two pretty girls in swimsuits sauntered past with towels over their arms. Algy turned his head slightly to see what had stolen Boris's attention.
"Thinking of trying to determine if they're foreign agents as well?" Algy asked with a grin.
Boris yawned and stretched lazily before replying "From time to time, Lacey, a man is called upon to make certain… sacrifices… for his country."
Algy snorted. "Most of my patriotic sacrifices seem to involve uncomfortable climates or people shooting at me. Usually both at the same time," he said dryly. "I think I may be in the wrong line of work."
Boris stiffened almost imperceptibly as the stout man with the whiskers from the casino came out of the men's changing rooms and looked around the swimming pool, as if he was expecting to meet someone he knew. Boris pulled his hat a little lower and shifted his chair slightly so that he sat behind Algy's chair and deeper in the shade. It so transpired that Algy was still looking in the direction of the girls, so he missed this rather unusual behavior, and by the time he had turned back toward his companion, Boris had made a decision. He finished his drink with a single swig and rose, pulling on his white linen jacket.
"How's your golf game, Lacey?" he asked crisply.
Algy looked a bit surprised at this sudden change in conversation. "I haven't practiced in years, but I shouldn't be too terrible. Why?"
"Good. Let's be off," Boris said quickly, as the stout man was distracted by a waiter. He strode briskly to the exit, leaving a bemused Algy to follow in his wake.
A short while later, Algy stood on the golf course at Mont Agel, shielding his eyes from the bright sunlight with one hand and trying to figure out just how his ball had wound up so badly off course.
Boris laughed. "I thought you said you weren't terrible," he commented dryly.
Algy resisted – barely – a childish urge to stick out his tongue. Instead he sent the lad carrying their clubs in search of it. The boy had (so far) done an admirable job of not laughing at him, so Algy tossed him a small coin once he found the ball and set it up again.
A few holes later, and after much searching about in the rough, Algy snorted with disgust.
"It's a good thing you're better at tennis," Boris said, shaking with barely repressed laughter at Algy's golf ball's latest predicament.
"This is getting ridiculous," Algy commented, shoving his clubs back into his bag with a grunt. "I vote it's time to go get a drink."
Boris affected a shocked expression. "Really, Lacey!" he exclaimed. "The sun's nowhere near the yardarm."
"Says the man drinking a restorative cocktail for breakfast."
"Fair point."
They walked companionably for about two hundred yards when Boris broke the silence by asking Algy if he liked shooting.
"At what?" Algy asked. "I've done a fair bit in my time. What did you have in mind?"
"Pheasants, I was thinking," Boris said. "You see, I've got an estate in La Sologne. We should go in a month or two when the weather gets cooler. It's an old place, and it's starting to show its age, but it's a great place to do some pheasant shooting or even the wild boar we call sanglier. The house is called the Chateau Grandbulon – it's quite near the little town of Salbris."
"I've never heard of La Sologne," Algy said truthfully.
"No surprise there," Boris grinned. "It's absolutely in the middle of nowhere, which is why I much prefer Monte Carlo for the most part. But it makes a lovely get-away for a hunting weekend."
"Thanks for the invitation," said Algy. "That sounds like a lot of fun. I've never hunted boar."
"I hope you get a chance to come," Boris told him earnestly. "But enough about La Sologne. What else do you want to do today? We'd best make the most of it. We're off to Paris in the morning, remember?"
"There's a motorboat race this afternoon," Algy put in. "I'm quite keen, so I think I'll suffer the crowds and have a look."
"That's today?" Boris asked in surprise.
"If you spent less time drinking and chasing women, you might more easily remember what day of the week it is," Algy teased.
"Don't you Englishmen have an expression about pots and kettles?"
Algy laughed out loud. A few paces behind them, the lad carrying their clubs shook his head in confusion. Foreigners were so strange.
Later that day, Algy and Boris stood in front of a stand of newspapers from various countries in the lobby of the hotel. Algy read the headlines of the pressing German aggression with a frown. It was, he considered, high time he was getting home to Biggles and Ginger. War was coming, and if he didn't want to spend the duration in an internment camp – or worse – he'd better be leaving. Boris stood at his elbow, an equally concerned expression on his face as he perused the headlines.
"I'm afraid hard times are ahead for us all," Boris said in a voice tinged with sadness. "You'd best enjoy the sunshine of Monaco while you can, because before too much longer all of this is going to be but a memory."
Algy agreed. By unspoken consent, they headed toward the bar, but were stopped en route when a youthful voice called out "Monsieur Zarrill, si vous plait!" They turned and a young lad wearing the uniform of a hotel page hurried toward them, carrying an envelope on a silver tray.
"Telegram for you, monsieur," the boy said, holding up the tray. Boris thanked him and tipped him with a small coin from his pocket. He waited until the boy had departed before ripping open the envelope.
"Listen, Algy, I'm really most frightfully sorry," Boris told him as he read the telegram, clearly agitated. "I have some urgent business to attend to – family stuff, you understand – but I won't be able to go to Paris with you after all. I was serious about my earlier invitation to come to the family home in La Sologne some time. If the war doesn't come, you should join me there in October, although of course you are welcome any time. Any time at all. If I'm not around, just ask for Pierre Sondray, my gamekeeper. He'll be delighted to show you around the place." As he said this, Boris reached into a pocket and produced a key, which he handed to Algy. It was a heavy, large, old-fashioned iron affair. He was relieved to have it off his person, and the Soviet agents tailing him were unlikely to suspect where it had disappeared to.
Algy expressed surprised at being given the key and would have demurred, but Boris continued quickly: "I'll write you with my address when I get settled and you can put the key in the post if you don't get the opportunity to go to La Sologne."
Algy stared at the key in his hand for a long moment, trying to work out what the devil was going on, and when he looked up, Boris had vanished. He shook his head in some confusion, shrugged as if the whole thing was beyond him at the moment, and pocketed the key.
A moment later, a large man wearing a garishly florid tie came through the entrance. Upon seeing Algy, he headed straight to him as if he knew him.
"Where is Detziner?" the man asked Algy abruptly.
Algy blinked, taken aback by not only the question, but the man's attitude.
"I know no one of that name," Algy said truthfully.
"You lie."
"So I'm a liar, am I?" Algy's hackles were up, but he was also quite confused.
Before things could get ugly, the concierge hurried over with a youthful but well-muscled porter. "Is this man bothering you, monsieur?" he asked.
"He is," Algy responded curtly. "I've never seen him before in my life, and he's just come into the lobby of the hotel and called me a liar."
The young porter, arms toned from hoisting baggage all day long, forcefully – and none too gently – escorted the man out the door.
Algy gave him a good tip before he turned to the concierge, not a little shaken. "This day has certainly become very strange," he said.
"Perhaps he mistook you for someone else, monsieur," the concierge said. "Or perhaps he's had too much to drink."
"Perhaps," agreed Algy absently. His gaze kept returning to the newspaper kiosk and the jarring headlines. He felt the weight of the key in his jacket pocket. He shook himself briskly and turned back to the concierge. "I know I'd planned to travel to Paris tomorrow with Mr. Zarrill, but I think I'd like to leave at once. Will you please make the necessary arrangements with my bill? I'll be flying myself so there's no need to book any transport, except a taxi to the aerodrome. I'm going up to my room to pack."
"You do not wish to watch the motorboat race, monsieur?" the concierge asked with some surprise, for nearly everyone in the principality had gathered on the quay to watch.
Algy glanced out the large windows facing the harbor, where an excited crowd of onlookers had gathered. He sighed. Twenty minutes ago, he had been excited about the race. Now the bright lights, waving pennants, and cheering crowds seemed brassy and false – a pathetic attempt to keep the reality of the coming conflict at bay. He realized with a start that he missed Biggles.
"I…. think I'd like to go home," he said quietly.
Boris, after leaving Algy standing in the lobby, hurried through a service corridor in the hotel and exited out a rear entrance; his nose telling him he was near the kitchen rubbish disposal. Initially choosing the left, he hastily spun to the right as a cacophony of voices speaking in Russian assailed his ears. He ducked into a side street and wove his way from the fashionable district and then through a maze of narrow residential streets, heading always downhill to the harbor, where he could hear a crowd of people cheering the racers.
As he went, he pulled off and discarded his tuxedo jacket and ripped off his collar and tie, thrusting them deep into a rubbish pile in someone's small garden. He pulled a pair of patched trousers and a shirt that had seen better days from a line of washing that hung between two houses, and hastily exchanged them for his own. Some housewife was going to be surprised, he thought with a faint smile as he hung his dress trousers and boiled shirt back on the washing line in their place. He fastened his belt and patted his pockets to make sure he had transferred everything from his own clothes. He couldn't do anything about his shoes, but he hoped he looked a little bit less out of place among the houses in the Old Town.
He rounded the corner and came upon a group of villagers who were watching the race from the quay. A woman, conspicuously dressed in a widow's veil, and pretty girl in her early teens with her hair in twin braids and wearing a somber black dress were standing next to plump matron who was holding a wiggling toddler in her arms. An extraordinarily ugly man with a cast in one eye had hoisted another child upon his shoulders and was cheering wildly.
"What's he so excited about?" Boris asked the women idly, speaking in French, as he lit a cigarette and tried to aim for an air of bored nonchalance.
"He is the mechanic for the English milord who races in the Bluebird, monsieur," the girl replied quickly, returning her attention to the race and clapping excitedly as the motorboat in question rounded the headland.
"How many times have I told you not to talk to strange men, Jeannette?" the widow whispered sharply to the girl, giving one of her plaits a sharp tug. Two spots of color blossomed on the girl's cheeks, but she pretended to ignore her mother and continued her cheering for the Bluebird.
"I wonder if that English lord is anyone Algy knows," Boris murmured to himself, shielding his eyes from the sun and staring out at the harbor.
The villagers' cheering erupted freshly as the Bluebird pulled into the lead and roared past the finish line, winning the race handily. They never noticed Boris fade away into the throng, and hardly remembered his presence at all.
The End