Chapter 3 - Opening Moves

'Portugal is one of our oldest allies,' the Air Commodore had said, 'and whatever we might think privately of its current regime, we don't want to do anything to upset it. Tread carefully.'

'At Flores in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay,' quoted Frecks, recalling a schooldays rhyme.

'We're in San Miguel,' Worrals corrected. 'Right group, wrong island.'

'No problems so far – except from the rain.'

'Why should there be? Tourists bring money and dictators have never been averse to that. But it's certainly wet and windy.'

The streets of Ponta Delgado were narrow and busy and it was hard to avoid being splashed by passing vehicles. The two women ducked into a side street to the unpretentious entrance to their hotel and climbed the stairs to the reception. A smartly dressed policeman was talking to the receptionist. He turned and smiled at them as they approached.

'Ah, the English ladies,' he said. 'Welcome to the Azores.'

'Thank you,' said Worrals.

'Captain Pereira, at your service. I hope you have a pleasant stay.'

'I'm sure we shall. Do you usually drop in to wish the guests well?'

'I have to keep an eye on our visitors. Part of my job.'

'Very kind of you.'

'Not at all. A pity you are here in the wrong season. It is wet and cold in December.'

'Warmer than England,' Worrals assured. 'This is like our summer at times. And we can't always choose when we can get away.'

'Will you be seeing much of our island?'

'We'll be touring around. Why? Any parts we shouldn't go?'

'No, no.' He reached for his cap. 'Enjoy your stay, ladies. And have no fears. We shall ensure you come to no harm.'

A final farewell smile and he descended the stairs. The receptionist looked anxiously after him.

'Does he usually do that?' queried Frecks.

The woman shook her head and handed Worrals her keys.

When they were alone, Worrals gave Frecks a warning sign.

'They may have bugged the room,' she whispered. 'Careful what you say.'

When they emerged again the rain had ceased but the wind was persisting, especially when they came out by the harbour.

'Well,' said Worrals as they walked beneath cheery Christmas lights, 'what did you make of that?'

'Do you think he was checking up on us?'

'I'm sure he was. The question is on whose behalf.'

'What do you mean?'

'You saw the receptionist. She was chatty enough when we arrived. Now she's terrified to say a word. Police have a lot of power in dictatorships, partly because their bosses are usually paranoid. Whether Salazar is like that or not, I don't know, but he was in a fair way to being ousted by a popular general not so long ago and prevailed in very dubious circumstances. Now the general is no more but you can bet there's a sharp eye being kept out for any potential successors. Our friendly policeman may just be a zealous servant of his official master. On the other hand. .'

'You think . . .'

'Dictatorships also breed corruption. He could be here on the payroll of the people we're here to seek – and making sure we don't get too close.'

'He seems to be something of a womaniser, too. He was being very familiar with that receptionist when we came in and you could see she wasn't happy about it.'

'That could work to our advantage. That type of male usually underestimates female capacities because he thinks of us only as passion fodder. Let's hope that's the case this time.'

'Best make sure we don't underestimate him,' pointed out Frecks.

'Don't worry,' said Worrals grimly, turning towards a multitude of lights, defying the approaching darkness, 'I'm not likely to do that.'

There was a minor surprise the next morning, when the clouds of the previous day had cleared away and the sun shone brightly. Worrals and Frecks were walking by the harbour again when Frecks suddenly stopped.

'Look at that,' she said, a note of incredulity in her voice as she stared out to sea. 'Am I dreaming or is that an island out there?'

'It's an island all right,' Worrals confirmed. 'Wonder why we didn't see it yesterday.'

'Not so clear, presumably.'

An unwelcome voice came from behind them.

'Ah, the English ladies. What is so interesting to you?'

'Good morning Captain Pereira,' Worrals said, turning round. 'We were discussing the island. Neither of us spotted it yesterday.'

The policeman smiled.

'Ah, that is Santa Maria. You see it today and tomorrow it is gone. A good trick, hah?'

'Sea haze, I suppose,' said Worrals, quite willing to talk about such a safe and trivial subject.

'Yes. The island is 50 kilometres away. If it is not a clear day, it cannot be seen. Luckily we police can see whatever the weather.'

He saluted extravagantly and left them. Worrals watched his departure suspiciously.

Biggles eased his aircraft on to the grass runway at Auki, the main settlement of Malaita in the Eastern Solomon Islands, gauging the wind so that he could straighten up the nose of the plane at the precise moment needed to make a smooth landing. He and Ginger jumped out and watched the others follow them in. He looked around. A tin hut was the only evidence of a terminal building.

'Hardly Heathrow,' said Algy coming up to him. 'Any signs of life?'

Biggles frowned.

'Wonder if it's safe to leave the planes here,' he mused.

'We can't take them with us, old boy, if you see what I mean,' commented Bertie.

Smyth, who for years had acted as their mechanic and had been added to the party, joined them.

'I can always stay around and keep an eye on things,' he offered.

'It might have to come to that,' considered Biggles. 'It means tying a man down but I can't see an alternative at present.'

'Here's someone at any rate,' Algy reported as an ancient truck snorted its way towards them.

'Good,' said Biggles, a note of relief in his voice. 'I thought we were supposed to be met.'

A grizzled white-haired head looked at them from the driving window.

'Hi,' said the driver. The voice was American and the ruddy complexion told of a long sojourn in the tropics by its owner. 'You're smack on schedule.'

'So this is your airport,' said Biggles. 'Not much activity.'

'Nope. If you wanted to sneak in unobserved, this wasn't the way to do it.'

'What's in the hut?'

'Fuel! I'm Joe Hunt, by the way. You'll be Bigglesworth, I take it.'

'Yes!'

Biggles introduced the others.

'We were wondering what we should do about the aircraft,' he confessed.

'Lock 'em and leave 'em,' was the succinct reply. 'They should be all right. My instructions are to take you home for a meal.'

'Whose instructions are they?'

Joe's face creased in a grin.

'My wife's,' he said. 'Jump on the back. It isn't far.'

Five bumpy minutes later, Joe's wife, dark-haired and vivacious, was welcoming them.

'Dump your kit in the spare bedroom,' she said. 'Two of you can sleep in there, the others in the long room at the front.'

'Sure you can cope with us all?' Biggles queried. 'We can always find a hotel.'

'People usually stay with us. Look strange if they didn't. Sit down and prepare to eat.'

An appetising smell supported her comments.

'The word is,' Joe began, when the second helping of meatloaf had been consumed, 'that you're over here to advise our local police. You can tell that to the canaries but I'm not probing into your real reasons. Officially I know what I've said. Unofficially I think you'll want to be heading south soon. If anything strange is happening, it'll be there.'

Biggles looked at him carefully.

'I take it flying's not an option,' he said.

'Only by helicopter. Flying boat'd be difficult because of the reefs. The main problem you have is that, out of Auki, there aren't many police for you to train. If you're after someone, you won't catch them by surprise.'

Biggles watched two geckos manoeuvring past each other on the ceiling.

'Hmm,' he said doubtfully. 'I'll need to sleep on this.'

'I don't suppose it really changes anything,' he said later, when they were sitting in a police Land Rover, parked by a quiet stretch of road. 'We always knew we'd stand out whatever we did.'

'There is this about it,' said Bertie, 'whoever's trying to contact us won't have any problems of recognition.'

'How they'll do that without being spotted themselves will be difficult,' Biggles considered. 'We're bound to be watched.'

'Even if we aren't,' said Algy, 'word'll go around about the places we stop and the people we talk to.'

'But if we stop a lot and talk a lot,' suggested Bertie, 'there'll be too many to check up on.'

'That's what we'll have to do,' decided Biggles with a sigh. 'It's going to be a long job.'

Some days later Biggles and Ginger had arrived at their fifth village, settled by the shore with another part across a small lagoon. Biggles stopped the Land Rover and gazed anxiously at the water.

'I don't like separating,' he said unhappily, 'but can't help feeling that we'll need to be available in both these places. One of us will have to go out to the island.'

'I'll go,' Ginger offered. 'Will you stay by the Land Rover or sleep in one of the huts?'

'Should be safe enough to accept their hospitality. We've been okay so far.'

A villager approached to greet them.

'Wanem name belong you?' he asked.

Biggles told him.

'What name belong you?' he asked in turn.

'Name belong me, Patrick,' said the man, unexpectedly. 'You go long where?'

'Me come village belong you?' Biggles requested, drawing on his limited stock of Pidgin.

The man turned and walked towards the huts. Biggles and Ginger followed. Another villager joined them.

'One feller canoe, him catchim island quick time?' Biggles queried.

Evidently it did for, a few minutes later, Ginger had his kit in the back of a tiny canoe and Patrick was paddling him across. Biggles gave him a wave and returned to the Land Rover.

Ginger attempted to engage Patrick in conversation as the canoe traversed the tiny stretch of water but he soon abandoned the effort, contenting himself with watching the muscular arms wielding the paddles. The water was clear and populated by a multitude of many-coloured fish, mainly small and moving with apparent equanimity as if in a natural predator-free aquarium.

They arrived and he scrambled ashore. Patrick explained to some curious villagers why he had come and he was escorted to the guest hut, where he was to stay, by a bevy of young boys, wearing only faded grey shorts, in contrast to their vibrant black skins.

Ginger paused at the door of the hut to thank his hosts for their hospitality at such short notice. A small group had gathered and on one face there was no smile. Ginger caught his breath as he noticed it for it reminded him forcibly of a face he had seen before. This might be some relation. The last time he had been close to such features, though, they had been glaring over the sleeping form of Air Commodore Raymond and there had been a knife upraised in the hand. This must be the very village from which the would-be assassin had sprung.

'Postcards,' said Worrals, when their attentive policeman had gone.

She and Frecks entered a small shop opposite the harbour. A slim, dark-haired young lady smiled at them. Worrals and Frecks selected their cards and took them to the counter. To their relief the girl spoke English.

'I understand there is a house that can be rented,' said Worrals after she had paid over the money and placed the cards in her handbag.

'Yes!' the girl confirmed.

She mentioned the name of a small village on the north side of the island and showed Worrals where it was on the map.

'May we rent it for a week?' Worrals asked.

'But yes. It is vacant at present. You may have it from tomorrow if you wish.'

'Thank you,' said Worrals. 'That is what we would like to do.'

Next day, after a long bus ride, they moved in. The house was large and white and stood on its own, a little apart from the rest of the village, up some steep steps from the road.

'This'll keep us fit,' gasped Frecks, struggling up with her cases.

'We may need to be,' said Worrals, grimly. 'Let's go in.'

The large country house on the Devonshire/Somerset border was well lit up when Gimlet arrived.

'Thought your pal lived in Sussex,' said Copper, who was chauffeuring.

'He does,' said Gimlet. 'This is his uncle's place. Freddie's looking after it and him while his cousin's away.'

Copper went off to park the car after delivering his chief to the front door. His evening would then be spent commiserating with other chauffeurs about the injustices of the class system and how some masters were a sight better than others.

Gimlet had been here before and the butler's greeting combined respect with cordiality.

'Good evening, Captain King,' he said, 'may I venture to hope that you are well.'

'I'm fine, thank you, Jenkins,' said Gimlet. 'You are well, I trust – and the family.'

'Yes sir, thank you, sir. Captain Ashton is in the library at present. He requests that you join him there for a word or two before the evening begins. Only a few guests have arrived so far.'

'Thank you, Jenkins,' Gimlet acknowledged. 'I'll find my own way there.'

'Very good, sir.'

The library door was open and Gimlet walked in. A middle-aged man, who had been sitting in one of the armchairs, reading a book, got to his feet and strode towards him, hand outstretched.

'Hello Lorry, old man,' he said familiarly. 'How's things?'

'Fine thanks, Freddie,' Gimlet returned. 'You're looking in good order.'

'Can't complain. Take a pew. Drink?'

'Not just yet, thanks. I need to stay alert tonight.'

'How's Lorrington Hall?'

'Damned expensive to run.'

'Same here. Upkeep of these big properties is becoming impossible. Then you have that place in the Highlands, too.'

'I was there last week,' Gimlet admitted. 'You must come up some time.'

'Thanks I'd like that.' Freddie leaned forward and lowered his voice. 'Your man's coming,' he confided. 'Well enough known in these parts. Respectable enough by all accounts.'

'I didn't expect anything else.'

'He's been here before so the invitation won't seem unusual. Pleasant enough fellow.'

They joined the other guests, many of whom Gimlet already knew. He chatted briefly for a while, commiserating with others about the plight of the landed gentry. Others arrived, dinner-jacketed like himself, and soon Jenkins was announcing Sir Simon Villiers-Silver.

Gimlet sipped his drink and watched Freddie making the introductions. Sir Simon was tall and distinguished. His hair was beginning to grey but his body was lean and lanky, bespeaking much exercise. Eventually he was brought over to Gimlet's group, Freddie introducing Gimlet formally as Captain Lorrington King.

'Pleased to meet you,' a soft voice said. 'Ghastly weather, what?'

Gimlet agreed. 'Villiers,' he said, thoughtfully. 'Wasn't that the name of the Dukes of Buckingham years ago?'

'Quite right, it was. I'm some kind of descendant, I think but one of my ancestors was something of a rogue, it seems, and we haven't been able to pursue the trail beyond him.'

'But for that you might have a peerage,' Gimlet suggested.

'Shouldn't wonder. Lot of usurpers in the House of Lords these days, I expect. Lots of wrong people in positions of power. Not easy to shift them. How about you? Some sort of soldier, Freddie said.'

'I did my bit,' Gimlet admitted, modestly. 'Bumped into Freddie from time to time in the course of it. Just a bloated capitalist landowner now, I'm afraid.'

'Best way to be.'

Freddie ushered him away to meet another group.

'The problem is,' Gimlet commented as Copper drove him home, 'that we don't know for sure whether he's involved or not. There may be a motive in a disgruntled would-be peer, feeling hard done by in the aristocratic lists. Any news from downstairs?'

'I 'ad a word with 'is chauffeur. General topics only. 'e shut up like a clam if anyone mentioned 'is boss.'

'Very loyal of him. Is that normal?'

'No it ain't. The others was 'aving a right beef.'

'Hmm,' said Gimlet. 'We might be wrong, of course.'

'Not Trapper,' Copper asserted. 'If this Sir Villiers is on the level, what's 'e doing giving 'ouseroom to a couple of characters who tried to blow us up? Descended from Dukes, is 'e? Long John Silver, more like.'

The car drove on along narrow high-hedged country lanes.

'Hope they've kept the fire going,' Gimlet murmured. 'That place of mine can be damn cold in winter.'

'Mist forming too,' growled Copper. 'Just what we didn't want.'

'Maybe we should have stayed at Freddie's,' Gimlet considered. 'He did offer.'

The mist thickened and Copper slowed down, straining to see the road ahead. Moments later, as they turned a corner, a large shape loomed up at them. Copper, with an oath, swerved violently towards the only space available, which was to the right on the wrong side of the road. He swerved back again to avoid the ditch and the car came to a halt grazing a hedgerow and part of a farm gate.

'Well, that was a near thing and no mistake, my oath it was,' Copper breathed after a moment of silence.

'Damn fool,' said Gimlet. 'Where is he now?'

'Gone,' said Copper. 'Didn't even slow down.'

'Any damage?'

'Only to the paintwork.'

'Let's be getting along then. Incidentally, did you get a look at the vehicle?'

'Too busy dodging it.'

'I only caught a glance, but it looked to me as if it might answer the description of the lorry that gave a lift to that pair of villains the police followed to Sir Simon's village. What was the chauffeur like?'

'Short, stocky,' Copper began, adding other details as he thought of them.

'Hmm,' said Gimlet. 'He may have been one of that gang of thugs Bertie and I encountered. Did he see me?'

''e was around when I dropped you off at the beginning.'

'Was he now? I wonder if he acted unilaterally or with his boss's blessing. Villiers-Silver didn't strike me as the kind of person who would act impulsively.'

''e'd 'ave 'ad your description from the planeload, even if that chauffeur wasn't involved. Maybe your name too.'

'Yes, I shouldn't be surprised. Be interesting when I visit him.'

'You ain't goin' to 'is place after this.'

'Why not? He's too sensible to try anything in his own house, knowing that I'll have told people where I'm going. Well, let's hope there aren't any more untoward incidents to delay us. I'm looking forward to a nice hot nightcap round a warm fire. This evening is chilling by the minute.'

'Sounds good to me,' said Copper and drove on.