Chapter 5
Quick Work
When Biggles and Ginger disembarked from the British Airways BAe 111 the following morning at a rainy and depressing Charles de Gaulle, they were met by a representative of the conference organisers, given name badges and escorted into an arrivals lounge to await the American delegate whose aircraft had been delayed. The main party had already gone ahead to the hotel, but as it was not expected to be more than half an hour before the New York plane landed, it was decided to hold the later arrivals until they could all be transferred together.
Ginger, sticking close to Biggles, covertly surveyed the rest of the party. They were a mixed bunch, he thought. Only a few of them conformed to his idea of a top scientist, he realised. Many of them he thought were surprisingly young to be eminent in their field and not all of the scientists were accompanied. Ginger eyed the wives with especial interest as he was likely to be spending most of his time with them. They ranged in age from their mid-twenties to mid-forties and came in all shapes and sizes from the sylph-like model to the comfortably upholstered mother figure. Some of them had already struck up an acquaintance, having met at previous conferences, or discovered a common language or common interest through photographs of their children.
The men tended to drift into groups and were either carrying on from where they left off at the last conference or, if this was their first appearance, discussing recent papers. Biggles blessed the thoroughness of his briefing; at least what they were discussing made sense, he thought, although he doubted he would make an original contribution to the general body of scientific knowledge.
Ginger was hovering, wondering how he could break the ice and gain admittance to the women's circle when he realised that a pretty blonde was reading his name badge. She was tall, athletic and had startling blue eyes. Seeing that he had noticed her, she read his alias aloud in an attractive Scandinavian accent.
"Lady?" she asked. "Why do they write that on your label? You are not a man?"
'That's a good start!' thought Ginger, startled, but realised that she was curious rather than accusing. "It's a title," he explained, slipping into the character of Algy's sister. "Like Mrs. My father is an earl." At least the ice had been broken, he thought, because Greta, as she was called, then wanted to know what that meant and the conversation progressed from there. Her husband, Bent Petersen, worked on jet engines and they lived in Stockholm. She did not normally accompany him to conferences, she told Ginger, but the organisers had arranged to have the children cared for so that she could have a holiday in Paris, a city she had always wanted to see. She had not wanted to leave them, but the organisers had been so insistent and she did want to see the French capital so much.
She prattled on happily to Ginger's delight, relieving him of the necessity to say much. Although what she told him gave him food for thought, he did his best to look interested and make suitable comments when she showed him the photographs of her family. In response to her question, he replied that he did not have any children; he was newly married. Biggles and he had discussed this tricky subject and decided that being on honeymoon was the best way of explaining any possible lack of knowledge of each other's more intimate habits. Having established an entrée, Ginger started sounding out the others about what had made them decide to come to Paris.
Biggles, seeing that Ginger was occupied, attached himself to one of the larger groups and started to make the acquaintance of his fellow delegates. Thanks to the homework he had done, he found quite a few of their names and Institutions familiar.
There was a stir at the entrance as the American delegate and his wife arrived, complaining loudly about the delays and the weather. The American physicist, Cyrus P Markham III according to the name badge that was handed to him, was short, overweight and balding. In his preparation for the mission, Biggles had read several of his papers and knew that there was a shrewd brain behind the horn-rimmed glasses that concealed pale grey eyes. His wife was a blowsy peroxide blonde who was also carrying several pounds of excess baggage about her person. They breezed into their respective groups like a hurricane through the Pacific.
Mary-Lou soon had all the wives organised and talking to each other. Ginger marvelled at her bossiness. Clearly she spent a lot of time at conferences and had the routine down to a fine art. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that her husband was doing the same for the men's group. It seemed like only a matter of moments before they were embarking on the shuttle service en route for the hotel.
Ginger hoped desperately that Biggles would come and sit beside him because he wanted a word about the arrangements for the following day and to let him know about what Greta had told him, which he felt was suspicious, but he saw Mrs Markham ("call me Mary-Lou, honey," she had admonished him for being formal) moving to head Biggles off and thought his luck was out.
"They're on their honeymoon," Greta called out as Mary-Lou insisted that Biggles sit by her. "They should be together."
"Waal, in that case," drawled Mary-Lou expansively, slapping Biggles on the shoulder, "go to it, boy!"
Biggles shuddered inwardly and sank down gratefully beside Ginger. "What an awful creature," he breathed. "Her husband isn't quite so bad."
"Lean this way a bit," whispered Ginger quietly. "I think I might have a possible lead. If we've got our heads together no one will hear and Mary-Lou will think we're making the most of our honeymoon."
"I wonder if that was such a wise idea after all," mused Biggles, his eyes on the brassy American who seemed to have turned her attention to one of the Swiss delegates.
"It's saved you from having to sit next to her, at least," Ginger pointed out with a smile, "and what could be more natural than to bring your new wife along? Anyway," he continued, "listen to this," and he proceeded to tell Biggles what Greta had told him. "She is the only one who has had any pressure applied. I made discreet enquiries of the others. They were all either coming anyway, or made a last minute decision to attend. Obviously I don't know about the ones that have already gone on to the hotel, and it may be nothing," he concluded, "but on the other hand, if anybody is intending to kidnap them, that could be a reason for insisting she accompanies her husband. It would be a lot easier to grab them both if they are together."
"You could be right," admitted Biggles. "I'll try to make sure he and I are in the same seminars and you'd better try to keep with her. Do you know what is planned for tomorrow?"
"There's a tour of the Louvre," stated Ginger, consulting a sheet of paper in the folder he, like all the wives, had been given. "And then a trip along the Seine in a bateau-mouche." He looked up and saw Mary-Lou watching them. "Ah, Paris! How romantic!" he exclaimed loudly and put his head on Biggles shoulder.
"Don't overdo it!" Biggles warned him tersely and felt Ginger shake with suppressed laughter.
"Serves you right for setting me up with von Stalhein!" muttered Ginger into Biggles' lapel. "That was a dirty trick! I nearly died of shock. If Algy hadn't said I'd lost my voice, I would have been speechless anyway," he gurgled, appreciating the humour in the situation now he was looking back on it from a safe distance.
Biggles also saw the funny side of it and started to laugh as well. For the benefit of any interested spectators he announced, "that's what I love about you, your sense of humour!"
They were still laughing when the coach drew up outside the hotel.
