A short distance ahead the floor of the pass rose abruptly, forming a ridge. It seemed that the Caproni would not be able to clear it. Biggles eased the stick back, but with a shake of his head allowed it to go forward again as the controls went slack with the threat of an impending stall.
The Caproni rushed towards the rocks. Biggles could see every detail clearly. He could see a double gateway, with the little square huts of the customs people, and knew that it was the frontier. They appeared to swoop towards him. What had happened to the Fiats he neither knew nor cared. They no longer mattered.
With every nerve taut, he steadied the stick—eased it back ever so slightly. The machine responded, but its wheels were less than fifty feet from the rising ground, and the frontier a hundred yards ahead. Guards were rushing out of their huts, some to throw themselves flat, others to rush for the shelter of the rocks.
The machine could not do it—Biggles knew that —at least, not in flight. There was one last chance that it might get across, however, and he took it.
With his wheels ten feet from the ground, he jerked the stick back suddenly ; then he thrust it forward.
The Caproni reared like a wounded horse. Slowly, with a sickening roll, it wallowed towards the ground in an uncontrolled stall. The instant before its wheels struck, Biggles, with a swift movement of his left hand, flicked off the ignition. The wheels struck. The machine bounded. There was a splintering crash as it came down again on the brightly painted gates of the frontier, scattering them in a cloud of matchwood.
Then came the long grinding crash of the machine itself. It tore through the second gates, smashed a wing-tip against a white pole carrying the red, white, and blue tricolour of France, and cartwheeled over and over down a steep slope on the other side. The wings collapsed in a tangle of wood, wire, and fabric. The fuselage rolled over three times, and then, sticking its nose into a huge
boulder beside the track, came to a stop. All noise ceased. Utter silence reigned.
Biggles, half-dazed, kicked out the remains of the side window, and having thus made an exit, turned to see what had happened to the others.
Algy, white-faced, a trickle of blood on his lips, was groping about him wildly. Biggles pushed him through the exit, and then fought his way through splinters of debris to the cabin. Ginger was already half-way out through the gunner's cockpit, which the iron gun-ring had prevented from being crushed. McLannoch, Summers, and the Italian mechanic, all looking not a little scared, were trying to get to their feet. 'Get out,' yelled Biggles. '
She may go on fire yet.' There was nothing he could do inside, so he scrambled back to the control cabin, and so through the window to the ground outside. Fiats were still circling high overhead. They could not get lower on account of the towering rocks on either side of the pass. From the splintered gates of the French frontier post men in French uniform were running towards the crash. Biggles helped the others out of the wreck, and then sat down on a burst tyre to wait for them.
Summers joined him, feeling himself tenderly. Ì knew I shouldn't like this flying game,'
he announced ruefully. Ìt's worse than the roundabouts on 'Ampstead 'Eath on a bank holiday.'
Biggles smiled, and then stood up to meet the gesticulating frontier guards and customs officers.
It took him some minutes to calm them. The discovery that they were British did more in this direction than anything Biggles could say.
He took off his tunic and handed it to the N.C.O. in charge of the post with a little bow. '
A souvenir, monsieur,' he said smiling. Algy did the same.
Ì must take you to the officer in charge of my section for examination,' announced the N.C.O. apologetically.
`That will suit me very well,' Biggles told him, in his own language.
The little party set off down the hill.
CHAPTER XX
ADIOS—AND AU REVOIR
THERE is little more to tell. Once in France, although there were formalities to be complied with involving a little delay, there was no further danger to be feared. By the courtesy of the officials, Biggles was permitted to put through a telephone call to the British Embassy in Paris, as a result of which railway tickets were provided to enable them to reach the French capital, where they were met by a member of the staff to whom Biggles imparted the information that he had a document of the greatest importance to deliver to the Foreign Office in London. Communication between the Embassy in Paris and London expedited their departure, so that on the third day after their crash they were provided with identity cards. Biggles had been in touch with his bank, so, once more properly dressed, they took their places in the midday 'plane for Croydon.
There a car awaited them, and they were taken direct to Whitehall. The others sat in a waiting-room while Biggles, as spokesman of the party, was conducted elsewhere. It was an hour before he rejoined them.
`Well, that's that—thank goodness,' he announced. 'And now, what about a bite of real food somewhere ?'
`Here! Just a minute,' broke in Ginger. 'What did they say?'
`Who ?'
`The fellow—or people—you just saw.'
Òh, nothing.'
`Nothing?'
`Well, I told them just what happened—and one or two other things which I thought would interest them.'
Ànd they said nothing?'
`Well, they said, "Thanks very much." What else did you expect them to say ?'
Àfter all the messes we got in over their perishing letter—by the way, what was in it ?'
Biggles shook his head. 'I haven't the remotest idea,' he answered lightly.
`Do you mean to say they didn't tell you ?'
`You bet your life they didn't. But they've agreed to pay our out-of-pocket expenses—
and when the British government does that you can reckon that they are very much obliged to you. That's right, Jock, isn't it ?'
`Ye're dead richt—but they did once gi' me a tin medal.'
`They once gave me a week in jug for loiterin' wivout invisible means of substance,'
growled Summers.
Biggles laughed. Then he became serious. `No, chaps,' he said, as they walked slowly towards the exit, 'it's just because any Britisher would do what we've done that the old Empire goes on. I've done what I set out to do, so what have I got to grumble about, anyway ?'
`What was that ?' asked Algy. 'It's so long ago that I've forgotten.'
Ì've got rid of my fever,' murmured Biggles, and then whistled a passing taxi. 'Cafe Royal,' he told the driver, and crowding in with the others, slammed the door.
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