Biggles Married III Chapter 3.

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. 

Biggles drove back to Mount Street and parked his car in its usual space. He walked into the flat to find Jane breakfasting on coffee and toast. “Morning, darling,” she said, without glancing up from the paper she was reading. “Where did you go?”

“Out,” said Biggles, neglecting to mention that he had met Ginger. “I went for a drive.”

“Why didn’t you wake me? I could have come with you.”

Biggles leaned down to kiss his wife on the cheek. “You looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Awww.” Jane returned the kiss. “You’re so sweet, James. Want some coffee?”

“I think I’ll have some tea, and perhaps some bacon and eggs as well,” said Biggles, reaching for the section of the paper that Jane was not reading. “Thank goodness we’re not on the front page anymore,” he said fervently. “If I never see another reporter again for the rest of my life it’ll be too soon.”

“Do you want to go out later, darling?”

“I’ll go if you want to go. Is there somewhere you wanted to go?”

“I’m not sure yet. I thought I might go shopping.”

“Whatever you like, dear.”

Jane drained her coffee and got up from the table. “I’ll just go and get changed, then, James.”

Biggles took his time over his breakfast. By the time he was done, Jane had reappeared wearing exceptionally high heels, giant sunglasses, and a bright pink dress. “Are you ready, James?”

“Of course, dear. You look lovely.”

Jane pecked his cheek lovingly. “Let’s go.”

They walked down the stairs, Biggles hurrying to open the front door for his wife.

The events of the next few seconds occurred with lightning speed.

Jane stepped out onto the pavement in front of the house. Biggles turned to close the door behind them. As he did so, he heard, with only half of his mind, the sound of a car shrieking to a halt close behind him.

Biggles turned back to make a casual remark to his wife about wild driving in London, and then, with abrupt shock, discovered that she was no longer standing where he had expected her to be standing.

At the same time, he realized, again with only part of his mind, that someone was screaming quite near to him.

And the screaming sounded rather familiar.

Enlightenment burst upon him in a flash, and he darted forward to the car parked by the pavement in front of the flat. The back door of the car had been flung open, and two masked assailants were attempting to drag a screaming and struggling Jane into the car with them. A third masked man was at the wheel, shouting and cursing, clearly eager to get away.

“Let go of my wife!” snapped Biggles, catching hold of Jane’s arm and attempting to pull her back out of the car. “What on earth do you fellows think you’re doing?”

None of the masked men answered him. Jane, caught in between the impossible tug-of-war, began wailing hysterically.

“Drive! Go! Drive!” yelled one of the men in the back seat, shouting to make himself heard over Jane’s screams and wails. “Go on, what are you waiting for?”

The car began to move forward, and Biggles found himself running alongside the vehicle, still clinging to his wife’s arm. So preoccupied was he that he did not notice the lamppost directly in his path until it was too late. The force of the impact was so strong that he saw stars, and amidst the haze of pain he was dimly aware that his fingers had slid off of Jane’s arm as the men inside the car gave one last almighty tug.

The next thing he knew, he was lying in a helpless heap on the pavement, watching despairingly as the car containing his wife and her kidnappers drove away in a cloud of dust.

&&&

Ginger and Bertie met for lunch to compare notes. “Any luck?” asked Ginger eagerly, after they had ordered.

Bertie shook his head with disgust. “Not a bally thing, old boy. Do you know, one landlady actually had the nerve to tell me that the mold on her wall was purely decorative and that if I looked at it from a certain angle it would look like France? I mean to say, jolly steep, what?”

Ginger smiled wanly at Bertie’s outrage. “I haven’t found anything either,” he confessed. “We have to find somewhere, and quickly too. We can’t live in hotels forever. We have to do something about Algy, too. I found some drafts of resignation letters in the bin the other day. I think he’s really thinking about it.”

Bertie took out his monocle and began to polish it with unusual vigor. “That’s a jolly kettle of fish,” he muttered. “Algy resigning, Biggles off to America…If this goes on, we soon won’t have a bally air police department to speak of.”

Ginger cupped his chin in his hands. His steak had arrived, but he no longer had any appetite. “If only we could get them to talk to each other,” he said wistfully. “Things would probably be all right if Algy could get everything off of his chest and Biggles could apologize or something. It’s all this not talking that’s causing all the problems. I don’t see why Algy’s so upset, anyway. It’s not as if he hasn’t got the money to get himself a new flat, and a fairly nice one, at that.”

“There must be some way to get them together,” said Bertie. “How about getting Algy to go somewhere for a bite and not telling him that Biggles will be there, and all that sort of thing?”

Ginger snorted. “And how are you going to get Algy to go somewhere for a bite? He hasn’t eaten for days now—just smokes like a chimney. Have you seen his ashtrays?”

“Yes,” murmured Bertie. “Tricky sort of situation, don’t you know?”

Ginger stabbed his fork savagely into his steak. “We should be able to think of something,” he opined desperately. “We have to.”

&&&

The phone rang, shrilly.

Algy glanced up, annoyed at the distraction. He looked around for Ginger or Bertie, and then remembered that they had gone flat hunting and would not be back until later.

He went back to the file he was working on, ignoring the noise. With no small satisfaction, he heard the ringing stop after about a minute.

The relief was only temporary, however. After half a second, the ringing began again.

“Oh, for goodness’ sakes!” snapped Algy, clapping his hands over his ears and trying to concentrate on the words in front of him.

The phone fell silent again and then began to ring again.

Algy made a sound not unlike that of a hungry tiger, got up from his desk, and stalked over to the instrument. Lifting the receiver, he barked into the phone, “WHAT?”

“Algy?”

In spite of himself, something caught in Algy’s chest at the familiar voice. It was Biggles, of course, and judging by his tone, something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Please don’t hang up,” continued Biggles, speaking very fast. “Please. I need your help. I know you’re angry at me, but—” he broke off with a sound like a sob.

“What’s happened?” asked Algy. Expressionless.

“It’s Jane,” choked out Biggles. “She’s—she—they—”

Algy did not wait for the end of the sentence. “Where are you now?”

“Home,” whispered Biggles. “I’ve broken my arm. Algy, listen—”

Algy did not wait for more. Snatching his jacket from the back off his chair, he ended the call with an abrupt, “I’m on my way."

Go to Chapter 4. 

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