by W E Johns
“So deah Mistah Tidore talked, did he?”
“You know he did.”
“And now he will talk no more. Deah—deah. What a foolish man.”
“Save your breath.”
“There’s no need to push that gun so hard, deah man. It hurts.”
“It’ll hurt more if it goes off. It has a hair trigger and my finger’s on it, so walk carefully.”
As they passed Tidore’s gates two men ran out, but they pulled up short when they saw what was happening. Presently another appeared. Remaining on the path these three kept pace with the procession like boys marching beside a band. Behind, a fourth man, who had got out of the stationary car, followed on the other side of the road.
“I see we’re getting quite a party,” remarked Biggles. “But don’t worry. While the spectators keep their places you’ll come to no harm.”
“How long does this nonsense go on?”
“Until we get to where we’re going.”
Ginger himself was wondering how long this state of affairs was to continue. He suspected Biggles was making for the next cross-roads, where a main thoroughfare, with street lamps and a certain amount of traffic might have an effect on the situation, and perhaps allow them to get clear without interference.
It never came to that.
They had nearly reached the cross-roads when a car, its headlights blazing, swung round the corner and accelerated up the avenue. There was no reason to suppose it was anything to do with the Count: nor, in fact, was it; but it might, thought Ginger, interrupt the proceedings, since, as both parties were in the middle of the road, one or the other would have to give way. And so it fell out.
The driver of the car sounded his horn, slowed down, and altered course a little to avoid running into the pedestrians who occupied the position that should have been his, on the crown of the road. All this was perfectly natural and to be expected.
“Watch where you’re going,” Biggles told the prisoner sharply, for the Count was still walking straight on regardless of the car.
The Count did not answer, and a second or two later Ginger realized that he must already have made up his mind what he was going to do.
As the car drew nearly level, and would have passed, he jumped sideways like a cat into the headlights, causing the driver to swerve, brakes screeching, tyres biting the road in a dry-skid stop. In a flash he had darted round it, putting the car between him and Biggles, so that what he did after that could not be seen. All this had happened in less time than it takes to tell.
The situation became more confusing when the driver of the car, a white man in spotless ducks—who had good cause to be furious—flung open the door and leapt out presumably to demand an explanation from the man who had apparently done his best to cause an accident. At all events, voicing his displeasure in no uncertain terms he left the car on the off side. As he did so, with his attention no doubt fully occupied with the Count, Biggles opened the door on the near side and slid into the seat he had vacated. “ In you get,” he snapped at Ginger.
Ginger obeyed with alacrity. The engine had of course been left running. Biggles let in the clutch and away they went, leaving the unlucky driver shouting and gesticulating.
“What a crazy business,” muttered Biggles. “But we needed the car more than he did.”
“I hope we never have to explain that to him,” returned Ginger, cogently.
“He’ll soon get it back. The police will find it.”
Looking back through the rear window Ginger could see the driver standing alone in the middle of the road, the Count and his men having decided, evidently, not to waste time in explanations.
Biggles did not go far. As soon as they were within comfortable walking distance of the airfield he pulled in to the side of the road, and leaving the car there, hurried on. “We’re well out of that,” he said grimly.
“Are you telling me,” rejoined Ginger.
“It was as tight a spot as we were ever in,” averred Biggles. “Not that we’re out of the wood yet. With two gangs hunting us, and the police looking for us for pinching that car, I have a feeling we’ve outstayed our welcome on this particular island and the sooner we’re off it the better.”
“You mean, you’re going to pull out?”
“I am. We now have what we came for; more, in fact. To stay here would involve us in explanations with the powers that be that could keep us here for weeks. Besides, there’s no point in letting Algy and Bertie waste time and petrol looking for what we know. We’ll get across to the rendezvous.”
“Aren’t you going to say anything about the murder of Tidore?”
“Of course I am. We can’t gloss over that. But not in person. I shan’t shed any tears for Tidore. He was as crooked as the rest of ‘em. He got what he’d been asking for, for a long time. They’ll all come to that eventually.”
“We certainly started something.”
“Not all of it. The Count’s gang had Tidore on the spot when we arrived. Admittedly, we sort of expedited matters. When the Count realized that Tidore was going to squeal, and give us the lot, he had to act fast. But he wasn’t quite quick enough.”
“What will you do about Tidore?”
“I’ll scribble a note to the Chief of Police here and leave it with Carwell to be delivered as soon as possible. I’ll tell him I’ll make a full report later. That’s the easiest way out. I don’t want to stay here now Tidore’s end is buttoned up. We’ll get cracking on the other side, the Count’s end.”
They reached the Halifax without further trouble. Ginger kept watch while Biggles went inside to write the note. When it was done it was handed to one of the airport attendants for delivery.
“Phew!” breathed Biggles. “What a lot of work we give ourselves.” He looked at his watch. “After eleven, by gosh! How time flies when you’re busy.”
“I see the headlights of a car coming up the road,” observed Ginger. “With no machines due in or out it seems to be in a hurry.”
“Then let’s get airborne. We’ve a long way to go. Keep an eye on that car while I start up.”
The car came on. It turned into the airport. It did not stop in the car park, but running on, turned towards the Halifax. Ginger waited for no more. He got in, closed the door, and as he dropped into his seat beside Biggles told him what was happening.
“I don’t think we’ll wait to see what they want,” said Biggles, his hand going to the throttle.
The airscrews responded and the machine moved forward.
Ginger watched the airfield dropping away behind them. “The car’s gone over to the green Dakota,” he reported.
“Looks as if we’re to have company over the rolling deep.”
“That Dakota could carry a gun,” said Ginger anxiously.
“I’d bet on it,” returned Biggles. “ Don’t worry. Before it can use it on us, if that’s the idea, it’ll have to find us, and I don’t think it’ll do that. Give me the course for Kutaradja. We’ll call there to top up and maybe send a signal to Kuala to let Algy know we’re on our way. You might as well try to get some sleep.”
“How about you?”
“I shall be all right till we’re across the drink. We ought to make our landfall about dawn. There’ll be time for dreaming then.”
Ginger looked out. Behind them the lights of Ceylon were fading. Above, the sky was ablaze with stars. Before them stretched the Indian Ocean, rolling on and on for nearly a thousand miles without a break.
CHAPTER VI
BIGGLES TAKES A CHANCE
FOR a while Ginger watched the sky behind them in case the Dakota picked them up, but seeing nothing of it he relaxed, and presently dozed, on and off. Each time he opened his eyes Biggles was sitting there beside him as motionless as a statue. With the ghastly glow of the luminous instruments reflected on his face he looked hardly human. What was he thinking about? Ginger wondered. What do pilots think about on long over-water flights when, with nothing to look at but vagu
e, mysterious distances, they can only sit still, hour after hour, pondering? Only they know.
The weather remained fine. The cool night air through which the aircraft, on three-quarters throttle, was thrust by its ceaselessly-droning engines, was as soft as milk. Below and on all sides rolled the ocean, to the ends of the world, as it seemed, and beyond.
At last, seeing the stars ahead begin to pale, the first sign of approaching dawn, he roused himself and looked at the time. Four o’clock. He checked with the route map on his knees and then turned his eyes to the north-eastern quadrant. Far away, perhaps fifty miles or more, a spark of light which he knew could not be a star hung low over the horizon. He was glad to see it, knowing it could only be Great Nicobar, the most southerly of that group of Islands, rising two thousand feet from the tropic sea. It told him they were on course, and only a little more than a hundred miles from their first objective on Sumatra.
He went aft, made coffee and took a cup to Biggles. “Like me to take over for a bit?” he suggested.
“Don’t bother. Not much farther to go. She’s flying herself, anyway.”
They sipped their coffee.
“Be careful what you say when we’re on the ground,” warned Biggles. “At an airfield so near their headquarters the gang are almost certain to have a spy to report who comes and goes. Tidore, for that matter, probably had a bigger organization than we’ve been led to believe, or the other people wouldn’t have bothered about him.”
“What are you going to say to the Traffic Manager, or whoever’s in charge at Kutaradja?”
“That will depend on the man. If he’s a European, and strikes me as being trustworthy, I shall ask him a few discreet questions. Otherwise I shall say no more than is necessary. His manner should tell us. The enemy has the use of radio as well as us, and may have put through a signal. Keep an eye open for that Dakota. It’ll probably make for its island base, but it may come here, and now several cats are out of their bags we can’t afford to take chances.”
“I wonder how much they overheard of your conversation with Tidore.”
“Enough to know he was squealing; and that was enough to settle his account. They’d have got him anyway. Pity we couldn’t have had another five minutes. But we can’t complain. We learned more than I expected.”
“Things certainly moved fast.”
“They had to once we stuck our fingers in the pie.”
Twenty minutes later, with the grey streak of the false dawn showing above the Eastern horizon, a cluster of lights appeared ahead to mark the end of the first leg of the journey; and soon afterwards, after a low circuit to confirm that the Dakota was not there, at any rate on the tarmac, where it would be had it recently landed. Biggles put the Halifax down on the airfield of Kutaradja which, as to be expected at that hour, was deserted. Two Indonesian maintenance men appeared as the aircraft taxied to the fuel pumps, and while they were topping up the tanks Biggles and Ginger stretched their limbs, stiff from the long journey. The Traffic Manager came out of his office and walked along to them. He turned out to be a Dutchman named Vandershon, as was ascertained after Biggles had introduced himself.
“I’ve just picked up a radio signal about you,” he announced.
Biggles threw a sidelong glance at Ginger. “Really! Not by any chance from a man named Lacey?”
“No. I haven’t seen or heard anything of a man of that name. He hasn’t been here. The message was sent out by a machine coming over from Ceylon.”
“Ah! A Dakota, perhaps.”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“We saw one at Jaffna making ready to take off. What did it want to know?”
“If you’d arrived here.”
“Did you answer ?”
“Yes. I said you weren’t here. You weren’t, at the time.”
Biggles saw the work of refuelling completed to his satisfaction and then accompanied the Dutchman to the office to comply with the customary regulations. On the way he said softly to Ginger: “He’s all right. Otherwise he wouldn’t have mentioned that signal.” Arriving at the office, speaking to Vandershon, he went on: “ By the way, if that message is repeated I’d be obliged if you’d ignore it.”
It was the Dutchman’s turn to look surprised. “Why?”
“Because I’d rather that Dakota didn’t know I was here. It isn’t a friend of mine.”
“What do you mean?”
Biggles indicated an inner door that had been opened an inch or two. “Who’s in there?”
“My duty clerk.”
Biggles walked over to the door and pushed it open. A native who had been standing just inside backed away, looking startled. Biggles closed the door and said, shortly, to Vandersho : “Let’s go outside.”
They went back to the tarmac, beyond the hearing of possible eavesdroppers.
“To satisfy your natural curiosity, Mr. Vandershon, and because I would like to ask you one or two questions I’m going to take you into my confidence, trusting you to respect it,” said Biggles, seriously. “We’re detectives from London investigating a case of alleged piracy on the high seas not far from here. You may have heard about it.”
“Of course.”
“In doing so we’ve put ourselves in a position of some danger. But that’s only by the way. Have you any ideas of your own about this piracy?”
“None whatever.”
“You know that an aircraft was involved?”
“So I believe.” Vandershon started and looked hard at Biggles’ face. “Not the Dakota!”
Biggles’ expression softened, “You’re good at guessing, Mr. Vandershon, but as you value your life keep your lips shut tight. Now you know why the Dakota is anxious to know where we are. Last night the gang that owns it murdered a man at Jaffna because he knew too much. We were present when it happened, which means that we, too, know more than is good for our health. Watch your step, or the same may apply to you.”
“I understand,” answered the Dutchman, slowly.
A man appeared with a slip of paper in his hand. Vandershon said it was his radio operator. He took the slip, dismissed the man, and read it. Looking up at Biggles he said: “The Dakota is on its way here. It’s only fifty miles out. But why is it coming here? I said you weren’t here.”
“It looks as if somebody has said we are.” Biggles took a cigarette from his case and tapped it on a thumbnail. “Be careful of that clerk of yours, Mr. Vandershon. I brought you outside because he was a little too anxious to overhear our conversation.”
For a moment the Dutchman looked alarmed. “What shall I say?”
“Tell the truth. When the Dakota lands say we’ve been here and gone. You can’t say where because I shan’t tell you. It’s better you didn’t know. What do you know about this green Dakota with Chinese markings?”
“Practically nothing. It’s called here occasionally. It’s owned by a private company. I know the pilot, a Jap named Mitsubu, and occasionally there has been a passenger. But the machine mostly carries freight. It doesn’t drop it off here, although it sometimes picks up a parcel.”
Biggles nodded. “I see. Well, we’d better not stand here talking. Can you lend me an old suit of overalls?”
“What on earth for?”
“Because then I shall look like part of the aerodrome staff when the Dakota lands here. I’m anxious to know who’s in it, for which reason I shall stay here when my machine takes off. It would also be useful to me to know which way the Dakota goes when it leaves here. I fancy it won’t stay long when it finds my Halifax has left.”
“You’re crazy,” protested Ginger, in a shocked voice. “If the Count’s in that machine he’ll spot you and shoot you.”
“All right. Don’t get hysterical about it,” replied Biggles calmly. “He may not be on board. In any case, while he may think he’s hunting us, remember we’re hunting him. Mitsubu hasn’t seen me—as far as we know. But let’s not waste time. Get off and fly south for twenty minutes. Then tu
rn and come back to pick me up. Obviously you won’t land if the Dakota is still here. In that case make for the rendezvous with Algy and come back for me tomorrow.”
But suppose—”
“Stop rolling your brain round in your skull and get mobile.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll come with you to the machine and make a pretence of getting in should anyone be watching.”
They strode off, and within a minute or two Ginger was in the air, heading south. Biggles backed into a hangar where presently Vandershon brought him an oil-stained suit of overalls. The manager smiled and returned to his office. Biggles smeared some oil on his hands and face and began tidying up the hangar, for the Dakota could be heard approaching. Two Indonesians of the servicing staff glanced at him as they came on duty but their interest was perfunctory.
Without appearing to take too much interest Biggles watched the Dakota land. It did not run on to the pumps for fuel but taxied to the tarmac in front of the main building. There it stopped, with the engines ticking over. Three men got out; first two, then another, whom Biggles took to be Mitsubu, the pilot, for he remained by the machine, stretching, exactly as Biggles had done on landing. Of the other two one was a well-dressed, powerfully built man, a white man Biggles thought, whom he had never seen before. The doubt about the actual colour of his skin arose because long residence in the tropics can produce a misleading sun tan. He had the brisk, purposeful walk of a European, or an American, anyway, decided Biggles. The last man was the Count, still wearing his panama. These two disappeared into the main building, leaving Biggles with some difficult questions to answer.
The first was, why had the Count crossed to this side of the ocean? Was it to make a report to headquarters on what had happened in Ceylon? Was it because the Count, having been face to face with him, was perhaps the only member of the gang who was able to recognize him? Where had this new white man come from? Had he been in Ceylon with the Count? Biggles thought not. In that case the Dakota must have landed somewhere before coming to Sumatra. From the time it had taken for the crossing it could have landed somewhere.
