by W E Johns
As he went in to land an uncomfortable feeling grew on him that his real troubles were about to begin. In vain he told himself that this was a public airport. With people about what could the enemy do to him there?
Feeling that the only way to tackle the matter was to take the bull by the horns, he taxied straight up to the Otter and jumped down. There could be no question of trying to hide, anyway. If he landed at all he was bound to be seen, and he had to come down for petrol.
Two men, Eurasians or Indonesians, were standing by the Otter when he strode up to it. They looked at him curiously. They also looked at each other.
“Who told you to start this plane?” he asked.
One of the men shrugged. “No spik Engleesh,” said he.
Ginger thought the man might be lying, but having no proof he had to take his word. He couldn’t make the fellow talk if he had decided not to. No matter. He’d get the facts from the control office. With this object in view he was about to walk on when a hail made him turn. A man, a white man, was approaching him with a purposeful stride; and he started speaking even before he arrived.
“Say! What’s the idea the old man sending this kite back so soon?” he demanded, in the lowest kind of American English, pointing to the Dakota.
Ginger realized that this was where he would have to keep his head if he was to keep pace with the conversation. That this was one of the Colonel’s spies he did not doubt. The question practically told him that. It also suggested that the man took him to be one of the gang.
“Search me,” drawled Ginger. “Who am I to ask questions?”
“I was dropped off here to bring this crate along.” The man pointed to the Otter.
“Why didn’t you? Maybe that’s what the old man’s a’ wondering.”
“Did he tell you to find me?”
“I was to come back here and find out what was wrong. What is wrong?”
“Nothin’s wrong except I have to eat some time. I was just gettin’ going. Had to have a drink, didn’t I?”
“Sure,” murmured Ginger, suspecting the man had had several. “Let’s get along.” Jerking a thumb at the Otter he went on. “You ever flown one of these ships?”
“Never.”
“They’re a bit tricky. I’d better take her. You take the Dakota.”
“Suits me, brother.”
“How does she go for gas?”
“I just seen her filled up.”
“Okay.” Ginger climbed into the Otter. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the two coloured men talking volubly to the American and knew he had no time to lose. His hand went to the throttle. As the engines roared the American started forward, but he was too late to do anything. The Otter sped away across the darkening airfield.
Ginger’s eyes went to the petrol gauges to confirm that the American had told the truth about petrol. He had. Ginger smiled. He had no fear of being followed. The faulty engine would soon be discovered And that would take some time to repair. The fact that the Dakota was grounded was all to the good, he decided.
Climbing for height he turned his nose down the Malacca Strait for Kuala Lumpur.
It was late when he arrived and there were not many people about. Having put the Otter to bed he walked to the signals office to see if there were any messages. There he was informed that there was a radiogram for Bigglesworth.
Having explained who he was, and that Biggles had sent him to collect any messages, he was allowed to take it. Opening it he found, as he expected, that it was from the Air Commodore. It was brief and explicit, but not very encouraging. It merely said: “ Stand by for General Cotter, United States Air Force, and co-operate to fullest extent.”
Folding the flimsy sheet he put it in his pocket. “Do any of you chaps know of an American general named Cotter?” he asked the clerks on duty.
“Never heard of him,” was the unsatisfactory reply.
Ginger made further enquiries outside, from which only one thing became clear. Whoever General Cotter might be he was certainly not on the aerodrome.
As there was nothing more he could do he went off to have a meal and find a bed for the night.
CHAPTER XV
BIGGLES WALKS IN
WHAT happened when Biggles walked into the Colonel’s office followed the lines that might have been expected. Before he crossed the threshold he could hear Algy being threatened with dire punishments if he refused to answer questions put to him.
At Biggles’ entrance the talk broke off abruptly. An incredulous silence took possession of the room, in which, as a glance revealed, there were seven men.
There was the Colonel, sitting behind his desk as if he might have been conducting a court-martial. By his side stood another white man. On his left were two Japanese—one, from the cap and goggles he carried in his hand, the pilot of the Dakota. In front of the desk was the prisoner, Algy, closely attended, held, in fact, on either side, by a Chinese in a nondescript uniform with a rifle.
“What’s going on here?” demanded Biggles, curtly, although he knew well enough the answer to his question. “Take your hands off that man!” he rapped out at the guards in such an authoritative tone of voice that automatically they obeyed.
“I give the orders here,” rasped the Colonel.
“You mean you did,” came back Biggles. “I’m giving them now. You’re under arrest.”
For two or three seconds the Colonel looked puzzled. Then his face twisted into a curious smile. “You don’t say!”
“I do say.”
“Who’s arresting us?”
“I am.”
Again the Colonel looked puzzled. “Are you kidding?”
“I certainly am not.”
“I don’t get it.”
“You will.”
“Who are you to talk about arresting people?”
“I happen to be a British representative of the International Police Commission. You’re entitled to see my papers if you wish.”
From the quick frown that furrowed the Colonel’s forehead Biggles thought this was new to him. He must have known they were in some official capacity but he had not realized they were actually police officers.
“Waal—waal,” drawled the Colonel. “Mighty interesting. I always heard you English were crazy. Now I know it. You’re talking out of your turn, brother. Cops, eh. If it wasn’t that I admire sass I’d settle with you here and now. Okay. So we’re arrested. What are you going to do with us?”
“Nothing, until transport arrives to take you away.”
“You sure are an optimist. How are you going to fetch transport here?”
The answer, in a fashion, came from outside as, with a splutter and a roar the Dakota’s engines sprang to life.
“One of my assistants is going to fetch it,” stated Biggles.
It is unlikely that the Colonel heard him, for with an oath he leapt to his feet, knocking over his chair, and rushed to the door—as did the men with him except the Chinese guards.
During the noise and babble that followed Biggles looked at Algy and smiled. “That’s Ginger,” he said softly.
“Great work,” answered Algy. “Where’s Bertie?”
“He’s around.”
“You’ve put yourself in a hot spot.”
“We’ve been in hotter. There was no other way.”
The drone of engines began to recede. “ He’s clear,” breathed Algy.
Biggles frowned as an anti-aircraft gun began to bark. “I hope you’re right,” he said quietly. “This gang seems to have everything.”
The Colonel, white with passion, came back. For a moment, as he glared. Biggles thought he was going to strike him.
“Smart guy,” he grated.
“Not particularly,” returned Biggles, evenly.
The Colonel drew a deep breath. He tapped Biggles’ pockets, and finding his gun, removed it and put it in a drawer of his desk.
Biggles made no protest, aware that it would serve no useful purpose. Resist
ance at that juncture, he felt, might be the last straw to break the Colonel’s patience. So he merely said, “That won’t help you.” Actually, from the expression on the man’s face he half expected to be shot then and there. He had been prepared for that at the outset. The great thing was, Ginger was away, and provided he got through to British territory, the island, as a smuggling base, was finished.
The Colonel, breathing heavily, considered him with calculating malice. “Smart guy, eh,” he said again. “Going to keep me here. You haven’t forgotten I’ve got a ship.”
“No. And I haven’t forgotten it’s aground.”
“It won’t be for long.”
“You’d better make haste and get her off, because when my assistant comes back he won’t be alone.”
The Colonel flared up. He banged his fist on the table. “I don’t care if he brings the whole British army with him.”
Biggles shrugged. “Then why get rattled about it? As far as I’m concerned, all that matters is, this racket of yours is about buttoned up.”
“That’s what you think,” sneered the Colonel. “By the time your lot get here they’ll be welcome to all the evidence they can find. They’ll also be welcome to what’s left of you.”
“For a man who never makes a mistake, threats of that sort are small-time talk,” said Biggles contemptuously.
The Colonel gave some orders in a language unknown to either Biggles or Algy. Their purpose was plain, however, when, covered by guns they were taken outside and marched a short distance to a flight of moss-covered concrete steps leading into the ground and pushed down them.
“If you’re wise you’ll stay there,” shouted the Colonel. “The guards have orders to shoot anyone trying to get out.”
In the wan light that filtered in from the entrance, for there were fewer than a dozen steps. Biggles looked around. There were some empty packing cases lined up against the concrete walls, looking as if they had been there for years, and what looked like mouldy bedding.
“I’d say this hole was a war-time air raid shelter,” he opined, testing a packing case before sitting on it. “It stinks a bit, but we might have done worse. The Colonel wasn’t fooling when he said the guards had orders to shoot if we went out so we’d better behave ourselves until somebody does something.”
“The first person to do something is likely to be the Colonel,” stated Algy. “You’ve got him really mad.”
“He isn’t only mad, he’s sick. Everything’s suddenly going wrong for him and he can’t understand why. His vanity won’t let him see the truth.”
“What on earth made you give yourself up?”
“Three things. I wanted to make contact with you, in case the Colonel decided to be spiteful. I wanted to create the impression that we were in a stronger position than we are, and I thought by causing a bit of a sensation it would give Ginger a better chance to get away in the Dakota. I think I succeeded on all three. Ginger’s away, that’s the main thing. Queer how what often looks like a hopeless proposition turns out to be a slice of cake. How did they get hold of you?”
Algy narrated his adventures from the time he realized the storm was going to upset their plan to his capture at Kutaradja.
“I shouldn’t have left you alone with that storm in the offing,” declared Biggles. “I must have been crazy. But there, who would have expected anything as violent as that at this time of the year? Admittedly I was away longer than I reckoned to be. There were several reasons. But there’s no point in discussing that now. You did right in taking the machine off. Had we lost it the position would be worse than it is.”
“Does the Colonel know about Bertie being here?”
“I don’t know. I hope not. He won’t have forgiven him for taking him in with that sharks’ teeth nonsense.” Biggles glanced at the shadow of one of the guards at the top of the steps. “The Colonel’s taking no more chances. It’s just beginning to dawn on him, I fancy, that we’re not as dumb as we look.”
“What are our chances?”
“I wouldn’t like to guess. They depend on too many factors. On what Ginger does, on how long it takes the Colonel to get his yacht afloat, and, last but not least, on what Bertie gets up to. It’s in these conditions that he’s usually at his brightest. Much depends on the yacht, I imagine. If the Colonel finds himself stuck here he may behave reasonably. But if he’s able to get away, and decides to pack up, he’s not likely to leave us here to talk when someone arrives to pick us up. We shall see.”
After that they fell silent.
CHAPTER XVI
BERTIE GETS BUSY
BERTIE had watched the first part of Ginger’s getaway from a seat which, while soft, he would not have taken from choice; but it was obviously essential to keep the Chinaman quiet until Ginger’s success was assured.
The man, finding that at such a disadvantage it was futile to struggle, soon gave up. It must have taken him all his time to breathe, for the pot came nearly down to his shoulders, and acting as an effective gag prevented him from making any sound beyond a muffled gurgling. The fact that the pot had contained some sort of thin porridge could not have made things any easier for him; nor for Bertie, for that matter, for the stuff had splashed about and to his disgust he had come in for a share of it.
As soon as the machine had turned he lost no time in removing himself to a spot less conspicuous, for the huts were disgorging their occupants, although these, naturally, looked only at what was going on in front of them, on the aerodrome. None had eyes for anything that might be going on behind.
Bertie was standing back in the jungle by the time the cook had managed to free himself from his smoke-blackened, porridge-streaked visor, and then the man was far more concerned with himself than with the general uproar. Puffing and blowing he removed most of the gruel from his person, and not until he had wiped the sticky mess from his face with his blouse did he take any interest in the vanishing Dakota. Then, from his general behaviour, and the way he shook a fist at it, Bertie formed the opinion that the cook supposed all the men responsible for the attack on him were escaping. At any rate, he took no steps to find his assailant. Which, of course, suited Bertie; for had the man started a hue and cry he would not have been able to remain in a position to watch developments. From a safe position under cover, therefore, he was able to see what went on.
Following Ginger’s departure by air there was an interval when the Colonel returned to his office. Shortly afterwards Biggles and Algy were brought out, under guard. Prepared for the worst it was with some relief that he saw them put into the air raid shelter, and the guards take up a position at the entrance.
Now while affairs appeared to be going reasonably well he was not altogether happy. He felt that he should be doing something; that he had been left out of proceedings in which he should have had some part. To be a mere spectator was not his idea of a fair proportion of the risks; wherefore he retired a little deeper into the jungle to give the matter his earnest consideration, polishing his eyeglass with great industry to assist his concentration on the problem before him.
During this period there was such a general move towards the cove where the yacht was moored that it became evident something was going to happen there. The fact that no search was being made for him was reassuring, for it suggested his presence was not suspected.
A wary reconnaissance revealed only three men: the two guarding the prisoner and the cook, who came out to throw away some garbage. His first inclination was to attempt a rescue forthwith, but on secondary consideration he decided it might be better to first find out what was happening at the cove. He suspected that the yacht was about to be refloated. This, he told himself, should be prevented, for more reasons than one. The Colonel must not be allowed to escape, if that was his intention. For should he go he would hardly be likely to leave the prisoners to witness against him at some future date.
His mind made up he set off for the cove, keeping just inside the fringe of scrub as before.
What he saw when he reached a position from which he could look down into the cove did not surprise him. The yacht was still aground, but in deeper water, this obviously being the result of the incoming tide. Preparations were being made to refloat her when the tide was at full flood. A heavy object, probably an anchor, had been carried out for some distance. To this was fastened a line which, brought back and passed round the winch, would haul her off when the moment was right.
Bertie considered the scene. Nearby, on the rocks and on the sand, were piles of stuff that had been put ashore to lighten the ship as much as possible. Among other things were a number of oil drums, apparently the yacht’s reserve stock of fuel oil. These, on account of their weight, no doubt, had not been carried farther than was necessary. As a matter of detail they had been put on the flat rock near those already there, a distance of only a few yards from the ship.
Looking at these an idea was born in Bertie’s mind. At first it was no more than this. If the oil was lost, even if more was available there would be a delay in bringing it over from the main dump before the yacht could set sail. Contemplating ways and means of bringing this about it occurred to him that if the oil was set on fire it was close enough to the yacht to do it some mischief. If it did nothing else it would hold up the work and cause it to miss the tide. This thought pleased him. But the problem was, how to set the oil on fire.
Petrol would do the trick. Where could he get petrol? There was plenty on the island if he could find it. If he could find it how could he carry it? He remembered the jerry-cans he had seen in the workshop. They would do. They might already contain petrol. For what other purpose would they be there ? If they contained anything it was most likely to be petrol. It would not take long to find out.
As he started back for the huts he glanced at the sun and saw it was well down. No matter. Darkness would be all to the good.
