Biggles in the Underworld

by Captain W E Johns

  This failure to get in did not necessarily mean that Lazor was not an efficient pilot. Ginger could appreciate the difficulty of what he was trying to do. To land in the dark on unfamiliar ground, without boundary lights for guidance, always presents an element of risk even to a pilot accustomed to night flying, which apparently Lazor was not. Or he may have been out of practice. If Lazor’s flying was at fault, Ginger thought, it was that he was going in too fast; but shortage of petrol may have been the reason why he was in such a hurry to get his wheels on the ground. Should his engine cut out at this stage he would really be in trouble.

  The Moth made its third attempt to get down on the field; and Lazor must have thought he had succeeded, for he did not open up again. Of course, he may have run out of petrol, in which case he would have no choice in the matter. Again, he may have thought he had wheel brakes, only to discover too late that the obsolete machine he was flying had no such modern equipment. Be that as it may, the Moth went in, and without any advantage of a headwind to slow it down it ran on, crossed the boundary and ended up in the trees on the far side of the track with a crash that Ginger, who was now gliding, could hear above the noise made by his own machine.

  Having rapped out this information on the radio, Ginger held his breath, fully expecting to see fire break out, as all too often, and so easily, happens. In this Lazor may have been lucky, although shortage of petrol may have had something to do with it. There would certainly not be enough left in the tank, should it be fractured, to spill over the hot engine.

  Snatching frequent glances at the spot where the Moth had crashed, still expecting to see flames, Ginger sideslipped off some height and glided in to a safe landing. As soon as the Auster had finished its run he swung round and taxied tail up to as near the crash as he dare go. He realized of course that if Lazor had not been knocked unconscious, his arrival on the scene would be heard; but he gave no heed to that.

  Strange though it may seem his concern now was for Lazor. How badly had he been hurt? This was the natural reaction of one pilot for another in danger. Anyway, Ginger was now desperately anxious to get to the Moth as quickly as possible in case Lazor should be trapped in the wreck and unable to get clear before it took fire, as still could happen: for the remains of a plane have been known to take fire long after it has crashed. When there is petrol about the slightest movement of the airframe, causing the magneto to click one final spark, can do it.

  Wherefore Ginger, knowing this, as soon as he was on the ground, made flat out for the crash, which he could see in a glint of moonlight; anyway, the tail unit, which had cocked up clear of the tangle of shrubs through which the Moth had ploughed in its headlong passage. Once he paused to listen, and was not surprised to hear sounds that suggested Lazor was trying to release himself from the wreck.

  Thrusting aside in his haste the broken branches that impeded his progress, he fought his way forward to the cockpit, and in so doing came within an ace of losing his life, or at least being disfigured. Vaguely in the gloom he saw a man trying to get out. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Take it easy.’

  The response took him completely by surprise, although it may be thought, the man being what he was, there was no reason why it should. Lazor snarled like a wildcat cornered by dogs. Ginger saw his arm go up, and with it the flash of steel. Instinctively he ducked, at the same time, stepping back, and the blade of Lazor’s razor missed his face by inches. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, in stepping back he caught his heel in a broken branch and went over backwards. He was up in a flash, but by that time Lazor was scrambling out of the cockpit on the opposite side.

  Livid with anger Ginger shouted: ‘You dirty swine,’ and started after him.

  What with the fuselage lying between them, and broken branches lying at all angles, this was not easy, and by the time he had got round the plane by the front end Lazor had disappeared. A crashing in the undergrowth told him which way he had gone, and he started after him; but a pistol shot, and a bullet ripping through the twigs close by, brought him to a halt with a realization of the folly of what he was doing. This was no place to tackle an armed man. Indeed, it was practically suicidal.

  He stood still for a minute, thinking, with the sounds of Lazor’s departure getting farther away; for the situation called for serious thought. Clearly, Lazor must have recognized him — he may have seen him through the window of Thompson’s office at Podbury — and hearing the Auster land would guess he had been followed.

  What to do Ginger did not know. What could he do? From time to time he could still hear the sounds of Lazor’s progress through the wood. To try to follow him, apart from the risk of being shot, was out of the question. He thought Lazor would not stay in the wood longer than was necessary. It seemed more likely that if he knew about the track leading to the farm, he would try to make his way to it. The going would be easier. He might even try to get to the plane that had followed him, which he must realize by now had landed in the field, and finding it unguarded, make off in it.

  Ginger decided that was one thing that must not be allowed to happen, so turning about he forced his way to the track to prevent it. He reckoned that if Lazor came back up the track he would see him and be able to stop him. If he tried to get to the field through the wood he would hear him, for to move without a sound through a wood at night is not possible.

  By no means happy at the way things were going, although he could not see how he could have done other than he had, with some little difficulty he managed to reach the track and again stood still to listen. One thing was evident. Lazor may have been shaken in the crash, but obviously he had not been seriously hurt. He was on his feet, and could be expected to fight his way out of the position in which he now found himself. Ginger did not know what to do next.

  CHAPTER 15

  HOT WORK IN COLD BLOOD

  Had Ginger known that Biggles had followed him in one of the club Aiglets, it would have been an entirely different matter. But of course he did not know, and had no reason even to contemplate such a possibility. As far as he was concerned Biggles was still where he had left him; at the Podbury clubhouse with Thompson. The best Ginger could hope for was that Algy had got word to Biggles that Lazor was down at Twotrees Farm, in which case he might start for the place in Thompson’s car. But even so, it would take some time for him to get to the farm; allow ample time for Lazor to get clear away. Meantime he would be alone to act on his own initiative, a state of affairs that filled him with misgivings. He realized how much he normally relied on Biggles’ leadership. It might be thought he would have remembered there were other aircraft at Podbury, so there was a possibility of Biggles borrowing one of them. The fact remains that no such thought occurred to him, which perhaps in his state of mind was understandable.

  But he felt he had to do something. He couldn’t just stand there waiting for something to happen. Having given the situation some thought, what he did was to move quietly down the track, pausing at frequent intervals to listen for a sound that would at least give him a rough idea of Lazor’s whereabouts. He felt sure that Lazor would not be able to move without a certain amount of noise. If he came up the track, in a silence that was brittle with suspense he would hear him coming. The air was still. An owl hooted. Why, he wondered irritably, did owls always have to hoot in moments of nervous tension? Once, from the far distance, came the whistle of a train. Walking with extreme caution Ginger advanced slowly down the track.

  Presently, during a pause, there came another sound; one that puzzled him not a little. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Coming towards him up the hill. Would Lazor walk with such confidence? Surely not, thought Ginger. Yet who else could it be? Who else would be on the way to the farm at such an hour of night? As far as he knew the track led to nowhere else. He stepped back close against the bank to watch for the walker to appear.

  Subconsciously he became aware of the drone of a light aircraft somewhere in the sky, but so taken up was he with what was happening closer at hand
that he paid no attention to it. After all, it was a common enough sound. Not for a moment did the thought occur to him that it might be Biggles.

  Then, suddenly, came shock, loud and devastating, to tighten his muscles like banjo strings. It started with a shout, sharp and peremptory, harsh with authority. It was followed instantly by a shot that cracked through the silence like a whiplash. Hard on it came a curious strangled cry. Then another shot, this time from a heavier weapon. Then another. With it was a scream. Silence returned, sullen and menacing.

  Ginger stood rigid, as if frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs with the sudden shock of it all. What did this mean? What had happened? He fought to steady his racing brain in order to think clearly; to make sense of it. What could have happened? Whatever it might be, he was not involved; so much was certain. The shots. A pistol and a gun — a sporting gun, he thought. Those were what the reports had sounded like. He was sure two different weapons had been used. That could only mean two persons were there. One could be, and probably was, he reasoned, Lazor. He had a pistol. The first shot had been a pistol shot. He had fired at someone. Who? Why? Who had fired the gun? Two shots. Evidently a double-barrelled shotgun. And the cries. What did they mean? Could they mean someone had been hit? It seemed the only explanation.

  Having got his breath Ginger moved forward slowly, a step at a time, to investigate. His common sense told him it was crazy; but prudence had deserted him. Curiosity had defeated it. With high banks and trees on both sides of the track he could not see much. Once in a while a little moonlight filtered through the broken clouds to make the track a little less dark, but that was all that could be said for the visibility.

  It was during one of these brief flashes that he saw something lying on the track a little way in front of him. At first he took it to be a sack. A few more paces and it looked more like the shape of a body. Lazor? No. The figure was too bulky. With his nerves at full stretch, expecting at every step he took to hear another pistol shot when he would be the target, keeping tight against the ferny bank he crept forward. Soon there was no longer any doubt. It was a body. It lay still: horribly still. Dry-lipped, Ginger crouched against the bank to listen for the slightest sound. There was none. Nothing moved. The silence was awful. He could feel death in the air.

  What to do? Again every nerve in his body urged him to retire; but simple humanity declared he could not do that, leaving the body lying where it was, unattended. Crouching, on tiptoe, ready to jump at the merest sound, he crept up to the body. It was a man. Dead or unconscious? He didn’t know which. Realizing he was a sitting target he did not feel inclined to linger while he examined the body for a wound. He saw the face of an elderly man. Bearded. He did not know him; he had never seen him before. His clothes were green corduroy, a sort of uniform with brass buttons, such as is sometimes worn by an estate gamekeeper. A gamebag slung from a shoulder gave support to this surmise, as did a double-barrelled twelve-bore sporting gun lying near.

  A gamekeeper, thought Ginger swiftly. That would account for him being out at night. To watch for poachers. Come to think of it, Ginger’s brain raced on, he and Biggles had on a previous occasion seen the man on the track, the man with a lurcher dog, whom Biggles had suspected might be a poacher. Had the gamekeeper been out hoping to catch him on the job, with a pheasant in his pocket? It seemed not unlikely.

  Ginger picked up the gun and went back to the bank. There he ‘broke’ it. Two spent cartridges were ejected. This answered one question. The gamekeeper had fired the gun. Assuming this to be the correct interpretation, why had he been shot? Ginger hadn’t much doubt about that. Poachers do not carry pistols. True, a poacher might carry a light rifle, a .22 for instance, but the report he had heard did not sound like the crisp crack of such a weapon. It had sounded heavier. Anyway, a rifle firing a single bullet was not the sort of tool a poacher would choose to work with on a dark night. If he used a firearm it would more likely be a .410, firing a spread of shot.

  Lazor had a pistol. He, Ginger decided, had shot the keeper. Why? Was it a case of mistaken identity? That seemed the most likely answer.

  Ginger worked it out like this. Lazor had reached the track. The gamekeeper, walking up the track looking for the poacher, had seen something, or heard a sound that made him suspicious. He had challenged it. That, Ginger thought, was the first cry he had heard. Lazor, knowing that Ginger was trailing him, without being able to see clearly in the dark, had fired, thinking he was the challenger. The bullet had struck the keeper. Before he fell the keeper had fired back, possibly at the flash of the pistol. He had fired both barrels of his gun. There had been another cry. What was that? Had some of the pellets struck Lazor? It might well have happened. Most gamekeepers, from long practice, are quick, sure shots.

  What to do now Ginger did not know. He thought the keeper was dead; he looked dead; but he wasn’t sure; and he was in no case to make a close examination. He had seen no wound, no blood. The man might not be beyond help; but where could help be found at such a place in the middle of the night? As far as he knew the only house within miles was the farm, and there was no one there. At all events, there had been no light showing at a window when he had landed.

  Ginger, leaning back against the steep, mossy bank, was painfully aware that Lazor might be standing within yards of him, a gun in his hand. It is not surprising, therefore, that he found it hard to think clearly; to know what to do for the best. He felt he couldn’t leave the wretched man lying on the road to be run over by the first vehicle that came along: not that a vehicle was likely: but it was a possibility. If the man wasn’t quite dead that would finish him off. And there was the driver of the vehicle to consider. Unprepared for such an obstacle he might be overturned. The matter was urgent. But to get himself shot would not improve matters. Where was Lazor? Was he still there or had he gone? There was no way of finding out. Naturally, Ginger did not feel like taking a step that might be suicidal.

  He felt sure that Lazor could not be far away. He had heard no sound. He was probably watching; perhaps from the bushes that fringed the wood on the far side of the track. So reasoned Ginger, who remained where he was, a prey to doubt and anxiety.

  After a little while an idea did occur to him. He could see no reason why, if he was prepared to take a risk, he should not be in a position to do something. He had the twelve-bore. But what was the use of that? It was not loaded. With cartridges it would be a very different matter. Firing a spread of pellets it would be a more effective weapon than a pistol firing a single bullet. It was unlikely that the keeper would come out with only two cartridges on him. There would be others in one of his pockets.

  Feeling on the ground Ginger picked up a stone and threw it into the wood on the far side of the track hoping it would cause Lazor to move and so reveal himself —should he be there. The stone rattled down through the branches. Nothing happened. After the stone had fallen there was not a sound. Anywhere. The silence seemed like a blanket dropping from the sky.

  Ginger drew a deep breath. This was no use. He couldn’t stand any more of this dreadful suspense. He would have to risk more direct action. Dry-lipped with tension he crept across the track to the body still lying there and felt in one of the jacket pockets. Nothing. He tried the other. His groping fingers closed on what he sought. Cartridges. His eyes all the time on the far bank, with two in his hand he backed swiftly to his original position. No sound. He picked up the gun, opened the breach and slipped in the two cartridges. Closing it, the spring, unavoidably, made a sharp click, which brought his heart into his mouth, as the saying is. Nothing happened. He wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. With the cold barrels in his hands he felt better.

  Again he hesitated. What to do next? In all his experience of nasty situations he had never found himself in a more awkward one than this. His first thought was to blaze into the bushes opposite. That should cause Lazor to move if he was there. Then he had second thoughts. What if he killed him? That might well get him
into serious trouble. He would not be able, with truth, to claim that he had fired only in self-defence.

  He decided his next step should be to move the man lying on the track. That was important. It would be a longer operation that fetching the cartridges. Moreover, he would have to put down the gun to do it. He would need both hands to move such a heavy body. He stared at the bushes on the far side of the road, gun at the ready, fingers round the triggers. The bushes, black and silent, told him nothing. He felt he couldn’t stand the strain much longer. Something would have to be done, and soon.

  In the end he was left with no choice, for at this stage there came a development of a sort he least expected. It was the sound of a car coming up the hill at high speed. As yet it was some distance away, but already he could see its headlights flickering on the tops of the trees.

  For a breathless moment he did nothing, unable to imagine who it could be. He hoped the car would stop, or turn back; otherwise, inevitably, it would crash over the body lying in the road. That would certainly finish off the keeper if he was not already dead, and in all probability overturn the car, killing the driver.

  With the lights now rounding the next corner he hesitated no longer. Resting the gun against the bank he dashed out on to the track regardless, and seizing the keeper by the collar of his jacket, dragged him, not without difficulty, to as close to the bank as he could get him. But even here, he thought, it might not be safe. There was no verge. Only the bank flush with the track. If the driver of the car held to the crown of the track all might be well. But would he? The track was narrow. He might run with one wheel in the gutter should he fail to get properly straightened out after taking the corner at the speed he was travelling.