by W E Johns
Watching the road he had just left he saw the headlights of the pursuing car flash past the side turning, and knew that it would be suicidal to go on in the Morris. However, ready to jump out at an instant’s notice, he clung to it for the time being, and so reached the town. A few cars were standing against the pavement on either side of the road, and he was about to attempt to exchange his own for one of them when he saw something that suited him even better. A short distance down the street was a cinema, with a car park adjacent. In it were perhaps forty or fifty cars.
He drove straight in, took his car to the place indicated by the attendant who came forward, and then made a pretence of arranging something inside the car until the man had gone. Putting his automatic in his pocket, and satisfied that all was clear, he selected a big car of unknown make, and, after a swift glance around, tried the door handle. It was locked. Three more cars he tried in turn before he found one which had carelessly been left open by its owner. It was a big car, and again of a make unknown to him, but he did not trouble about that. He got in, started the engine, and made slowly towards the exit.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the car-park attendant running towards him, waving an arm; but he did not stop. He turned into the road and promptly accelerated. Relying on his sense of direction he took the next turning on the right, and, as he had hoped, found himself back once more on the main road, apparently in the centre of the town. A group of storm-troopers and local police were standing there, deep in earnest conversation; they glanced at the approaching car, and then, to Biggles’s infinite relief, resumed their conversation. He went on towards Prenzel, driving carefully until he reached the outskirts of the town.
He was just congratulating himself on having got clear when he saw in front of him two policemen in the act of putting a pole across the road; they had just laid it on the ground, preparatory to placing it on two trestles, one on each pavement. Seeing the car coming they paused in what they were doing. One raised a hand.
‘You’re just too late,’ muttered Biggles, as he screeched his horn and put his foot down on the accelerator. The policemen leapt aside as the car bore down on them, and Biggles settled down into his seat as he saw an open road ahead. A signpost told him that he was now only twenty-two kilometres from Prenzel. He had never been to the airport, but he knew that it was four or five miles out of the city, and on the western side, for easy communication with the capitals of western Europe. He was now travelling north-east, so he reckoned that only about twelve miles separated him from his objective. He covered six of these at racing speed, and then saw another village ahead. Had there been a side turning he would have avoided the village, but there was none, so he could only go on; but he slowed down, staring through the windscreen for the police patrol which he felt certain would be there.
At the entrance to the village street he saw what he was afraid he might find — a barricade. As far as he could make out it comprised, as had the previous one, a round pole placed across the road, each end resting on a trestle. There was a small group of people on either side. His headlights flashed on the metal buttons of police and stormtroopers.
There was no question of stopping. It did not occur to him to do so, for that, he knew, would be the end of the affair as far as he was concerned, and probably the end of him, too; he was still cruising at about forty miles an hour, but the speed-indicator needle swung upwards as his foot came down on the accelerator — and stayed there. His hooter wailed a warning of his intentions.
Then he gripped the steering-wheel with both hands. His lips parted in a cold, mirthless smile.
At the last moment before the impact he saw the spectators fling themselves aside as they realized what he was going to do. With a splintering crash the radiator hit the pole.
The car swerved violently, mounted the kerb, grazed a shop front — tearing off a headlight — and ricocheted back on to the road. Biggles clung to the wheel. To make matters more difficult for him the second headlamp had been knocked sideways, but did not break off; strangely enough the light remained on, but, blazing at an angle of forty-five degrees from its correct position, gave him a false sense of direction, with the result that he knocked an approaching policeman off his bicycle before he could switch the light off and get back on the crown of the road. Two shots hit the back of the car as he roared on down the street, hooting frantically, for there were several people about, and he had no wish to kill an innocent party. Possibly because of the danger of hitting civilians, no more shots were fired.
Still on the look-out for further obstructions he roared on out of the village. Once more the road lay clear ahead. On he raced, occasionally glimpsing a signpost which gave him the direction of the city. Presently he saw its lights in the distance, and he knew that he must be somewhere near the airport. Another minute and he saw the red glow of a neon beacon on his left front. As near as he could judge it was about two miles away. He also saw something else. Coming towards him down the road, but still some distance away, were the headlights of three cars, close behind each other. Looking over his shoulder he saw more lights behind him, and knew that at last he was caught between two parties of the enemy. The road ran across open, hedgeless fields, so, after running close to the side to make sure that there was no ditch, he swung the car off the road into a field of growing corn. The wheels sank deep into the soft earth, but he ploughed his way on for about a hundred yards. Then he stopped, jumped out, and ran on towards the beacon.
Glancing back as he ran, he saw the cars on the road meet and stop about a quarter of a mile beyond the place where he had turned off. A group of figures moved vaguely in the headlights. Hoping that it would take them some time to find his abandoned car he ran on, and without trouble reached the boundary lights of the aerodrome, but was still some distance from the airport buildings. Looking at his watch he saw with alarm that it was ten minutes to twelve. He dared not trespass on the aerodrome both on account of getting in the way of machines landing and taking off, and for fear of attracting attention to himself; he had to follow the wire boundary fence, with the result that it was five minutes to twelve before he found himself near the hangars.
Several machines were standing on the tarmac, but only about one were there any signs of activity. It was a twin-engined Lockheed Electra, bearing British registration letters; on its nose were the ‘arrow and globe’ insignia of Planet Airways. The fact that the engines were ticking over was all the confirmation he needed that it was the machine he hoped to find — the London-bound mail plane. Two men were standing near the wheels, holding the cords attached to the chocks. Another, evidently the mechanic who had started the engines, was walking back towards the brightly illuminated booking hall from which two uniformed figures had just emerged and were strolling slowly towards the machine.
Biggles climbed over the fence and walked towards the machine. He was standing near the cabin door when the two pilots arrived. Seeing him, they broke off their conversation and looked at him curiously.
‘Who are you — what do you want?’ asked one.
Biggles did not recognize either of them. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I hoped to find somebody whom I knew.’ He dropped his voice. ‘I need your help,’ he went on. ‘I’m a British agent. I have vital information to get home, and the frontiers are closed.’
‘Sorry, but we can’t get mixed up in that sort of business,’ declared the first officer curtly.
‘Just a minute — have you any proof of what you say?’ asked the captain.
‘No, I haven’t,’ Biggles was forced to admit.
‘Then I’m sorry, but there is nothing doing,’ returned the captain. ‘The continent is rotten with refugees all trying to get into England. We’ve been tricked before, and we’re not having any more of it. If you get to London they’ll only send you back.’
‘They won’t send me back,’ announced Biggles grimly. ‘I tell you I’m an agent.’
‘What do you want — a lift to London?’
‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s a village near the frontier — about forty miles from here.’
‘I’ve never heard of the aerodrome.’
‘There isn’t one.’
‘You’re not suggesting that I land my ship in a field, are you?’
‘That’s what it means.’
‘You must be off your head. Look, out of the way, we’re due off.’
Biggles glanced towards the airport buildings. He did not move a muscle as he saw several police walk out of the booking hall and stand on the tarmac, staring towards the Electra. There was a shout.
Biggles looked at the two pilots. ‘I think those people are calling you,’ he said calmly.
Both the captain and the first officer turned. ‘Yes, I think you’re right,’ said the captain. ‘You’d better stay here until we come back, then I’ll have another word with you.’
To Biggles’s joy both pilots started walking quickly towards the group of officials now coming towards the Lockheed. He did not hesitate. Ducking under the wing, he came up in front of the machine and without warning hit the nearest mechanic under the jaw. He staggered backwards, dragging the chock with him. The second man bolted as Biggles rushed at him. He dropped the cord he was holding. Biggles snatched it up, tore the chock aside, and made a dash for the cabin. It was nearly his last movement on earth; for the first time in his life, although perhaps it was excusable in the circumstances, he forgot the whirling steel propellers. As he ducked under the wing he felt a blast of air on his face, and knew that a propeller blade had missed him by inches. The shock turned his lips dry, but he did not stop.
Before he had reached the cabin door a crowd of men, the two pilots among them, were racing towards the machine. The leader was not more than twenty yards away.
Biggles did not bother about closing the door. He made a dash for the cockpit. And not until then did he see that there was somebody already in the machine. A man in a neat blue uniform, with earphones clamped over his head, jumped up from the instrument at which he had been sitting. It was the wireless operator.
Biggles did not speak. He pushed his hand into the man’s face and flung him backwards into his seat. Then, dropping into the pilot’s seat, he pushed the master throttle open. As the machine began to move forward the wireless operator came up and grabbed him from behind.
‘Look out, you fool, you’ll kill us both!’ yelled Biggles.
Which was true enough, for the machine was gathering speed every instant. The wireless operator evidently realized this, for he released his hold. His face was pale with fright. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he shouted.
‘Taking off — it’s time you knew that,’ snarled Biggles. ‘Sit down before you get hurt.’
‘But—’
‘Shut up! Sit down, I tell you.’
‘Who are you?’
‘You can ask the police that when we get home,’ said Biggles curtly, as the machine became airborne. ‘I’m a British agent, and I’ve got to get out of the country — quick.’
‘Can you fly this kite?’
‘If I can’t, it’s going to be just too bad for you,’ snapped Biggles, bringing the machine round on a course for Unterhamstadt.
The wireless operator, after a helpless shake of his head, sat down at his instrument and picked up the fallen earphones.
‘You’ll soon be picking up some interesting scraps of news on that thing,’ smiled Biggles, as he settled down into his seat.
CHAPTER XV
Reunion
Ginger might not have admitted it, but when two minutes had gone by after the appointed time his heart began to sink. Biggles had not come; and with each succeeding second his advent seemed even more unlikely. That in itself was bad enough, but the fact that the storm-troopers would certainly arrive at the place where they were waiting within the next five minutes made the whole position seem hopeless. Still, he did not say so. He could still hear the dog in the bushes; from time to time it uttered a low growl, but it did not show itself possibly because it was too well trained.
‘I think we’d better surrender ourselves without causing further trouble,’ suggested the Professor, in a resigned voice. ‘Otherwise it will only be all the worse for us.’
‘Don’t you believe it,’ growled Algy. ‘We’ll give these thugs something to remember us by, anyway.’
As he said the words there came a sound in the still night air that caused Ginger’s heart to leap. ‘He’s coming!’ he said, in a tense voice. It was only with difficulty that he restrained himself from shouting the words. ‘Listen!’ he went on. ‘It’s a plane. Can’t you hear it?’
‘Your faith in your leader is praiseworthy, but even if it is an aeroplane, is there any reason to suppose that he is flying it?’ remarked the Professor despondently. ‘It might be just a passing machine.’
‘It might be, but it isn’t,’ declared Ginger confidently. ‘There you are, what did I tell you?’ he went on quickly. ‘It’s coming this way.’
‘That sounds like a twin-engined job to me,’ murmured Algy dubiously.
‘I don’t care if it’s an Empire flying-boat, I’ll bet Biggles is at the stick,’ asserted Ginger firmly.
There was a sudden crashing in the bushes behind them, for they were now standing out in the field, staring up at the sky whence came the roar of the approaching aircraft. The commotion in the bushes increased; a shot was fired. It was followed by a rapid conversation.
‘They are calling attention to the behaviour of the dogs,’ translated the Professor. ‘They are now coming on again.’
Algy took charge of the situation. ‘Lie down, everybody,’ he ordered. Then, as they obeyed, he addressed the Professor. ‘I can’t speak German,’ he said, ‘so will you shout to them and tell them that the first man who shows himself will be shot? Tell them that we are armed, and that we will fight.’
The Professor shouted something in German.
It was as well that they were lying down, for a volley of shots rang out, the bullets zipping viciously through the undergrowth.
Algy fired back at the flashes. ‘Watch for the machine, Ginger,’ he shouted, for there was no longer any point in remaining silent.
‘The machine’s landing,’ called Ginger.
‘Take the others with you and run for it as soon as his wheels are on the ground,’ roared Algy, without looking round.
‘What about you?’ returned Ginger.
‘Never mind me – I’ll be along. Give me the Professor’s gun – he won’t need it.’
Ginger handed Algy the weapon, so that he now had a gun in each hand. Curiously enough, they had both belonged to von Stalhein. One had been taken from him in the car, and the other Algy himself had taken from the German when Ginger had rescued him.
Seeing that the others had gone he started a rapid fire into the trees, in the direction of the approaching storm-troopers, moving his position after every shot. Ginger’s voice reached him He was shouting that the machine was now on the ground.
‘Get aboard!’ shouted Algy.
Ginger emptied his revolver into the bushes. Then, shouting to the Beklinders to follow him, he ran like a deer towards the big machine which was now taxiing towards them.
The noise of its engine drowned all other sounds. An unknown man in a blue uniform was standing at the cabin door when he reached it.
‘Get in!’ shouted the stranger, who seemed to be beside himself with excitement. ‘Your boss is at the stick. I shall get fired for this when I get back—’
‘You’ll be lucky to get back,’ Ginger told him, as he bundled the Professor and his son into the cabin. Looking round for Algy he saw him running a zigzag course towards the machine. A number of men had appeared at the edge of the wood. Spurts of orange flame showed that they were shooting.
Panting, Algy reach
ed the machine. Ginger helped him in.
They fell in a heap on the floor. ‘All clear,’ shouted Ginger from where he lay.
By the time he was on his feet the machine had swung round and was bumping over the uneven ground for the take-off. The wireless operator was staring foolishly at his hand, from which blood was dripping.
‘Something hit my hand,’ he gasped.
‘You’re lucky it didn’t hit your head,’ grunted Ginger as he hurried forward to the cockpit where Biggles was sitting. He grabbed a seat to steady himself as the machine swerved slightly; then the bumping ceased and he knew that they were in the air.
‘I’ve got Algy,’ he yelled triumphantly in Biggles’s ear.
‘You’ve what?’
‘I’ve got Algy.’
At first Biggles looked incredulous; then a smile broke over his face. ‘Masterly work,’ he said. ‘Make yourselves comfortable while I take you home.’
Looking down the lighted cabin Ginger saw that the others were already sitting or reclining in the seats in various stages of exhaustion following the last few hectic minutes. He dropped into the seat next to Biggles. ‘By gosh, we’ve done it, after all,’ he cried jubilantly.
Biggles did not take his eyes off the windscreen. ‘I believe you’re right,’ he said. ‘But it doesn’t do to pat yourself on the back too soon — not in flying, at any rate. Look ahead.’
Ginger had been so taken up with what was going on inside the cabin that he had paid no attention to anything else. Realizing that there was a definite reason for Biggles’s remark he peered ahead through the windscreen, and stared at what he saw. The sky was divided into many clean-cut sections by the white beams of searchlights. He gazed at them for a moment or two without speaking, noticing that the lights were set in a long, straggling line. ‘That’s the frontier, I suppose?’ he said thoughtfully.
