by W E Johns
‘That’s it,’ returned Biggles briefly.
‘They’ll have guns there.’
‘You bet your life they will.’
‘Well, we’ve got to get through ‘em.’
‘Right again,’ said Biggles. ‘We should find this sort of thing whichever way we tried to get out of the country.’
Ginger glanced at the altimeter and saw that they were at four thousand feet. ‘We’re a bit low, aren’t we?’
‘I daren’t risk climbing any higher,’ said Biggles, glancing through the side window on his right.
‘Why not?’
‘It would take time. I’m going to charge straight across — or try to.’
‘But couldn’t we turn back? With a light load like this you could take the machine up to twenty thousand, cut the motors, and then perhaps glide across without being spotted.’
‘Take a look over to the right,’ murmured Biggles, without taking his eyes from the windscreen.
Ginger looked, and saw a number of twin pairs of lights at about their own altitude. His heart missed a beat. ‘They’re machines,’ he said.
‘Fighters, by the rate they’re travelling.’
‘They’re after us.’
‘I don’t suppose they’re just roaring around for the fun of it.’
‘Shouldn’t we do better to put our lights out?’
‘Yes — I was only waiting until Algy had tied Sparks’s hand up. I think he got a shot through it. He’s just finished, I think.’ Biggles turned a switch and plunged the machine into darkness — except, of course, the instrument board.
‘One of them is getting close; he’s trying to work round behind us,’ observed Ginger, who was still staring through the window at the enemy machines.
‘I’m watching him.’
‘I wish we had a gun,’ said Ginger wistfully.
‘The trouble about wishing is, it doesn’t get you anywhere,’ murmured Biggles dryly.
‘That fellow’s closing in. I believe he can still see us.’
‘He’s close enough to see our exhausts. Tell me when he gets within range. Maybe I can show him something.’
‘How far are we from the frontier?’
‘Ten miles. She’s taking all I can give her, so we ought to be across in two or three minutes.’
‘Look out! He’s shooting!’ yelled Ginger suddenly.
The words had barely left his lips when the machine banked steeply and then plunged downward. He had to clutch at his seat to remain in it. He lost all sense of direction, and even the relative position of the machine with the ground. Hardened air traveller though he was, his stomach seemed to come up into his mouth.
Quivering, the machine returned to even keel.
‘Gosh! If you do that again I shall be sick,’ gasped Ginger, looking around for the searchlights in order to find out which way they were travelling. The lights were straight ahead, groping towards them.
‘Can you see that fellow who was shooting at us?’ asked Biggles.
‘No — yes, there he is. The searchlights have just picked him up. He’s miles above us.’
Ginger glanced again at the altimeter and saw that they were down to two thousand feet.
Half a dozen searchlights were now stabbing the air around them.
The noise of the engines died as Biggles cut the throttle. The machine banked vertically to the right and began gliding parallel with the line of lights. Looking back, Ginger saw that the beams had concentrated on the area they had just left. The sky was filled with crimson flashes, and he knew that the guns were in action.
The nose of the machine tilted down.
Ginger looked at Biggles. There was a curious smile on his face. He appeared to feel Ginger looking at him, for he glanced up and caught his eyes. ‘This is like old times,’ he said cheerfully.
With the machine still gliding Biggles began picking his way with uncanny skill through the beams. ‘Tell everybody to hold on to something if a light picks us up,’ he told Ginger. ‘If that happens I shall make a rush for it, but I may have to throw the machine about a bit.’
Ginger obeyed the order and returned to his seat. ‘My goodness, we’re low,’ he said, looking down.
‘When there are guns about, if you can’t get high, keep low,’ muttered Biggles. And at that moment a groping light swung round and caught their wing-tip. It overshot, but the operator had evidently seen them, for the beam swung swiftly back towards them.
The Lockheed’s engines burst into a bellow of noise. The nose tilted down steeply. Down — down — down.
Ginger held his breath, torn between looking at the jagged bursts of flame outside, and the air-speed indicator, the needle of which had crept up over the three hundred mark. He flinched when something struck the machine with a harsh, tearing crash.
Biggles eased the stick back. Again the machine quivered as something struck it. ‘Are the others all right?’ he asked calmly.
Ginger peered down into the darkened cabin. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The Professor’s got his hands over his face. He looks frightened to death.’
‘So do you,’ grinned Biggles.
‘You don’t look so good yourself,’ snorted Ginger, marvelling at the way Biggles threw such a big machine about, for it was never on the same course for more than a moment.
Looking around he saw that the lights were no longer in front of them. A black mass seemed to rise up on their left. ‘What’s that?’ he cried in alarm.
‘Only a mountain,’ Biggles told him. ‘I shot through a pass.’ He brought the machine to even keel, but continued to bank steeply, first one way and then the other.
‘The lights are behind us,’ said Ginger.
‘Quite right,’ replied Biggles. ‘We’ve crossed the frontier. We are over France.’
‘They are still shooting at us.’
‘The French will soon be shooting at them if they don’t pack up,’ growled Biggles, sitting back in his seat and taking a deep breath. ‘I think the worst is over,’ he murmured.
Ginger put his head out of the side window. ‘The lights are going out,’ he said as he drew it in again. ‘Where are you going to make for?’
Biggles tried the controls carefully and studied the instrument board before he replied. ‘Croydon,’ he said.
‘Croydon!’
‘Yes. I’m not landing anywhere this side of Dover if I can prevent it. When I step out of this machine I want to feel good English soil under my feet.’
‘The same as you,’ nodded Ginger. ‘I’ve had all I want of the continent for a bit.’
‘Take a message to the wireless operator.’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell him to call up Croydon control tower. He is to say that he has a message for X.I.I., Whitehall. The message is. “All’s well. Meet us at Croydon about three.” Sign it “Bigglesworth”. Got that?’
‘Yes. Who is X.I.I.?’
‘Colonel Raymond.’
‘I get it,’ nodded Ginger, making his way aft.
Conclusion
That is really the end of the story of how Professor Beklinder was snatched from a position which might have had far-reaching effects at a critical time in British history. Indeed, it would be no exaggeration to say that had Biggles and his two comrades failed in their quest, the result might have been disastrous, not only for the Professor personally, but for the British Empire.
Naturally, no word of the affair ever reached the newspapers beyond a belated and curiously worded denial that the Professor had been killed in a motor accident. Only those actively concerned with the rescue knew the truth of the rumours which subsequently leaked out both on the continent and in London.
The shell-torn Lockheed reached Croydon a few minutes after three o’clock in the morning. The passengers found two cars awaiting them. Colonel Raymond was there with two bowler-hatted gentlemen whom Ginger did not know.
Colonel Raymond made only one remark to Biggles as he stepped out of the machine, before turning
to Professor Beklinder, with whom, naturally, he was more concerned at the moment. Smiling, he shook his head. ‘Good work, Bigglesworth,’ he said. ‘How do you do it?’
‘Oh, just low cunning, with a bit of luck thrown in,’ grinned Biggles wearily.
They all went in the two cars to a famous London hotel where Colonel Raymond had arranged for the Professor to stay pending a secret inquiry into the whole affair. They all got out.
‘I expect you fellows want to get home,’ said Colonel Raymond, looking at Biggles, Algy, and Ginger in turn.
‘That sounds a good idea to me,’ admitted Biggles. ‘I shall be available if you want me. I’ll send you a long report in due course.’
‘Good,’ nodded the Colonel. ‘James, my chauffeur, can drive you home. He knows where you live.’
‘Thanks. Good night, sir. Good night, Professor; we’ll have lunch together one day in the near future and congratulate ourselves.’ Turning, Biggles got into the car with the others.
He slammed the door. ‘Home, James — and don’t spare the horses,’ he said, yawning.
THE END
