Biggles Takes it Rough

by W E Johns

  They took the winding stairs to the next floor and began a systematic search of the rooms. There were several. They were all small, and empty. Just stone floors and walls. Not a single object of the slightest interest was found.

  ‘They had plenty of stone, but timber must always have been in short supply,’ remarked Rod. ‘If they ever had any on the island it would soon be used up.’

  A short flight of steps gave access to the roof. At one time there had been a wooden covering, against the weather, at the top of the steps, but most of it had rotted away. From the parapet the views were impressive but unattractive. Behind lay the sea, grey and monotonous, with one or two smudges on the horizon to mark the position of smaller outlying islands. In front was the bleak, colourless, rolling moorland that covered most of the island. The area blackened by the fire showed up conspicuously.

  Beyond it a narrow strip of the beach could just be seen. There was no sign of Ginger, or an aircraft.

  ‘Apparently Algy hasn’t got back yet,’ observed Biggles, turning half right to look at the abandoned lighthouse, not far away, standing, forlorn and desolate, near the edge of the cliff, staring eternally at the empty sea. Near it half a dozen deer were grazing. These, and the ever-present sea-birds, were the only living creatures in sight.

  Biggles said: ‘You know, it’s a funny thing, but I can’t get this smell of burning peat out of my nostrils. I could swear I can smell peat, but I’ve reached the stage when I don’t really know whether it’s real or imagination.’

  ‘I fancy I get a whiff of it sometimes,’ informed Bertie.

  After gazing at the panorama for a few minutes longer, Biggles went on: ‘I don’t think we need waste any more time here. Let’s go back downstairs.’

  Reaching the bottom he nodded along the corridor. ‘You say there’s only the kitchen there?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘We might as well have a look at it now we’re here. It might be a good thing to get to know our way about the place. It’s going to cost you a tidy penny, Rod, to make it fit for civilized people to live in.’

  ‘I might as well spend my money that way as any other. I shall at least have something to show for it. People who don’t like this sort of life might die of boredom, but that’s less painful than being knocked flat on your face by a lunatic in an automobile. At least we have no traffic problems.’

  ‘By thunder! I’ll give you that,’ acknowledged Biggles, grinning.

  A little farther on they came to a door, the latch, a stout bar of oak, operated by an old-fashioned bobbin and cord. Rod lifted the latch from its socket and they went in.

  ‘Phew! What a fug-hole,’ muttered Bertie. ‘When this place was in use it must have stunk like the fo’c’sle of a Spanish onion boat.’

  Actually, the kitchen was a room of fair size, as two high, narrow, unglazed windows enabled them to observe. Its purpose was apparent. The middle of one wall was occupied by a huge open fire-place, from which projected the arm of a heavy iron spit. Suspended by chains hung hooks of various sizes, black with the greasy soot of many years of use. A vast iron cauldron lay on its side. A rough-hewn stone trough, with the outlet running through a hole in the wall, evidently served as a sink. There were also sundry hooks on the walls. Bertie hung the binoculars on one of them. All in all it was a dull, gloomy sort of place.

  Into one of the walls ran a recess, perhaps a yard square and four feet high, which looked as if it had been a store cupboard. The bottom was flush with the floor and littered with a layer of dry sticks which in some remote age may have been gathered for starting the fire. There was something else, not so easily explained.

  ‘I wonder what was the purpose of this comical contrivance?’ said Biggles, stooping to look at it more closely.

  Half-way up the recess an iron pin crossed from one side to the other, the ends fitting into sockets in the stonework. This appeared to act as a spindle for a wheel about ten inches in diameter. Except that it was heavier and made of iron, it was rather like a scooter wheel, in that it had a raised rim, as if to take a tyre. There was of course no tyre. With a little difficulty Biggles was able to turn the wheel half a revolution. ‘It’s a long time since this was used, whatever its purpose may have been,’ he observed, straightening his back. ‘Queer. It was obviously intended to wind something on, but what that was is beyond my imagination. What do you wind in a kitchen?’

  ‘Some device for turning the spit, perhaps,’ suggested Rod.

  Biggles shrugged. ‘Could be. It defeats me.’

  Bertie changed the subject. ‘You wouldn’t have to cut a beast into joints to roast it over that fire. You could cook a deer whole.’

  ‘No doubt that was how the meat was cooked,’ said Rod.

  ‘Saved a lot of fiddling about and washing up,’ offered Biggles.

  ‘Think of the mess, old boy, think of the mess,’ said Bertie, with an expression of disgust. ‘Blood and gravy all over the floor. It must have been grim.’

  ‘Life was grim when this place was built,’ Biggles reminded him cheerfully. ‘No fancy soap powders in those days, yet somehow people managed to survive.’

  A slight sound behind caused him to turn sharply. ‘What was that?’

  ‘It was only the door swinging shut,’ Rod pointed out. ‘We left it open.’

  ‘I know we left it open. How could it shut itself? There’s no draught.’

  Biggles went quickly to the door and pushed against it. It did not move. He pulled the bobbin. The cord pulled through the hole, leaving the loose end in his hand. He looked at it. ‘This was cut,’ he announced quietly.

  ‘It must have broken.’

  ‘No. It’s a new piece of cord. Looks like nylon.’

  It took a moment or two for the others to realize the significance of what had happened.

  ‘Do you mean — we’re shut in?’ breathed Rod.

  ‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you.’ Biggles went on in a voice of bitter self-recrimination. ‘It’s about time I had my head examined. Fancy walking into a ready-made trap as simple as that!’

  Rod put his weight against the door. Nothing happened.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘Why not try to pull the wall down? You’d have as much chance.’

  ‘What are we going to do about it?’

  ‘You tell me. I’m no demolition expert.’

  ‘But this is ridiculous!’

  ‘That isn’t the word I’d use. I’d call it serious. If you haven’t quite grasped what it means, I’ll tell you. We’re locked in. Somebody has locked us in. It follows, therefore, that we’re now in the hands of whoever was responsible. Until he feels like letting us out, it looks as if we shall have to stay here. That may be some time.’

  ‘All right. You needn’t be snooty about it,’ protested Rod.

  ‘I’m not being snooty with you. It’s myself I’m blaming. I deserve to be kicked from one side of the island to the other for being so hen-witted as to step into a cage, leaving the door open for anyone to shut. We suspected there were people here. Now we know.’

  ‘Where did they come from?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, but they must have been in the building somewhere.’

  ‘We didn’t hear a sound.’

  ‘They took good care we didn’t.’

  ‘But what’s the idea?’

  ‘Quite simply, they’ve got us where they want us. They can now get on with what they’re doing without any interference from us.’

  ‘But they’d never have the nerve to leave us here to starve to death.’

  ‘How do we know what they might do? They were prepared to burn us to death, weren’t they? The only difference is, this may take a little longer.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Wait and see. It’s no use trying to squeeze through one of those windows even if we could get up to it. I don’t know about the chimney.’ Biggles walked over to it, and stooping, looked up. ‘I can see the sky, he said. ‘It’s big enough to
get up, but there seems to be something in the way.’ He stood and reached upwards, groping, and brought down a shower of soot. He came out and brushed more soot off his hands. ‘No use,’ he said shortly. ‘There are bars across. The bright lads who lived here weren’t taking any chances of burglars getting in that way,’ he concluded, lugubriously.

  ‘What about Ginger?’ suggested Bertie, hopefully. ‘When we don’t come back he’ll know something has gone wrong and come to look for us.’

  ‘And maybe find himself in a trap, too. It’s hard to see what he can do single-handed against this lot.’

  ‘They may not know about him. They may think they’ve got us all boxed in.’

  ‘That’s true. But it may be some time before Ginger gets uneasy about us. He’ll expect us to come back the way we went, so his first thought will be that we’ve merely been cut off by the tide and are having to wait for it to go down.’

  ‘What if Algy comes?’

  ‘That’ll keep one of them, if not both, on the beach. My orders were, the machine was not to be left unguarded.’

  Bertie sighed. ‘So it looks as if we may have a long spell here.’

  ‘That’s how it looks to me, short of a miracle.’

  There was a rustling sound at the door. They stared at it expectantly. But it did not open. A piece of paper was pushed underneath. Biggles picked it up and read something that had been written on it. ‘Listen to this,’ he said softly. ‘“If you’ll give a guarantee to leave the island and not come back we’ll let you out.”’ He looked at Rod. ‘What about it?’

  ‘I’ll see them in hell first,’ raged Rod.

  ‘If they mean what they say that’s not likely to happen,’ returned Biggles evenly.

  ‘Are you going to answer that message?’

  ‘This isn’t the moment to do anything in a hurry. I don’t know why we’re standing. Let’s sit down and think about it.’

  ‘You might ask them what is the alternative,’ said Bertie.

  ‘All in good time. It might be better not to know. You may be sure it won’t be anything pleasant.’

  Biggles sat on the floor.

  The light outside, seen through the windows, was beginning to fade.

  ‘Could we do anything with my gun?’ asked Rod, indicating his twelve-bore, which he had stood in a corner.

  Biggles looked dubious. ‘What do you think you could do with it?’

  ‘Shoot the latch off.’

  ‘The latch is on the other side. As I remember it, it was a hefty lump of wood, in keeping with the door. No, that wouldn’t work with a door as thick as that. If you stood any distance away you’d simply plaster the thing with pellets. If you put the muzzle tight against the door you’d burst your gun. Sporting guns aren’t made for that sort of thing. If you had a hundred cartridges it might be worth trying. Two or three would be worse than useless.’

  ‘What about your automatic?’

  ‘I’d rather keep my bullets.’

  ‘Here’s an idea,’ said Rod. ‘Hammer on the door with the butt. When they come to see what we want you tell them to open up and we’ll talk about it.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Shoot ‘em.’

  Biggles looked pained. ‘Have a heart, Rod. We don’t do that sort of thing here.’

  ‘That’s what an American cop would do.’

  ‘I can believe that, but it happens we’re not in the United States.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Biggles went on. ‘Sitting here I’ve been thinking. You’ve had a lot to say about this place being built with an eye for defence — narrow corridors, spiral stairway, and so on. If you’re right, this is where the builders made a boob.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Imagine the defenders had been forced back down the corridor. They’d find themselves in here, a cul-de-sac, with no way out. That doesn’t strike me as being very clever.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Would they be such fools as to fall back into a death trap? That doesn’t line up with the rest of the building.’

  ‘What you’re saying is, there should be a way out of here.’

  ‘I would have thought so.’

  ‘Then where is it? If there was a bolt-hole we could hardly have failed to see it.’

  ‘Maybe they were smart enough not to make it too obvious. Only the people who had reason to know, would know where it was. If the place was besieged, and somebody wanted to get out to fetch help, it wouldn’t be much use leaving by the front door, which is the only way in and out of the place I’ve seen so far.’

  ‘I get it. All we have to do is find the bolt-hole.’ Rod was a trifle cynical.

  ‘That’s it. Meanwhile, it’ll be dark presently. Sitting here without a light isn’t going to make the place any more cheerful. We’ve got some sticks so we might as well light a bit of a fire. That, at least, for as long as the sticks last, should give us enough light to see each other.’

  ‘You think Ginger might see the light from the windows,’ said Bertie.

  ‘I’m afraid not, because if I’ve got my bearings right they overlook the briny ocean. But he’s bound to look this way from time to time, so while daylight lasts there’s a fair chance he may spot the smoke. That, of course, wouldn’t tell him much, but he’d know someone was in the building. If we could make enough smoke, which I very much doubt as the sticks must be bone dry, we might even be able to make a signal in Morse. We’d only need to send three letters, S.O.S. If I know Ginger it wouldn’t take him long to tumble to the meaning of that. No one else but us would be likely to make such a signal. We can do no harm by trying. I’ll get the sticks while it’s light enough to see what we’re doing.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ complimented Bertie. Turning to Rod he added: ‘He’s a great lad for ideas.’

  At this moment there was a sharp knock on the door and a voice said: ‘What about it?’

  Biggles answered: ‘Come in and we’ll talk about it.’ Drawing his pistol he advanced sharply to be behind the door when it opened.

  It was not opened. The voice said: ‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

  ‘You can go to the devil,’ shouted Rod furiously.

  ‘Suits me. If you change your minds kick the door, but don’t waste any time about it because we’re going out and may be away some time. Enjoy yourselves.’

  With this taunt, footsteps retreated.

  Biggles returned the gun to his pocket.

  CHAPTER 9

  TROUBLES FOR GINGER

  LEFT to watch the beach Ginger was prepared for his job to be a boring one, and so it turned out. He did not expect anything of interest to happen and for a long time nothing did. His consolation was, the others would soon be back, so he would not be very long alone. It was still too soon for Algy to return considering all the things he had to do, but he could not deny that Biggles had been right in insisting that someone should be there to meet him in case the unexpected happened. It seemed unlikely that the trespassers on Rod’s island would come near the beach or the harbour, because it was hard to see what purpose they could have in doing so.

  The landscape, or the seascape, according to which way he looked, was disagreeable, and he found no pleasure in regarding it in any direction.

  The first difficulty was to find a place where he could sit to watch, unobserved by anyone who might show up. There was no point in standing, anyway. The fire had burnt all the herbage on the bank, leaving nothing except bare earth and rocks. After looking about for some time for the best place, he got over the difficulty by hauling some rocks together to form a seat, getting his hands filthy in the process. He washed them as well as he could in the sea. It was when he turned to go back to his seat, which was nearly at the bottom of the bank at about the middle of the beach, that he noticed something he had not seen before, probably because, until the fire, it had been covered by heather. It was a narrow track running transversely down the bank from the top to the bottom. It looked as if it might have been an old
sheep track, when there were sheep on the island. Beyond that he gave it no further thought.

  Then, for hours, he followed a routine wearisome in its monotony, not from choice but because it was a duty and had to be done. For half an hour or so he would squat in his uncomfortable seat surveying the sea and the air above it for anything that might appear, plane or boat. He would then climb the bank to the ridge and spend ten minutes or a quarter of an hour reconnoitring the landscape, particularly the high ground in the region of the castle. And, of course, the castle itself. He saw nothing. Nothing, that is, except the ever-present gulls that screamed at him in passing. Their melancholy cries never ceased for a moment.

  Occasionally he glanced along the foot of the cliffs beyond the harbour — not that he could see very far — in the hope of seeing the others coming back. He did not expect anyone else to come that way because, as far as he knew, this could not happen without an encounter with Biggles.

  A little after one o’clock, as there was still no sign of them, he made a short break by going to the little cave where their stuff had been stored, this having been pointed out to him, and helped himself to some biscuits and a partly used can of bully beef. With these he returned to his seat, where he ate a somewhat tasteless lunch without enthusiasm.

  So time went on. He still followed the same routine. The sky had become overcast with a threat of more rain. Everything was grey. He himself felt grey.

  It was not until four o’clock by his watch, and still the others had not returned, that he began to feel anxious about them. The tide was coming in and he feared they had been cut off. If they had it might be hours before they were back. He did not know how high the water was along the foot of the cliff and he dare not leave his post to find out. He spent more time watching from the ridge, thinking that if they had been cut off they might climb the cliff and come back along the top. They did not come. He was anxious, but so far nothing more than that.

  When six o’clock came, and he was still alone, he began to get really worried. What could they be doing? Something must have gone wrong, for he was sure that when the party had set out Biggles had no intention of being away for so long. There seemed little hope now that they would return the way they had gone, for although the tide had turned the water was still high.