by W E Johns
Rod pulled. Nothing happened.
Bertie groaned his disappointment.
‘Pipe down — we haven’t finished yet,’ growled Biggles. ‘All this primitive engineering wasn’t for nothing. It was to enable the slab to be put in and lifted out. It was done once so it can be done again. As it may not have been used for hundreds of years you’d expect it to stick a bit.’ So saying Biggles took out his penknife and for some minutes worked the blade round the edges of the slab.
‘Now see what you can do together,’ he requested. ‘Take it slowly and gently. Don’t try jerking or the strap might break.’
Rod took the strain, and as there was not enough of the belt for Bertie to hold at the same time, he put his arms round Rod’s waist.
‘Now. Both together,’ said Biggles tersely. ‘Gently — gently — it’s coming.’
Biggles’s eyes were on the crack nearest to him. Slowly, it widened. Then, suddenly, so suddenly that Bertie went over backwards, the slab rose up on end to expose a square hole as black as a tomb.
‘Don’t let it go,’ snapped Biggles. Lying flat on his back he put a foot against the slab and pushed it right back against the wall. ‘Okay,’ he said, as he got up, grinning. ‘There it is.’
‘Jolly good,’ said Bertie.
Biggles went on: ‘I don’t like saying “I told you so”, but you’ll forgive me if I remind you that I said there should be a bolt-hole somewhere at this end of the castle. If this isn’t it I’ll take back what I said.’
‘Let’s make sure of it,’ said Rod. ‘And while you’re at it you can hand me back my belt.’ He was standing holding up his trousers.
Biggles removed the straps, which were no longer necessary, and gave Rod his belt. This done he leaned forward, peering into the hole. ‘Can’t see a thing. Lend me those matches again, Rod.’ He took the box and struck one. ‘Steps,’ he announced. ‘Steep ones, too. That must mean a tunnel leading to the open.’
‘How do you know it ends in the open?’
‘I can feel cold air on my face. I felt it as soon as the slab came up.’
‘Why are we talking?’ inquired Bertie. ‘Let’s press on and get out. I’ve been in here long enough.’
Biggles hesitated a moment. ‘I’d as soon be kicked as go down that hole. I’m no mole. However ...’
‘Better test the slab to make sure it can’t fall, and trap us in case we have to come back,’ cautioned Rod.
Biggles tested it for security. ‘That’s all right. I’ll go first.’
Moving forward, legs first, he felt with his feet for the top step and lit a match. ‘There are only five or six steps,’ he told the others. ‘I’ll go to the bottom and give you a light. Don’t forget your gun, Rod. Bertie, you bring the glasses. When we get to the bottom you can give me any odd scraps of paper you have. By burning them we can save matches. We may have some way to go, so we can’t afford to waste any.’
Moving with care, one foot at a time, he went on to the bottom of the steps, and there, very soon, the others joined him.
They were now in a narrow tunnel, cut through the living rock, going down at a fairly steep angle. With Biggles still leading the way they proceeded, an occasional match being struck and, when it was nearly expended, a piece of paper being lighted. This was a precaution against accident rather than a necessity, because they could feel their way; but, as Biggles remarked, it was no place to risk a fall. There might be more steps, or even a hole.
The air became noticeably cooler as they went on with a draught on their faces. Once Biggles stopped and said: ‘Listen.’ Up the tunnel from somewhere ahead came a sound as if pebbles were being poured from one pail into another.
‘The sea,’ said Rod.
‘We can’t have much farther to go,’ asserted Biggles.
They went on, and a few minutes later there appeared in front of them a patch of grey that could only be the open air.
‘Not quite dark yet,’ observed Biggles.
‘Jolly good! We’ve done it!’ exclaimed Bertie.
‘Let’s wait until we’re out before we start to crow,’ said Biggles cautiously.
‘I don’t see what can stop us now, old boy.’
‘We should look silly if the tunnel ended half-way up a cliff. We’ve no rope.’
Nothing more was said. The journey ended, and there, eight or ten feet below them, lay the sea, showing its teeth in a long line of breakers.
‘So this is where we wait,’ said Biggles, in a resigned voice. ‘We can’t get back to the beach, or anywhere else for that matter, while the tide’s as high as this.’
The waves were in fact biting at the foot of the cliff, the spray reaching their faces.
‘We might as well sit down,’ added Biggles. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it, so we shall just have to wait.’
‘Say, they certainly made provision for trouble in the old days,’ remarked Rod. ‘What a bolt-hole. No doubt a boat was kept here so that anyone could get clean away if things went wrong. It’d take some nerve to follow desperate men through that tunnel.’
‘We must have passed below when we were on our way to the castle. It’s only a small exit, so I’m not surprised we didn’t see it. If we had we should have taken it for an ordinary cave, anyway.’
Bertie spoke. ‘I’d like to see the faces of those stiffs who locked us up when they find we’ve gone. How about going back and dropping the slab into place? That’d get ‘em guessing.’
‘It isn’t worth bothering about,’ decided Biggles. ‘They’d soon find out which way we went. How long it’ll take them to discover we’ve gone depends on when they feel like opening the kitchen door. They can follow us if they like. As Rod said a moment ago it’d take a bit of nerve to come through that tunnel not knowing how far we were in front of them. They might meet a bullet coming the other way.’
‘How long do you reckon we shall have to wait here?’ asked Rod.
‘Not too long, I hope. As far as I can judge the tide’s at full flood, so it should soon be on the turn. We can wait. I’m not in such a hurry that I’m prepared to risk being drowned trying to get through those rocks while waves are breaking over them. We’ve done pretty well so far. Let’s be satisfied with that and take our time.’
There for a while the conversation ended. There was nothing left to say.
CHAPTER 11
HARD GOING
WHEN Ginger had been thrust with almost brutal violence into the kitchen, he had fallen on the stone floor with a force sufficient to really shake him. He had saved his head with an outflung arm, but only at the cost of a severe blow on the elbow; therefore, seething with anger, although this did not help matters, he sat for a moment or two where he had fallen, holding the bruised arm, while he recovered his composure.
He found himself in pitch darkness, from which, to his mounting astonishment, there came no sound. He fully expected — indeed, he was quite sure — someone would speak. From what had been said by his captors, he had convinced himself that Biggles and the others were prisoners and that he was to be put with them. The words he had heard could have no other meaning. Consequently he found the silence more than somewhat strange. In fact, alarming.
‘Biggles,’ he said quietly.
There was no answer.
‘Biggles, are you there?’ he said loudly.
Still no answer.
‘It’s me — Ginger.’
The words echoed eerily in the empty room.
Rising to his feet he felt for his lighter which, being in his waistcoat pocket, had been overlooked when he was searched, possibly because of the interest in his gun. He flicked it on, and looking round the room saw at once that he was alone.
There he stood, completely taken aback. He couldn’t understand it. All his preconceived ideas of exchanging news with the others were swept away at one stroke. What had happened? He closed his lighter, in order not to waste fuel, while he tried to adjust himself to a situation which had him baffled. He went
over in his mind what had been said on the beach, and again on reaching the castle, but this brought no solution to the mystery. He was forced to the conclusion that he had gone wrong somewhere, had taken too much for granted. He was torn between being glad and sorry that he was to work things out alone, after all. He would have liked company, but it was a relief to know that Biggles was outside — or so he now had reason to hope.
Again he clicked on his lighter and now went to examine the door. It did not take him long to discover there was no way of opening it. The bobbin that should have lifted the latch, with the cord attached, lay on the floor. He picked it up and looked at it. Why was it on the floor? Looking closely at the end of the cord he saw a clean cut. It had not frayed through and broken. No, he reasoned. The cut had been deliberate. Why? He realized of course that the cord must have been severed outside the door; by someone in the corridor. To that person it would not matter if the cord was cut, because if he wanted to open the door he could do so by merely lifting the wooden latch. But it would be a different matter if he was inside and wanted to get out. With no means of lifting the latch it would be impossible.
That, Ginger saw clearly enough, was his position now.
What was the object of all this? His thoughts ran on, striving to solve a problem that was not as easy as it might appear. Had someone else been in the same fix as the one in which he now found himself, and if so, who? Obviously, as the previous occupant, assuming there had been one, was no longer there he must have been taken out. Or had he managed in some way to get out? This seemed possible, because had the occupant, or occupants, been taken out, there would have been no purpose in shutting the door.
He looked at the windows. A glance was sufficient to tell him that escape that way was not possible. They were much too narrow.
It was not with any real hope of finding an exit that he walked round his prison, examining everything as a matter of course. He perceived the place had been a kitchen. In walking on he came upon the loose kindling sticks which, for some unknown reason, had been thrown about the floor haphazard, although one or two handfuls of twigs had been carefully arranged in the fire-place. Under them was a small white object, apparently a scrap of crumpled paper, and the thought struck him here was a way of saving the gas in his lighter. He could light a fire.
Kneeling, he was actually holding the little flame to the paper when he noticed some words typewritten on it. It was sheer curiosity that caused him to withdraw what he discovered to be a crushed envelope. It carried a stamp, so evidently it had been through the post. Smoothing out the creases he read the name and address. This resulted in a shock that set his nerves tingling, and went far to providing the answers to the questions that had been exercising his mind.
The letter had been addressed to Bertie at their London flat. So that was it, he thought, his brain racing. It was unlikely that Bertie had been there alone. Biggles and Rod must have been with him. They had been captured, and this is where they had been put. Where were they now?
He applied the flame, now getting weak, to the envelope and tucked it under the twigs. A little fire sprang up, setting shadows flickering. He reached for some more substantial sticks to keep it going, and in so doing he saw the hole in the floor of the recess. This, naturally, brought him to an abrupt stop in what he was doing and put all other ideas out of his head. He crept nearer to the hole and stared at it, trying to see into it. Was this the way out? The way the others had gone? It seemed probable; in fact, almost certain. But he didn’t lose sight of the possibility that it might be a trap. Unless it was simply a cesspool for kitchen waste, another possibility, it had to lead somewhere or there would be no purpose in it.
While, acting on the principle of look before you leap, he still hesitated, yet another thought occurred to him. If this was indeed a way out of the castle his captors could have known nothing about it, or they wouldn’t have been so stupid as to use the place for a lock-up.
Creeping to the edge of the hole and holding his lighter low, he peered in and saw the steps. This discovery cheered him, gave him confidence in what they promised. He called softly: ‘Biggles! Are you down there?’
There was no answer; but he didn’t seriously expect one.
Unless he was content to remain a prisoner, which he was not, there was now only one course open to him. It took a little nerve to lower himself into a pit of unknown depth, but he went on down and in due course found himself in a tunnel. A draught of cool air on his face encouraged him by what it implied, and the rest, in the light of his fast-failing little flame, was comparatively easy. Eventually he came to the end of a nerve-testing journey to find himself, like a rabbit looking out of its burrow, on his knees at a hole in the face of the cliff. Somewhere below in the darkness he could hear the sea lapping the shore.
He ascertained how far he had to drop by the simple expedient of throwing down a small piece of rock. The next problem was the state of the tide, for he was unwilling to find himself cut off. He couldn’t recall the exact state of it. Looking at his watch and after searching his memory, he thought it should be on the ebb. Anyhow, by this time he was sure Biggles and the others had left the castle by this route, and as they were not in the tunnel it could only mean they had gone on. If it was safe for them it must be safe for him, he reasoned.
His mind made up, he lowered himself to the full extent of his arms and dropped. He landed on a patch of shingle mixed up with small pieces of rock. He stumbled but did not fall. Recovering, he stared into the darkness but could see little. The water sounded dangerously close. He thought he could just make out the irregular line of the waves as they broke, but he wasn’t sure. How far he would be able to get in such conditions, or before the sea brought him to a halt, he did not know, but he resolved to take a chance and move on as far as possible. His lighter, useless out of doors, he returned to his pocket. Then he set off.
Anyone who has tried, in daylight, making his way over seaweed-festooned rocks that were recently under water, will appreciate what this was like in the dark. Ginger spent a good deal of time on his hands and knees, groping at what was in front of him. Several times he fell, sometimes in a pool of water and sometimes on a rock, jolting himself but doing no serious damage. He didn’t care as long as he was able to make progress. Before it ended the journey had become a nightmare, one of those that seem to go on and on interminably.
His relief, when a vague silhouette told him that he had reached the harbour, need not be described. It can be imagined. He sank down, wet through, filthy, aching from bruises and utterly exhausted.
Having had a rest, and finding himself getting cold, he got up. The big question now was, where were the others? Were they, or were they not, in the vicinity? Assuming they were no longer in the castle, they would make for the harbour or the beach, expecting to find him in one place or the other. He tried calling. There was no answer, so that settled one question. They were not at the harbour — unless his voice was drowned by the incessant splash of waves on the shore. In that case, if they were anywhere about, they would be on or near the beach. What he feared was, not finding him where they had left him, they would go to look for him. That meant, knowing nothing about his adventure, they might be anywhere.
He was weary of walking but decided all he could do was get nearer to the beach. Slowly he made his way towards it, and he still had a little distance to cover when, to his unspeakable relief, a hail came floating along on the breeze. Someone shouted ‘Ginger.’ He recognized the voice. It was Biggles.
‘Here,’ he yelled, thinking that if Biggles was prepared to shout he could do the same. ‘Here I am!’ He went on, unsteadily, towards the beach, calling at intervals and Biggles answering. And so, presently, they met. Rod and Bertie were there.
Biggles opened the conversation. ‘Where the devil have you been?’ he demanded curtly. ‘We’ve been looking all over the place for you.’
‘You couldn’t have looked in the right place,’ answered Ginger, coolly, nett
led by this reception, or perhaps because he was bone tired.
‘Where should we have looked? I told you to stay here.’
‘You might have tried the castle. In the kitchen, for instance.’
‘What are you talking about? We’ve been there.’
‘I know. So have I. I’ve just come from there. It was kind of you to show me the way out.’
This remark produced a short silence. Then Biggles went on: ‘Are you telling us you’ve been in the castle?’
‘I have, and I didn’t tramp all that way from choice, believe you me. I went because I was tied to a horse. And with the horse was not one man but six. Now think that over.’
‘Great grief! I’m sorry if I sounded a bit rattled, but we were worried about you. You’re saying you were captured and taken to the castle?’
‘That’s it, but it’s making a short story of a long one. Let’s find somewhere to sit down because I’m about all in, and I’ve news that’s going to rock you on your heels.’
‘How did you get away?’
‘The same way as you did, I imagine. They threw me in the kitchen. And I can tell you this. They thought you were still there. How about a cup o’ tea? Can’t we go somewhere and make one? It seems weeks since I had a respectable meal.’
‘It’ll be getting light soon. Then we shall be able to see what we’re doing instead of blundering about over these infernal rocks. Did you come along the bottom of the cliff?’
‘Too true I did.’
‘Then you have my sympathy,’ consoled Biggles. ‘That’s the way we came. Squat down here for a minute or two and tell us what happened to you.’
For the next half-hour, by the end of which time the sky was turning a sickly grey, Ginger told the story of his adventure — or rather, misadventure. Nobody interrupted him. ‘That’s about the lot,’ he concluded, when he came to the point of his discovery of the bolt-hole.
‘Enough, too. You have had a wild night,’ said Biggles. ‘Without being unkind, I must say it was worth it for all this information you’ve picked up. What shakes me is six men. Apart from anything else, six men take some feeding. What devilment are they hatching here — a revolution? I’m beginning to wonder, taking the boat and its crew into account, how many men there are in this altogether. One thing sticks out like a sore thumb. If an organization of this size is at work here it must be engaged in a very profitable racket. You say the stuff that was being loaded or unloaded on the beach bumped when it was dropped as if it was hard?’
