Biggles Hits The Trail

by W E Johns

  Biggles shuddered. ‘Fancy being inside the mountain now!’ he shouted.

  Algy replied with a grimace that expressed his feelings.

  ‘Well, I don’t think they’ll start any world-conquest for a bit,’ continued Biggles, as he swung low over their old camping-ground, and applied left rudder to bring the machine on what he knew from the landmarks to be the homeward course. Automatically, his eyes went to the compass. The needle seemed to be strangely steady. It did not even vibrate in its customary manner. ‘What’s the matter with the thing?’ he thought, as he deliberately banked slightly to see what the result would be. The needle did not move.

  His heart gave a lurch when he realized that the instrument was out of order, and what the consequences were likely to be. He glanced at the sky and then at the ground. The thunderstorm still persisted, with vivid flashes of lightning darting into the ground on all sides, but this did not worry him. It was the fact of the sky being completely covered by sombre, solid-looking cloud that caused the corners of his mouth to turn down and a frown to furrow his forehead. He nudged Algy on the arm and put a finger on the glass of the compass.

  Algy looked, leaned forward for a closer view, and understanding what had happened, opened his eyes wide. ‘What are you going to do?’ he shouted.

  ‘I shall have to go down,’ answered Biggles shortly; and cutting the throttle, he began losing height, with his eyes searching the ground for a likely landing-place.

  It was not necessary to look far, for before them and on all sides stretched the rolling plain. There appeared to be no rocks or other obstructions, but in the circumstances, and knowing what a dire calamity a faulty landing would mean, he was by no means happy.

  He lowered the wheels, but for nearly five minutes he circled low over the place he had chosen before he would risk landing.

  The wheels touched softly, and he breathed more freely as the Explorer slowed down and finally ran to a standstill, although not until he was on the ground did he realize how hard the wind was blowing. He glanced around, and satisfied that they had no enemies to fear, he went through into the cabin. Algy followed.

  The others looked up in surprise as he entered.

  ‘What’s the matter? Why have you landed?’ exclaimed Dickpa.

  ‘The compass isn’t functioning,’ replied Biggles briefly.

  ‘But is the compass vitally necessary?’ asked Malty.

  ‘What do you suppose it’s there for – an ornament?’ answered Biggles.

  ‘But if you continued to fly south-west, you’d be bound to strike the Himalayas sooner or later. You couldn’t miss them.’

  ‘Not if I continued to fly south-west, of course I couldn’t,’ retorted Biggles coldly. ‘What do you think I am, a pigeon? Could you point to the south-west?’

  They all trooped out on to the short grass. Malty looked back at the now distant mountains, faced about and pointed.

  ‘A bit more to the left, I should say,’ observed the Professor.

  ‘To the right, you mean,’ corrected Algy.

  ‘Precisely,’ put in Biggles. ‘Now perhaps you understand. Even with the mountain as a guide no one is sure to within an angle of thirty degrees. What do you suppose it will be like in half an hour, when we are out of sight of the mountains, and only the plain, which all looks alike, underneath us? Add to that the fact that a thirty-mile-an-hour wind is blowing, and we have only just enough petrol left to reach India by flying in a dead straight line, and it should not be hard to see what will happen if we drift off our course. I saw a little of the Himalayas as we came over them, and what I saw makes me confident that they’re easier to fly over than walk over – which is what we should have to do if we were forced to land this side of them through running out of juice. As I have told you before, I’m a pilot, not a chamois.’

  ‘Perhaps the sun will come out presently,’ ventured Ginger optimistically.

  The Professor glanced up at the clouds. ‘You could keep a fairly straight course if you could see the sun, I suppose?’

  ‘Of course. The thing would become simple’

  ‘As Ginger has said, it may come out presently.’

  ‘On the other hand, it may not. I don’t want to appear unduly pessimistic, but judging from the look of things up topsides, the sun will have to put in some spade-work if it is going to break through that muck today.’

  ‘Couldn’t you get above the clouds ?’ suggested Malty.

  ‘We’re already at fourteen thousand feet,’ Biggles reminded him. ‘That is the altitude of the plateau on which we stand. The ceiling is, for a guess, two thousand feet above us. By that I mean the bottom of the clouds. Judging from my experience, I should say that those clouds are five thousand feet thick if they’re an inch. That takes us to over twenty thousand feet, which is a bit beyond us, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at the compass,’ broke in Ginger. ‘Perhaps the needle has stuck.’

  ‘Be careful what you’re doing,’ Biggles warned him. ‘They’re tricky things. I wouldn’t touch it, and that’s a fact. I once took one to pieces, and when I put it together again I had enough bits left over to make two wireless sets and a gramophone.’

  Biggles, Ginger, and Algy returned to the cockpit, while the others went into the cabin out of the icy blast.

  Ginger tried tapping the side of the instrument, but the needle was as rigid as if it was screwed down. Then, without warning, as they watched, it vibrated violently, and then flashed round in a swift semicircle. Again it quivered, and then began a series of rapid jerks.

  Biggles put his hand to his head, eyes agog. ‘Great goodness!’ he gasped. ‘Did you ever see anything like that? The thing must have got a bug in it. This isn’t a compass, it’s a stop-watch. I can’t bear to look at it. Wait a minute! What an ass I am. I’d forgotten about my pocket compass.’ He groped under his coat and took out the instrument, glanced at the dial, shook it and looked again. ‘ No use,’ he said briefly. ‘Funny thing, but this one’s stuck, too.’ Then he sprang upright, a look of understanding dawning in his eyes. He darted through the low doorway into the cabin, where the Professor and Malty were examining with interest the pieces of stalagmite he had brought from the cave. ‘What are you doing with that?’ he shouted.

  The others jumped. ‘Doing with it? Nothing – just looking at it, that’s all,’ replied Malty.

  A slow smile spread over Biggles’s face. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to throw it away,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘Throw it away?’ cried Malty, aghast. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Because it’s jiggering up my compass, that’s all,’ Biggles told him.

  ‘So that’s the culprit, is it?’ exclaimed the Professor.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, I’m not parting with it,’ declared Malty. ‘If necessary, I’ll get out and walk. This is what I came for and I’m not going back without it.’

  Biggles scratched his ear. ‘It seems a pity to dump it, I admit,’ he said slowly. ‘But honestly, Malty, I daren’t risk flying without a compass, so what are we going to do about it? That stuff must fairly bristle with magnetism, or electricity, or both — yet why doesn’t it affect the magnetos?’ he added quickly.

  ‘They’re varnished, that’s why,’ put in McAllister, speaking for the first time.

  ‘Of course. I’d forgotten that. Then can we varnish this stuff?’

  ‘We’ve no varnish,’ McAllister pointed out. ‘We used it all on the plateau and left the bottle behind. Wait! I’ve got it. Malty, take the stuff outside; go some distance away and see if the compass is all right then.’

  At a distance of a hundred yards the compass began to show signs of life; at two hundred it was normal.

  Biggles breathed a sigh of relief. ‘It looks as if we shall have to dump it,’ he said.

  ‘Have you got a ball of string or a coil of wire?’ asked McAllister.

  ‘Why, what’s the idea?’

  ‘Why not roll the stuff up in
a piece of sheet and let it hang out of the window — out of range, so to speak.’

  Biggles stared and then laughed. ‘Nothing like having a practical man on board,’ he said. ‘Let’s try it.’

  A coil of copper wire was produced from the spare-part locker and the cause of the trouble attached to one end of it. Biggles took off, and smiled as the small bundle trailed out below and behind them. He glanced at the compass and then turned to Algy. Tell them it’s O.K.,’ he said, ‘and remind them to wind it in before I land. We don’t want to hook the roof off the rest-house.’

  Eight hours later, after an uneventful voyage, the Explorer landed on the aerodrome at Chittagong, just as the sun was going down behind the mysterious jungle.

  The Aerodrome Manager met them. ‘Where have you been?’ he asked curtly.

  Biggles looked up in surprise, pretending not to notice half a dozen silver machines bearing the red, white, and blue insignia of the Royal Air Force, lined up in front of the hangar, and a dozen curious spectators in khaki drill uniforms, who were watching from the veranda. ‘We got a bit off our course, I’m afraid,’ he confessed.

  ‘Off your course!’ cried the official incredulously. ‘Are you trying to tell me that you’ve been in the air ever since you left here?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ replied Biggles naively. ‘We had some engine trouble and came down.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there.’ Biggles indicated the north-east horizon with a vague sweep of his arm.

  ‘I thought you said you’d got a bit off your course,’ observed the official sarcastically.

  ‘It may have been some way; the compass went wrong,’ Biggles told him casually.

  ‘I should think it was some way,’ muttered the official pointedly. ‘I happen to know that country. A helicopter couldn’t find room to land this side of the Himalayas, much less that.’ He pointed to the Explorer. ‘I’d like to see that compass,’ he went on grimly.

  ‘You’ll find it on the instrument board,’ Biggles told him coolly.

  The official looked at the instrument and grunted. ‘Yes, that’s not much good,’ he admitted. ‘You ought to be more careful with your instruments,’ he advised.

  Biggles did not think it worth while to explain that a part of their cargo, now once more in the cabin, was responsible for the rigidity of the needle.

  ‘Half a dozen service machines have been wasting their time looking for you for the last twenty-four hours,’ went on the official.

  ‘That’s not my fault, is it?’ protested Biggles. ‘What do you mean, wasting their time, anyway?’

  The official looked at him oddly. ‘Because they would have had to go a long way before they found you, wouldn’t they?’ he said meaningly. Then a slow smile spread over his face, and when he spoke again it was in a different voice. ‘I should dearly love to know just what you people have been up to,’ he murmured. ‘Would it surprise you to know that Marshal Li Chen has sent a nasty note to the British Legation in Peking, requesting that the pilot of the British aeroplane that is annoying certain of his subjects be requested to return to his own country.’

  Biggles started. ‘Li Chen? I seem to have heard that name,’ he said, with a puzzled air.

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised; he’s the head of the Chinese Government. A very powerful man at the moment.’

  ‘I remember. Sort of jumped up from the ranks, and now trying to do the Dictator act.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Well, what’s that got to do with me?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, laddie, but I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ replied Biggles sadly. ‘I was never in China in my life. And now, if this little catechism is over, my party could do with a spot of nourishment.’

  ‘What are you going to do tomorrow?’ asked the official, as they walked slowly towards the rest-house. ‘I mean, which way are you going? Or are you going to stay here?’

  Biggles looked him straight in the eyes. ‘At the crack of dawn we are going back to England, Home, and Beauty, just as fast as we can,’ he said softly.

  The other smiled. ‘I think that would be the very best thing you could do,’ he agreed. ‘You’re featuring on the front pages of the world’s newspapers at the moment, under the headlines of “Missing British Fliers. Mystery of Lost Plane,” so don’t be surprised if the reporters ask you some leading questions.’

  ‘I hope they don’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because then they’ll hear no lies,’ smiled Biggles frankly.

  CHAPTER 15

  REFLECTIONS

  A FORTNIGHT later they sat in the library at Brendenhall Manor, sipping their after-dinner coffee. They had gone down by train after spending a day in London, during which time Malty had taken the pieces of stalagmite to an unknown destination, and Biggles had reported to the Foreign Office in answer to a curt invitation handed to him on landing. The Explorer had been left at Brooklands Aerodrome to be reconditioned.

  ‘So you told them the whole story,’ said the Professor, looking at Biggles, who had just finished describing his interview in London.

  ‘Of course. It was no use beating about the bush. They had every right to know, anyway.’

  ‘And what did they say ?’

  ‘Nothing. They’re better at listening than talking. When I’d finished they just said “Thank you” and handed me my hat. But if you want my opinion, I should say from a general impression that they were relieved. I had a feeling all the time I was there that they knew more than they pretended; that something funny was going on in the Far East, but they weren’t sure what it was. There’s no doubt that the affair was more far-reaching than we first imagined. This Li Chen johnny has big ideas. The Foreign Office people knew that, of course, but they didn’t know what they were. They do now.’

  ‘You mean, he was the man behind the Chungs?’

  ‘Unquestionably. He was financing them out of the Chinese Treasury and supplying transport for the machinery to the Tibetan frontier; he was all set to step in at the finish and openly proclaim himself Lord of Creation. The Chungs must have got the money from somewhere to buy the plant for harnessing the power supplied by the mountain. Where did they get it? I didn’t notice any goldmines or other prolific sources of revenue about, did you?’

  ‘They could have sold some radium,’ suggested Algy.

  ‘And drawn attention to the fact that they had radium deposits? Not likely! That would have been enough to bring the spies of every financial magnate in the world hot-foot to the spot. Then the game would have been up. No! The radium was too big a secret to be let drop. Li Chen backed them with a world conquest in view, so that if it had come off it would have been a good investment. The joke is, he can’t do anything about it now. If he starts a scream he’ll expose his own plot, and that wouldn’t do him much good. The big Powers would keep such an eye on him in future that he wouldn’t be able to change his socks without their being aware of it. But what I want to know is, what have you done with the loot, Malty?’

  ‘You mean the stalagmites?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re being examined by experts.’

  ‘When do you expect their report?’

  ‘I’ve got it.’

  ‘You’ve got it!’

  ‘Yes; that ‘phone call I answered a little while ago was from the Royal Institute. I’ve been waiting for you to stop talking so that I could tell you what they said.’

  Biggles laughed. ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘I’ve finished.’

  Malty flushed with an excitement he could no longer conceal. ‘The stalagmites contain a high content of a hitherto unknown form of radium,’ he said in a low voice that he strove to keep steady. ‘The question of monetary value does not arise. It is beyond price. It is estimated that when the metal is extracted from the limestone there will be at least three ounces – probably more.’

  ‘Ounces!’ Biggles’s face fell.
/>   ‘Yes, ounces. Of course, it was impossible to think of radium in such enormous quantities,’ continued Malty breathlessly. ‘A gram is a lot, you know.’

  Biggles looked relieved. ‘Then our little lot will be worth quite a bit,’ he suggested.

  Malty smiled. ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, if you are thinking in terms of £. s. d., the valuation figure could not be less than two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, although that is purely problematical, because as radium has never existed in such quantities, nobody is qualified to name a price.’

  Biggles sank back suddenly. ‘Two – two – my goodness,’ he stammered. ‘I’d have brought back a hundredweight if I’d known that.’

  ‘Naturally, it won’t be sold.’

  Biggles blinked. ‘What are you going to do with it then?’ he asked. ‘Put it on the mantelpiece for a souvenir, or use it as a paper-weight, or something?’

  ‘No; after allowing the Radium Institute to take what they require for research purposes, I shall distribute it between the leading hospitals in the country. There will be ample to go round.’ Malty hesitated. ‘I have not lost sight of the fact, however, that you have all been to some trouble in the matter, so I don’t propose to leave you out. Personally, I am more than satisfied with the way things have panned out. For Mac here, without whose kindly assistance we might now be whitened skeletons in the gorge of the centipedes, I have instructed my agent to buy a cottage on the banks of the Clyde.’ He raised his hand to cut short the old man’s rhapsody of thanks, and then turned to Biggles. ‘Would it satisfy you and your two loyal comrades — er — that is — would you consider yourselves recompensed if I handed the Explorer over to you, with sufficient funds to finance another trip to anywhere you care to go?’

  ‘For my part, Malty, I call that really handsome; nothing would suit me better,’ declared Biggles. He turned to Algy. ‘How about you, laddie?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m with you; I think it’s great.’