by W E Johns
Just what the boy intended to do Biggles did not know, for he had not questioned him as to details. Miktel had merely said that he would find Jerid and bring him back, as if the project presented no great difficulties.
Biggles lit a cigarette, shielding the flame of the match and holding the glowing end of the cigarette within his palm, knowing that in such conditions a single spark would be conspicuous from a long way off.
His watch told him it was three o’clock, still with no sign of Miktel, when, somewhere out in the desert a pebble clicked against another, telling him without a shadow of doubt that someone, or something, was moving. Had the sound come from the right direction he would have supposed it to be Miktel, returning; but it came not from the direction of El Kafala; rather the other way.
Biggles waited. Presently his eyes, probing the darkness, made out, not a jackal as he had hoped, but a compact band of horsemen, coming straight towards him.
He did not move, knowing that if he did he would certainly be seen. There was still a chance that the riders might pass by. But no. They came straight to the oasis, reining their horses to their haunches when they saw the aircraft. Dismounting and unslinging their rifles they walked on slowly without a sound. When they saw Biggles sitting there they stopped.
Biggles had already decided to take the initiative. ‘Salaam Aleikum,1’ he said calmly, knowing a few words of Arabic.
‘Aleikum salaam2,’ came the automatic reply.
There was silence that must have lasted a full minute, followed by a low mutter of conversation. Biggles could feel their eyes on him as they strove to grasp a situation that must have had them completely baffled.
Then a man who had been looking at the machine, and may have learned to recognize English letters on the aerodrome at Kuwait, said, accusingly: ‘Englesi.’
‘Bissahi,3’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘What men are you that travel by night?’
‘We ride in ghrazzu,’ was the frank reply.
‘So that was it,’ thought Biggles. The men were raiders.
A voice, speaking in halting guttural English inquired: ‘Why does the ferengi4 sit alone in this place?’
Biggles was thinking fast. It seemed reasonable to suppose that if these men were out on a raid they were most likely going to El Kafala. ‘I am in the face of Sheikh Jerid Beni Menzil, who is at El Kafala and for whom I wait,’ he said, hoping that the men would observe the unwritten law of the desert not to harm the guest of a sheikh.
‘W’Allah,’ swore the man. ‘That is a lie, for as all men know, he is not here.’
‘He is at El Kafala, where he is held prisoner by his uncle who would be sheikh,’ insisted Biggles, taking a chance that the men were of another tribe; or in any case would not be supporters of the false Sheikh.
This statement was followed by another whispered conversation. At the end of it, to Biggles’ relief, the riders remounted, and without another word disappeared in the direction of El Kafala with no more noise than fish swimming away into deep dark water.
It need hardly be said that Biggles found the incident disturbing. Whatever the raiders did was almost certain to interfere with the rescue plan. This raiding by different tribes of each other’s camels and horses was more of a sport than actual warfare, as he knew; but an alarm could not fail to bring the desert to life. He decided there was nothing he could do about it. To leave the oasis might be fatal should Miktel arrive hard pressed. He wondered anxiously just what the raiders intended to do.
He was soon to know.
He sprang to his feet as the silence was broken by a distant rifle shot. More followed. Then shouts came eerily across the barren plain. Yet all he could do was stand still, watching, waiting, prepared for anything, irritated by the bad luck that they should have chosen this particular night for the sortie. He could only hope that Miktel had got clear of the village before the raiders struck. There was this about it: the lad would have warning of the impending attack, for in desert tribal warfare it is held to be cowardly to strike at men who might be sleeping.
Minutes passed. Silence had again descended on the wilderness. There was still nothing Biggles could do. Had it been daylight he would have taken off and reconnoitred from the air, but in the darkness he was helpless.
Again the silence was broken, now by the drumming of hooves of horses ridden at full gallop. Four men and some loose horses raced past the oasis without stopping. Sporadic shooting came from several directions. Then more galloping horses, coming towards the oasis. Peering, he could make out two horsemen, riding like furies. Their silhouettes hardened as they drew nearer, making straight for the oasis. Behind them a blurred mass of more riders was materializing in the gloom.
Into the palms dashed the two leading horsemen, to come to a skidding stop in a cloud of dust. A shrill voice, Miktel’s voice, shouted: ‘Away! Away! We are pursued!’
Biggles jumped to the aircraft. That was all he wanted to know. Shouting ‘Get in,’ he sprang into the cockpit. As the engine came to life the oasis was filled suddenly with men, horses and noise. But the Proctor was now moving, its airscrew kicking up clouds of dust. For a few moments of confusion it seemed that collision was inevitable. Then the machine was clear, streaking tail-up across the sabkha.
Not until he had grabbed some altitude did Biggles call: ‘Did you get Jerid?’
‘Yes. He is here,’ answered Miktel.
‘Good work,’ complimented Biggles.
Later, on a course for Kuwait, where Biggles intended to refuel, Miktel explained. It seemed that the raid had helped him. He had found Jerid in the mukhaad (the men’s quarters) and they were on their way out of the village together when the escape was discovered. They would certainly have been overtaken had not raiders announced their arrival by shouting at the horse guards. In the pandemonium that followed no one took any notice of them although they were in some danger of being hit by bullets in the indiscriminate shooting. However, they had managed to seize two horses.
‘Then we came away quickly,’ stated Miktel simply.
Biggles smiled. ‘I’ll bet you did.’
‘Some men of the village took us for raiders stealing their horses, I think, and pursued us; but with less weight on their backs our horses were faster,’ said Miktel, casually, as if the occurrence was an everyday affair. ‘It was as God willed,’ he concluded.
‘Without a doubt,’ agreed Biggles.
The Proctor droned on across the wilderness with the false dawn announcing the approach of another day.
At Kuwait they waited for the reserve machine to join them, which it did, flown by Ginger, later in the day. Travelling by easy stages they all arrived home a week later. Jerid then sent word to El Kafala that he was returning home to take up his rightful position, which he did, with an escort of R.A.F. machines, arriving amid scenes of enthusiasm; for seeing which way the wind was blowing his uncle had fled.
That is why, today, Jerid is Sheikh, and Miktel is his court physician.
[Back to Contents]
* * *
1 ‘Peace be unto you.’
2 ‘And upon you, peace.’
3 That is true.
4 Foreigner.
ROUTINE PATROL
Swinging his flying cap Air Constable ‘Ginger’ Hebble-thwaite strolled into his operations headquarters to find his colleagues busy on the ever-mounting files of world-wide Aviation news.
Biggles only half glanced up, for Ginger had merely been on one of the regular Air Police coast patrols, on this occasion covering a section of the Highlands of Scodand — out by the east coast and home over the west. Possibly because these patrols rarely yielded anything of interest there was a tendency to treat them with indifference.
‘Anything doing?’ asked Biggles, casually.
‘I’m not sure,’ answered Ginger slowly, dropping into a chair. ‘I might say no. But following your rule that anything unusual should be followed up, then I must say yes.’
‘Go ahead,’ requested Biggle
s. ‘We’re listening.’
‘After turning for home, flying at five thousand, I struck a patch of mist. I reckoned I was running down the west coast, but there must have been more drift than I knew and I was over the sea. I only realized this when I hit the clear and saw the drink, and an island, a smallish place that seemed to rise sheer out of the water.’
‘One of the Western Isles,’ murmured Biggles. ‘There are plenty of them.’
‘I don’t know its name but I should recognize it if I saw it again,’ continued Ginger. ‘As I looked down on it I saw a smudge of smoke. Someone had a fire going, although if ever a lump of land looked uninhabited, that one did. Thinking of castaways I went downhill to investigate, whereupon the fire was doused as if someone had chucked a bucket of water on it. I had a feeling that someone who didn’t want to be seen had suddenly spotted me, or heard me. Anyway, castaways were a bad guess. There would surely have been more smoke had that been the answer.’
‘You’re sure this smoke, wasn’t a low patch of fog?’
‘Quite sure. It came up like chimney smoke. The rest of the island was in the clear.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I circled and quartered the island several times. Then, seeing nothing, I went on my way.’
‘Could it have been one of these bird-watcher chappies on the job?’ offered Bertie.
‘Why should a bird-watcher take cover, and what was he doing with a fire, anyway?’ said Biggles. ‘Did you look for a boat, Ginger?’
‘Of course. There wasn’t one. In fact, I couldn’t see a beach. But there was certainly a fire, and fires don’t light themselves on rocks or wet moss.’
‘Sounds a bit odd,’ conceded Biggles.
‘Could the smoke have been a signal to someone on the mainland?’ suggested Algy. ‘How far were you from it?’
‘Only about a mile or so; but that isn’t the answer. What’s the sense of lighting a smoke signal in a fog?’
‘And why douse a signal when there was a chance of it being observed, which according to Ginger is what happened?’ said Biggles. ‘I don’t like leaving puzzles unsolved so it might be a good thing to have another look at the place. Let’s assume there is someone there. As the weather is anything but warm he would light a fire even if he didn’t need one for cooking. If the chap needed a fire by day he’d need one still more at night. It should be easy to spot it in the dark. You pin-pointed the position of this little mystery, Ginger?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I suggest you go back tonight for another dekko, taking Bertie with you for a double check. Make your approach at ten thousand, cut your engine and glide over in case our unknown friend has another bucket of water handy to put the fire out.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier to land and settle the matter?’ asked Algy.
‘When you’ve seen this lump of rock you’ll think twice about putting an aircraft down on it,’ declared Ginger, grimly. ‘Come with us and have a look.’
‘Let’s leave it at that,’ decided Biggles, resuming his work.
He was still at it at midnight, with coffee beside him, when the reconnaissance party returned.
‘He’s there all right,’ asserted Algy. ‘Had a fire going where it could only be seen from topsides.’
‘You’re getting me really curious,’ averred Biggles. ‘It might be a smuggling racket. It’s time we had a closer look.’
‘The only aircraft that could make a landing on the island would be a helicopter,’ stated Algy. ‘I doubt if you could get ashore in a boat except in a dead calm sea.’
‘How is the sea?’
‘Rough.’
‘Which means that whoever is on the island will be stuck there until the sea goes down,’ said Biggles. ‘In the morning I’ll get the chief to organize the loan of a service helicopter. It might also be a good thing for us to refresh our memories from the Yard’s list of missing persons. Now I’m for bed.’
Two days later, a little before noon, a helicopter buzzed its way northward over the long string of lonely isles that rampart Scotland’s west coast against the eternal battering of the Atlantic.
‘That’s the one,’ Ginger told Biggles, who was at the controls. He pointed to a forbidding mass of rock perhaps half a mile long and less than half that distance wide. The only conspicuous feature was a deep corrie that gave the island the appearance of having been struck by a giant axe.
‘It’s hard to believe that anyone could be there from choice,’ remarked Biggles, as he went in and landed on the only spot possible, a shallow depression filled with shale and a few wind-torn tufts of heather. Screaming gulls were the only hazard; but the landing was made without collision and anchors fore and aft adjusted to hold the machine secure in a stiffish breeze.
‘Where was the fire?’ asked Biggles.
‘It isn’t easy to say from ground level, but it was roughly about the middle,’ answered Ginger.
The search started, and was continued without result until past midday, when a break was made for food. It was then resumed, again to no purpose. Of a human being there was no trace. Late in the afternoon, after a glance at his watch and the sky, Biggles announced his intention of leaving. ‘If there is anyone here he’s taking good care no one finds him,’ he said, sceptically.
Ginger spoke positively. ‘You doubt it? I’m as sure as I stand here that there’s someone on this crag — unless the island’s kidding itself it’s a volcano.’
‘Then go ahead and find him.’
‘Okay. You push off and leave me here,’ said Ginger, with a touch of asperity. ‘You can come back for me in the morning. When this smart Alec sees you go he’ll come out of his hole thinking he’s got away with it.’
‘You’ll find it chilly.’
‘All the more reason for me to find the fire,’ said Ginger crisply. ‘This is my pigeon and I’ll see it through.’
‘Fair enough, if that’s how you want it,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I’ll be back soon after daybreak. Come on, chaps, let’s go.’
Ginger sat on a rock and watched the helicopter depart, and with its departure some of his confidence departed, too, for a more bleak, inhospitable place would have been hard to imagine. The sun dipped into the Atlantic, and with the coming of darkness the temperature dropped sharply, so to seek shelter from the wind he made his way to the corrie and descending a little way took up a position in some deep heather.
Within a few minutes he saw the fire — not the actual fire but the flickering glow of it on the opposite side of the corrie. Rising, he made a somewhat dangerous descent to the bottom and then along a trickle of water to the objective. Presently, against the light, he made out a vague silhouette — a man in a kilt, he took it to be, squatting on a stone at the mouth of a cave. Only at the last moment was he seen, and his astonishment was great when a female voice with a Scots brogue said: ‘Come one step nearer and I shoot!’
Ginger stopped. ‘Take it easy,’ he requested. ‘The plane will be back tomorrow and if I’m not here to meet it the place will be combed until you’re found; so shooting me won’t help you. Mind if I come closer? It’s chilly outside.’ So saying he advanced, noting that the woman was in fact holding a revolver. He judged her to be in the early twenties, and good-looking in a wild sort of way. Finding a seat he said: ‘Are you doing this for a bet or something?’
The reply was a question. ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m a flying policeman,’ answered Ginger. ‘Seeing your fire from upstairs I thought I’d spotted a castaway — or hit on a smuggling racket. What are you doing here?’
The girl hesitated. ‘I’m hiding.’
‘From whom?’
‘People like you.’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Three months.’
‘Suffering seagulls! What do you use for food?’
‘I manage.’
‘Why do the police want you?’
‘I shot a man.’
Ginger looked hard
at the face in the firelight. He was of course acquainted with the descriptions of people missing or wanted. He thought he recognized her. ‘Are you by any chance Margaret Laretski?’
‘Aye. I am that.’
‘You shot your husband — a Pole. Why did you do it?’
‘He was a devil as well as a crook. I stuck it till he killed my child in one of his fits of temper. He would have killed me too, at the end, so I shot him with his own gun and bolted here.’
‘Why here?’
‘I come from just across the water. I have clansmen there. One, who wanted to marry me before I was fool enough to marry that Pole, brings me food when the weather’s right. We were going to keep it up till the murder was forgotten, when we were going to Australia.’
‘What murder?’
‘My husband.’
‘But you didn’t kill him. You only knocked him out, and enabled the police to find a man they’d been looking for for years, for the murder of his first wife. He was tried, convicted and hanged under his real name. The one he gave you was an alias. That must be why you didn’t know about it. All the police wanted you for was evidence, so I don’t think you’ve much to worry about. What have you got in that frying pan?’
‘Herring.’
‘Then get on with the cooking. This breeze gives one an appetite.’
[Back to Contents]
THE LADY FROM BRAZIL
Am Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth, walking down the corridor towards his chief’s office in Scotland Yard, gave a second glance at a man who was just leaving.
‘What’s on his mind?’ he asked, as he entered the office.
Air Commodore Raymond looked up from his desk. ‘Who?’
‘Wasn’t that Foster, of Customs and Excise?’
‘It was.’
‘He did not, I imagine, call to ask if we were happy?’
‘No. He has a problem.’
‘And wants us to solve it.’
