by W E Johns
There was no answer. The Negroes huddled closer together, eyes rolling, with furtive glances towards the witch-doctor, obviously terrified of him.
Biggles spoke directly to one who looked more intelligent than the rest. ‘You savvy Mr Anderson?’
At this stage of the proceedings, the gang, as if they had suddenly realized that Biggles had spoken the truth when he had said the game was up, or were prompted by Biggles’ reference to Anderson, went into action. Guns appeared in their hands and they began backing towards the Samson, apparently with the intention of departing in it.
‘You stand where you are, all of you, or I’ll let daylight into you,’ the leader spat vindictively.
Biggles, his main purpose achieved, in the hope of avoiding casualties was prepared to let them go, confident that they could be apprehended later no matter where they went. But one of Marcel’s men, acting on his own initiative, bravely but foolishly ran forward to get between them and the machine.
‘Get out o’ my way,’ snarled the leader of the opposition.
The policeman took no notice.
A gun crashed. He stumbled and fell.
Biggles’ gun and Marcel’s little police automatic cracked together and the man who had fired the shot crumpled.
The others, one of whom must have been the Samson pilot, made a run for the machine. Some shots were fired but no one else was hit.
‘Let them go — we’ll get them later,’ shouted Biggles, anxious to avoid more bloodshed, for which there was now no real justification.
Marcel accepted the advice.
It must have been the pilot who was first into the Samson, for almost at once the metal airscrews flashed as the engines sprang to life.
Why the witch-doctor acted as he did must remain a matter for conjecture. Without the support of the white men he may have feared the vengeance of those of his countrymen for whose miserable plight he had been responsible. He may have thought he would be hanged for his criminal activities. Anyway, the sound of the engines must have told him that he was being abandoned, for springing to his feet, mouthing and screaming, he raced after his late employers. The door was slammed in his face, whereupon, before anything could be done to prevent it, he ran on towards the nose of the machine apparently with some wild hope of preventing it from leaving. He made a fatal mistake, one which has often been made before; and if mechanics can make it, as they have, in an ignorant Negro it was understandable. He ran straight into an airscrew. There was a horrid snick as metal struck bone and the man sprawled headlong. He lay still.
‘He’s had it,’ breathed Ginger.
‘That’s about what he deserved, the dirty old scoundrel,’ observed Bertie.
‘I reckon it’ll take more than witches to doctor him on his feet again,’ said Algy, as the Samson’s engines bellowed, sending dust and grass swirling as it moved forward.
‘It’s probably better this way,’ observed Biggles, as they watched the machine take off and swing round to the east. ‘The next thing is to find out what happened to Anderson and Nelson.’
He walked over to the cowering blacks. ‘You savvy Mr Anderson, you men?’ he questioned, in a voice likely to gain confidence.
‘Yaas, boss,’ answered one, tremulously.
‘Speak up. You’ve nothing to be afraid of now. Where is he?’
Nervously the man answered, pointing at a small hut. ‘He’s over dare, boss. We work for Massa Anderson one time. Him good boss. We don’t want go back on him but we has to. We’se scared pretty bad, boss.’
‘I know,’ answered Biggles, and strode towards the hut indicated. The door was padlocked. ‘Break this door down,’ he ordered.
A big Negro picked up a log of wood, struck the lock a tremendous blow and the door flew open. Biggles went in, peering in the gloom after the glare outside, for there was no window.
Ginger, who had followed him, made out two figures. One was lying down, half raised on an elbow. The other, a white man in filthy tropical kit, was standing.
Said Biggles, addressing him: ‘Are you Mr Anderson?’
‘Aye.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Nae sa bad. Touch o’ fever, that’s all.’
‘Who’s this with you?’
‘Lad named Nelson. He’s had a rough time. What’s happening outside? Did I hear shooting?’
‘You did. We’re police officers. We dropped in to tidy the place up.’
‘It’s time somebody dropped in,’ quoth the Scot, dourly.
Biggles smiled. ‘Ah well. Better late than never. I must see what’s happening outside. I’ll be back. Ginger, you might take care of Nelson.’
He went out to where Marcel was watching Algy and Bertie bandage the wounded policeman’s shoulder with kit from the Wellington’s first-aid box. ‘How is he?’he asked.
‘Not too bad. But he’s got a bullet in his shoulder so the sooner a doctor gets to work on him the better.’
‘I’ll fly him back to Kankan right away. You’ll want to be getting back too, Marcel. How’s the fellow we shot?’
‘Dead.’
‘Oh dear! Any idea who he is?’
‘I can tell you,’ said a voice. Anderson walked up. ‘His name’s Griggs, a bad hat who has been up and down the Coast for years causing trouble. Nobody will be sorry to hear he’s had what’s been coming to him for a long time.’
‘As he’s been identified you’d better get your fellows to bury him, Marcel,’ said Biggles. ‘There’s no point in taking a corpse home with us but we can’t leave him lying here. How about the witch-doctor?’
Algy answered. ‘A blade caught him on the skull so he’s gone to where it’ll take more than mumbo-jumbo to bring him back.’
‘All right. As soon as your fellows have finished, Marcel, I’ll fly you all back to Kankan. Then I’ll go on and get Nelson into hospital at Freetown. What about you, Anderson?’
To their surprise the planter elected to stay, as the only thing wrong with him, he averred, was fever, which he could soon put right if he could get at his quinine. His bungalow was only a mile or two away.
While they were waiting he told of how Griggs had come to him with a proposition for putting up the price of his produce. The man claimed he knew of a better market and had powerful friends behind him. Anderson, knowing the man’s reputation, would have nothing to do with it, whereupon Griggs had bribed the witch-doctor to cause trouble in the plantations — an old trick — and then, while he was down with a bout of fever, made him a prisoner and carried him to the hut where they had found him. Nelson, who Griggs said was a spy, was brought in later.
Biggles nodded. ‘That’s about how my chief in London had it worked out. What surprises me is that they didn’t murder you.’
‘That’s what they were doing, in slow time, when you rolled up,’ stated the Scot. ‘They daren’t kill me outright for fear my boys would talk and the tale reach the Coast. All they had to do was withhold my quinine so that I died of fever. That would have been a natural death. I’ve quinine in the house, but as these crooks have been living in it I don’t suppose there will be much left in the way of food.’
‘I’ll fly you out some stores from Freetown if you’ll let me know what you want,’ promised Biggles. ‘What about this produce of yours? There’s a fair load here. As I shall be going back to England with an empty machine would you like me to take it?’
‘I’d be glad if you would, for having had half my crop pinched my finances will be pretty low. Dump it at any airport. I’ll give you the name of my London agent. Let him know and he’ll collect it. I must get on with my work here. With that rascal of a witch-doctor out of the way my boys will be all right. They’ve had no pay for months — not a penny since Griggs took over.’
It was left at that.
Biggles flew the French party to Kankan and then went on with Nelson to Freetown where he saw him safely into hospital. And it may be said here that he soon made a complete recovery. What had happened t
o him was much as had been surmised. Having located the airstrip he had been caught before he could get clear to make his report.
Having loaded the Wellington with the stores Anderson had asked for, Biggles flew them to the airstrip from where they were carried by the blacks to the bungalow, which was found to be in the state the planter had expected. They spent a few days with him helping to put the place in order. When that had been done, the produce that was to have been shipped in the Samson was loaded into the Wellington and taken to London, where in due course it was collected by Anderson’s agent.
That is not quite the end of the story, for it transpired that from Kankan Marcel contacted the authorities at Bouflé, with the result that when the Samson landed there the police were waiting.
Convicted on the serious charge of wounding a policeman the surviving members of the gang are now doing some really hard work in a French penal battalion.
[Back to Contents]
BIGGLES MAKES A BET
When Biggles walked into the office of his French opposite number, at the Sûreté in Paris, he was greeted with a smile and the remark: ‘Ah! The old dog himself. You come hot of the foot, eh?’
‘I seem to go through life hot-foot,’ answered Biggles sadly, as they shook hands. ‘You said you wanted to see me. Here I am. What’s your trouble?’
‘My trouble. La la. I think perhaps it is your trouble.’
Biggles took a seat and lit a cigarette. ‘Tell me about it,’ he requested.
‘Bon. Two weeks ago one of your smart English boys, named Peter Keston, age nineteen, steals a light plane from the Lotton Flying Club after dark to give himself a ride — a joy-ride as he calls it.’
‘I remember.’
‘He loses his way, arrives in France, and bursts a tyre trying to land. Then, very bravely, he gives himself up. We send him home. You know about this?’
‘Of course. He had never been at the controls before. He had no money, but being crazy to fly he helped himself to a plane.’
‘That is what he told the judge who gave him a month in prison for being a naughty boy. One little month for stealing an expensive aeroplane. Why does he only have a month when another silly fellow gets twelve months for stealing five pounds? I will tell you. Because, says the judge, it was a sporting effort to fly without lessons. You English are sport mad. Tiens-tiens. In England sport can turn a criminal into a hero. Tell me, mon ami, did you believe this story?’
‘What story?’
‘This flying without lessons.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘I didn’t check up on it seeing no reason. After all, it may have been a silly escapade but it needed nerve.’
Marcel shook his head sadly. ‘So you, too, fall for this sporting effort talk. Sport makes you blind. Did you come in your Auster to France?’
‘Yes. It’s at Le Bourget.’
‘Good. Then let us go. I want to show you something.’
An hour later the Auster was cruising over the River Marne, Biggles at the controls with Marcel indicating the route. ‘The village you see in front is Charmentray. Then there is a big wood with a thin field running far into it.’
‘I see it.’
‘It was at the far end of that little field between the trees that your sportsman landed. Why did he choose such a place when there are big open fields all round?’
‘Probably got into a panic and was glad to get down anywhere.’
‘It was perhaps more sporting to land in the most difficult place,’ returned Marcel sarcastically. ‘Now you land in the same field. I will show you the exact spot where our young friend touched down.’
Biggles made a trial run and overshot. He tried again and nearly hit the trees. ‘The wind’s wrong,’ he said. ‘I can’t get in.’
Said Marcel, smoothly, ‘The wind is the same direction and force as the night your sporting boy landed. Now it is daylight and you tell me you can’t get in! Mot de Cambronne! Don’t tell me an old fox like you can’t do in daylight what a boy on his first solo can do by night!’
Biggles frowned. He made three more false runs before, by skimming the trees in a steep sideslip, he managed to get his wheels on the ground. He drew a deep breath as the machine ran to a stop.
Marcel threw him a sidelong glance. ‘You agree that boy was what you call a lucky lad,’ he said softly, but meaningly.
Biggles nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said shortly. ‘I get it. No one but a pilot of experience could get in here, and even he’d have to know the ground pretty well to tackle it by night. In fact, an experienced pilot would have more sense than to attempt it — unless he had a very good reason.’
‘Exactement! That is what I thought you would think. It begins to look, does it not, as if your young sportsman lies as well as he flies.’
Biggles did not answer.
Went on Marcel, ‘I must ask you, please, to tell me why this countryman of yours comes to my country by night.’
‘I’d like to know that myself,’ replied Biggles. ‘He said he lost his way.’
Marcel laughed scornfully. ‘So with an airfield not far away, and a choice of big fields, he lands in a wood. It won’t do, my friend.’
Biggles looked at his smiling companion and smiled back.
‘You win,’ he conceded. ‘My fault for not checking up — and here am I, always talking about never taking anything for granted.’
‘What now?’
‘I’ll go and have a word with this young man,’ declared Biggles grimly. ‘He’s still in gaol so I shall know where to find him.’
He taxied into the open, turned into the wind and took off.
Back in England, the same afternoon, having shown his authority, he was admitted to the cell in which the culprit was under detention and left alone with him.
‘Keston,’ he began, ‘as one pilot to another I want you to tell me why you flew to France the other night.’
The prisoner, a fair, good-looking lad, considered him suspiciously. ‘I don’t know what you mean?’
‘Going to stick to the story, eh?’
‘I’ve said my piece. It was a bit of fun. I just wondered if I could handle a plane.’
‘It must be some time since you wondered that, laddie,’ returned Biggles. ‘I was flying before you were born and I’ve been at the game ever since, but it took me all my time to get down where you did without a crack-up.’ He smiled. ‘In other words, you handled that machine a bit too well. It doesn’t go with the tale you told the court. Why not come clean?’
‘I wanted to fly. That’s the honest truth.’
‘I believe that — for a beginning. Carry on. Let’s have the rest.’
‘I was half-way to my commercial ticket, and through no fault of my own ran out of money.’
Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘So you pinched a plane.’
‘I only borrowed it for a little while.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘To put in some night-flying practice.’
‘You think that’s the way to get a commercial licence. It won’t do, Keston.’
‘I couldn’t see any other way.’
‘Go on as you’ve started and all the flying you’ll do will be between stone walls.’
‘If I hadn’t cut my tyre on that flint no one would have known about it.’
‘You’d just have flown home again.’
‘Sure,’ confessed Keston, frankly.
‘Having done what you went to France to do.’
‘Sure.’
‘Where did you get this sure stuff? Been reading American comics?’
‘Sure.’
Biggles grinned. ‘Okay, if that’s how you want it. I’ve reason to believe you’ve the makings of a top-grade pilot. Maybe I could help you. Here’s my card. Think it over. If you feel like coming over with the whole truth let me know. Cigarette?’
‘Thanks.’ Keston looked at the card. ‘Bigglesworth, eh. I’ve heard of you. If I spill the beans will you get me out of here?’
&n
bsp; ‘No. You’ll serve your time. You deserved more than you got. I’ll see you when you’re discharged.’
‘I wouldn’t make it any worse for myself?’
‘No. You’ve had your sentence.’
‘Okay. I did it for a bet. I was hanging about the airfield when a slick American type asked me if I could fly. I said yes. He said he didn’t believe it and offered to bet me fifty quid I couldn’t fly to France and back. Needing money I took him on. To prove I’d been to France, he said, I’d have to hand a letter to a pal of his who’d be waiting, showing a red light, at a certain spot, and bring an answer back. I said okay. Not having a plane I borrowed one.’
‘And the pal was at the other end to meet you?’
‘Sure.’
‘And you gave him the letter?’
‘I’d call it a packet.’
‘Did you get the answer?’
‘No. The bloke faded as soon as he saw I’d burst a tyre and couldn’t get home.’
‘And left you holding the baby. Nice pal. You knew what you were doing?’
‘Of course.’
‘Did you get your fifty pounds?’
‘Twenty. I was to have the other thirty when I got back.’
‘What did you do with the twenty?’
‘Hid it in a rabbit hole where I landed. Knowing it’s illegal to export sterling I daren’t be caught with it on me. In giving myself up I gambled on a light sentence.’
‘Quite a gambler, aren’t you? All right. Now I’ll make a bet. A fiver you don’t know the name or address of your pal.’
‘No bet. He forgot to tell me.’
‘Very well. Then I’ll wager you never see the colour of your other thirty pounds — and I’ll fetch your twenty from France into the bargain.’
A slow smile spread over Keston’s face. ‘I get it. You want to see me meet the guy. Nothing doing. If he comes across with the thirty quid he owes me I’ll not rat on him. If he doesn’t, I’m your man.’
‘Fair enough.’ Biggles got up. ‘When your pal fails to turn up you’ll find me at the Yard. So long for now.’
A fortnight later there was a knock on the door of the Air Police Operations Room. Keston walked in.
