by W E Johns
Still no sound came from the cave after the echo had died away.
The police now held a short discussion, and then, to Biggles’ great admiration, prepared to take the place by storm. Biggles, on his part, prepared to run, for knowing the labyrinth at the end of the cave it was quite on the boards that Dunnage would give the police the slip after all.
In the event it did not come to that. The crack of a twig caused Biggles’ eyes to switch to the spot from which the sound had come; and there he saw a sight that was photographed indelibly on his brain for all time. It was Dunnage. Lying flat, with his eyes on the police, rifle ready for use, he was moving inch by inch in the manner of a snake across the face of the bank immediately below Biggles, and half-way between him and the police, who were just entering the cave.
How Dunnage got where he was Biggles could not for a moment imagine, for he had certainly not come out of the entrance. Then he remembered the small hole inside that had never been explored, and realised that it must have been made as an emergency exit should the original workmen find themselves trapped by a fall of rock.
For a second Biggles was petrified with shock. His mouth went so dry that he could not articulate. For the first time in his life he came near to fainting, for Dunnage was quite close, and as he was deep in long grass and weeds there seemed every reason why he should escape.
Let it be admitted here and now that what Biggles actually did was not prompted so much by fearlessness, as was afterwards alleged, as by a frantic desire to call the attention of the police to what was happening, and thus bring them to the spot before Dunnage could choke the life out of him, or bash him on the head as he had bashed Grimble. Self-preservation was the instinct that governed his action at that awful moment.
Getting to his knees, he put both hands against the rock behind which he had been lying, and pushed. Over the edge went the rock with a thump and a crash as it smashed its way through the flimsy weed and brushwood in its path.
Dunnage heard it coming, as he was bound to. He looked up, and sprang to his feet to get clear, for the boulder was coming down on top of him. He was a split second too late.
Even as he crouched to spring the boulder knocked his legs from under him, and he, and the rock, went rolling down the short hill together. Before he could get to his feet, the police, who had, of course, also heard the crash, were on him, and although he fought like a madman, using the most horrible language, he had no chance. A truncheon rose and fell, and presently the murderer was lying on his back with handcuffs on his wrists and Grimble sitting on his chest.
Biggles waited for no more. He had seen enough. With a curious feeling that he was treading on air he raced down the hill to the road, shouting: “They’ve got him! They’ve got him!”
Smith, Hervey and Brickwell came scrambling out of the ditch in which they had been hiding. “Have they really got him?” shouted Smith, who was apparently taking no chances.
“They’ve got the handcuffs on him!” yelled Biggles.
Smith danced with mad abandon, throwing his cap into the air, shouting “Hooray! Hooray!” Suddenly he stopped. “What if he breaks free again?”
“I don’t think he will,” opined Biggles.
“He might!” cried Smith. “Come on, I vote we get back to school!”
“All right, let’s,” agreed Biggles, who felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his mind.
With one accord they broke into a run, shouting the news, “They’ve got him!” to everyone they met.
* * *
And that, as far as is known, was the end of poaching in Foxley Wood. A week later the school broke up for the Christmas holidays and Biggles returned to his uncle for the festive season. But he did not join the shooting parties, for the sight of a pheasant brought back memories that he was anxious to forget.
A month later, at the county jail, Michael Dunnage paid the penalty demanded by the law for wilful murder. So, although Sam Barnes could not be brought back to life, he was at least avenged. Siggins was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment for his part in the affair.
Biggles received a letter from the Lord-Lieutenant of the County thanking him for the part he had played in bringing the murderer to justice, and congratulating him on the courage he had displayed at the critical moment. The rifle Dunnage carried was loaded, said the Lord-Lieutenant, and had it not been for Biggles’ presence of mind, one, at least, of the police officers would certainly have been shot.
As far as Biggles was concerned, the most important thing of all—as he told his uncle—was that he could now return to school with an easy mind.
THE END
