by W E Johns
Biggles made a running knot round the chimney. ‘Down you go,’ he ordered.
The rest was simple. Ginger went hand over hand down the rope and soon found himself on a flat surface. The relief, after the strain, was almost overwhelming. Biggles appeared beside him, and brought the rope down with a thud. They coiled it, picked it up, and advanced cautiously until another pool of gloom appeared. Still nothing could be seen distinctly, but below them was obviously the yard of the scrap-metal merchant.
There was a little delay while a projection to which the rope could be fastened was found. Then Ginger went down, to stumble with a clatter on a heap of junk.
‘Do you have to make so much noise?’ muttered Biggles shortly, as he joined him.
‘Sorry, but I can’t see in the dark,’ answered Ginger coldly, wiping filthy hands on his jacket.
Biggles buried the rope under a heap of rubbish. Then he looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes to go,’ he whispered. ‘This way.’
They could see the street now — or, rather, the position of it — by the glow of lamps.
Getting to it without making a noise was another matter, for the place was strewn with old metal objects of every description, from tin cans, bedsteads and fireplaces to the bodies of ancient vehicles. However, the short journey to a low wooden fence that ran between the yard and the street was made without disturbance, and there a halt was called while Biggles, looking over the fence, made a quick reconnaissance.
‘No sign of the cart,’ he reported presently. ‘The corner is just along to the left. There are two cars outside the shop, which means that either the place is being searched or Smith is being questioned. There are one or two people moving about, two of them standing by one of the cars, but they are too far away for me to make out who or what they are. Police, probably. There’s nothing more we can do except sit tight and wait for the cart.’
They squatted, Ginger praying fervently that the cart would be on time, and hoping every moment to hear the clatter of hooves. Instead, the sound that came to his ears was of slow footsteps approaching. That at least two persons were responsible was revealed presently by the murmur of voices. The footsteps approached at the dead-slow pace of men who were waiting for something.
Biggles touched Ginger on the arm and got into the back seat of an old wheelless car, the door of which gaped open. Ginger joined him. The footsteps came nearer. Two voices were talking in German. Ginger’s nerves twitched as he recognised one of them. It belonged to von Stalhein. He was saying to his companion: ‘But you don’t know this man Bigglesworth. I do. I’ve been trying to pin him down for years, but he’s as slippery as an eel.’
‘We should have found him by now,’ answered the other. ‘We’ve covered all the likely places.’
‘Exactly,’ replied von Stalhein, sarcasm creeping into his voice. ‘All the likely places. You will never find this man by looking in likely places. He has a curious knack of appearing where one would least expect him. If you are sure that he must still be in Prague, the chances are that he is miles away.’
‘All roads, airports, and even known landing grounds, are being watched.’
‘If you ask my opinion, I’d say he’s already on his way to Berlin.’
‘Impossible!’
‘I’ve stopped using that word where Bigglesworth is concerned.’
‘But how could he know of our arrangements?’
‘He could have got the information from Stresser.’
‘Stresser swears he knows nothing of the man.’
‘Then where did he get all that money?’
‘His story is that he got it through a black market deal in Paris. It’s possible. We know he was once mixed up with a gang that specialised in that sort of thing.’
‘All right. Have it your own way,’ said von Stalhein. The footsteps stopped. Then he went on: ‘What is this place here?’
‘It looks like a refuse dump.’
‘Was it covered?’
‘No. At least, not as far as I know.’
‘Why not?’
‘How could they get here without being seen? Don’t worry. If Bigglesworth was in that house he is still in it, for the simple reason that I’ve got all exits, back and front, covered. Don’t try to make me believe that this superman can fly like a bird.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me to see him do just that,’ answered von Stalhein in a hard, bitter voice. His companion laughed.
But it was not this that made Ginger stiffen suddenly. From somewhere not far away came the sound of iron-shod hooves on a hard road.
‘What’s this coming?’ asked von Stalhein.
‘A farm cart, by the look of it,’ was the reply. Cynical humour crept into the voice. ‘Are you expecting to find Bigglesworth inside it?’
‘I’ve known more unlikely things than that,’ rejoined von Stalhein grimly. ‘I wouldn’t let any vehicle leave this street without being searched.’
‘Well, that is easily arranged,’ said the other. ‘We’ll do it if it will steady your nerves.’
‘I’d have this yard searched, too, in case he managed to slip out,’ said von Stalhein.
The cart, moving at walking pace, drew nearer.
CHAPTER VIII
A Ride in the Country
Two pairs of footsteps now receded a little way, as if the men were going to meet the cart, which was coming up the street past the shop. A crisp order cut into the night air. The cart stopped.
What was said to the driver, or what the driver told the police, Ginger never knew; for at this juncture Biggles touched him on the arm and whispered: ‘Let’s get out of here. Now’s the time, while attention is on the cart.’
There was no trouble in getting to the fence. Biggles followed this along to get as far away as possible from the shop, and then, climbing it, lay flat, close against it, until Ginger joined him. From there they wormed their way along to the corner. To Ginger it was the worst moment of all, for there was nothing between them and their enemies, and he expected every instant to hear the alarm given. The murk, which had made things so difficult on the roof, may have saved them from observation. Not until they were round the corner did he breathe freely. Looking about him he saw that they were in a narrow street running at right-angles to the one they had just left. They were, in fact, at a four crossways. Not a soul was in sight, although from somewhere farther up the street came the sound of music and singing — emanating from a café, he supposed.
Biggles crossed the street and stood in a doorway. ‘We’ll wait here for the cart,’ he decided. ‘Not knowing which way the driver will turn, we daren’t go any farther.’
So they waited. They heard brisk footsteps on the pavement, followed by a good deal of noise in the scrap heap, which told them that von Stalhein’s advice about making a search was being followed. Then came the clip-clop of hooves, and the crunch of wheels announced that the cart had resumed its journey.
It did not stop at the corner. It went straight on. Perhaps the driver had been unnerved by what had happened. If so, he could hardly be blamed.
He may have had the wit to realise that if he stopped again the police would overtake him to ascertain why.
Realising that the cart was not going to stop, Biggles started off along the pavement, keeping more or less level with it, and as far as possible in the shadows. A short distance ahead a street lamp threw a pale radiance across both pavement and road. Ginger eyed it with misgivings, for, being still within view of the shop, although some distance from it, it obviously represented a zone of danger. But Biggles, it seemed, had no intention of crossing it. In an area darker than the rest, caused by some high buildings, he suddenly said, ‘Come on,’ and, darting to the rear of the cart, vaulted into it. Ginger did the same.
Once more, lying on a pile of empty sacks, he waited for the signal that would announce their discovery; but when it did not come he relaxed with a sigh of relief.
The cart trundled on. If the driver had seen their furtive
arrival he gave no sign of it.
Ginger could see only a vague silhouette perched high in front of him. As a matter of detail, that was all he ever did see of their unknown ally.
The cart went on at a speed that never varied. Clip-clop... clip-clop went the hooves on the hard road. Occasionally the driver made an uncouth noise, presumably to encourage his horse.
The drizzle had now stopped altogether, and large, starry patches of sky showed that the clouds were dispersing. Still, the night air was chilly, and Ginger was glad to wrap himself in the sacks that still smelt strongly of onions and turnips. Not that he cared about that. His only emotion was one of relief at being out of an unpleasantly tight corner.
Clip-clop... clip-clop...
One hour, or it may have been two, passed, and still the hooves beat their monotonous rhythm on the macadam. To Ginger the sound had become part of his existence.
Eventually he must have dozed, and it may have been the cessation of the sound that aroused him. At all events, he was suddenly aware that the cart had stopped. He started up, looking at Biggles. Biggles was looking at the driver. The driver said not a word, but pointed with his whip to the right-hand side of the road. Biggles dismounted. Ginger followed. The driver clicked his tongue. The harness strained. The wheels crunched.
Clip-clop... clip-clop, went the hooves.
Ginger stood with Biggles on the grass verge while the sound faded slowly into the darkness.
‘Twenty past midnight,’ said Biggles, his voice sounding strange after the long silence. ‘We’ve forty minutes to spare. It may not be too long. Let’s get our bearings. The driver pointed this way. Thank goodness the weather’s still improving.’
They walked along a low hedge until they came to a gate. This they climbed, to find themselves in a flat field of stubble of unknown extent, for the boundaries were lost in the gloom of distance. At one point a single yellow light showed the position of a cottage, or farm. How far it was away could not be ascertained — not that it mattered.
Biggles walked a little way out into the field and tested the surface with the heel of his shoe. ‘Nice and hard,’ he remarked. ‘I was afraid the rain might have made it soft.’
‘Where are we going to wait?’ asked Ginger.
‘It doesn’t really matter,’ answered Biggles. ‘We should hear the machine long before it gets here. That’s the direction it should come from — unless it has run into trouble on the way.’ He pointed to the west. ‘There’s nothing much we can do until it comes, so we might as well take a stroll round the hedge.’
They walked for some way, but, seeing nothing of interest, decided to sit down to wait.
‘There is this about it; everything is nice and quiet,’ observed Ginger. ‘I was a bit worried when I heard that bloke tell von Stalhein that he was having all possible landing-grounds watched. I was afraid they might have included this one.’
‘I didn’t overlook that,’ returned Biggles. ‘The same conditions apply as to Smith’s shop. There’s no telling how much Intelligence people do know, until a situation like this arises to force them to show their hand. They don’t seem to have got this place on their list, anyway.’
Hardly had the words left his lips when a motor vehicle of some sort could be heard coming down the road at high speed. Presently its headlights made the trees that occurred at intervals along the hedge stand out like pieces of stage scenery. There was of course no reason to suppose that the car was in any way concerned with them. Indeed, it did not occur to Ginger that this might be the case until it stopped at the gate by which they themselves had entered the field. There was then a good deal of noise, talking, and doors slamming, as if several men were involved. Lights appeared, and against them vague shadows.
Ginger glanced at Biggles in dismay.
‘I spoke too soon,’ said Biggles lugubriously. ‘Smith told us that he has used this field before. Somehow the police must have got wind of it. That’s what usually happens, sooner or later.’
‘What are we going to do about it?’ demanded Ginger.
‘If Algy comes, and we signal to him to keep clear, the light will be seen and we shall almost certainly be caught,’ answered Biggles. ‘Let’s wait to see what goes on before we get into a flap.’
‘I can see four men,’ said Ginger.
‘One will have stayed with the car, no doubt. Call it five.’
‘What are they doing?’
Two men had remained near the gate. A brittle sound, as of wood striking wood, came through the night air. The other two men began walking across the stubble, slowly, appearing to carry something between them.
‘They are trapping the field,’ observed Biggles.
‘You mean, they’re running a wire across it?’
‘Yes, about a couple of feet from the ground. The trick is as old as war flying. Any machine trying to land in such a trap is bound to trip up and somersault.’
‘Then that settles it,’ said Ginger emphatically. ‘We can’t let Algy land.’
‘Don’t be in a hurry.’ Biggles looked at his watch. ‘We’ve still a quarter of an hour to go. I have a file up my sleeve, don’t forget. It was intended for iron bars, so it should have no difficulty in cutting through soft wire.’
‘If we try walking across the field we shall be spotted instantly.’
‘Certainly we would, if we walked out from here. We’ll work from the other side. But before we move we’ll wait and see how these smart-alicks finally dispose themselves.’
The operation of trapping a landing-ground, which consists merely of stretching a taut wire across it, does not take long; and presently, after driving in a stake somewhere out of sight, the two men who had gone out into the field were observed returning. The lights of the car were dowsed.
‘They’re all going to wait together by the gate,’ said Biggles. ‘That’s what I thought they’d do. They suppose they will see everything from there. Come on.’ He got up and began walking briskly along the hedge away from the gate. Against the dark background there was no risk of being seen.
At a distance of perhaps a hundred yards the hedge ran into another, running at right-angles to it. Biggles turned to the left and continued on until the original hedge — the one which held the gate opening into the road — merged into the gloom. Then he struck off across the field.
‘If we can find the wire and cut it I shall bring Algy down,’ he told Ginger in a whisper. ‘If we fail we shall have to send the danger signal. If he does come down things are likely to be a bit brisk until we get on board. The blokes at the gate won’t move at once. They’ll wait for the crash. When there’s no crash they’ll come out to see why.’
‘They’ll see your torch signalling to Algy.’
‘Of course they will. That can’t be avoided. It will probably make them smile, knowing that the field has been wired. Watch out, we’re likely to walk into it at any moment now.’
A minute later Ginger felt the wire against his legs. ‘Here it is,’ he whispered. At the same moment, from somewhere afar off, came the drone of an aero engine.
‘Help me to hold this wire steady,’ ordered Biggles.
Ginger gripped the wire with both hands near the point at which Biggles’
file was already biting into the metal. Two sounds only could be heard.
One was the rasp of the file; the other was the murmur of a gliding aircraft.
‘This is where we have to burn our boats,’ decided Biggles. ‘Flash the call sign.’ He handed Ginger the torch and went on with his work.
The torch, upturned, cut a series of dots and dashes in the night.
‘Nearly through,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Keep flashing till you get an answer.’
Rasp-rasp-rasp, grated the file.
‘Okay. They’ve seen us,’ informed Ginger.
Biggles raised a leg, put his foot on the wire, and jumped. The wire parted with a musical twang. At once Biggles snatched up the loose end and began running with it, to get as m
uch of it as possible out of the way.
Ginger’s eyes were on the gate — or the position where he knew it to be.
There was no sound or sign of movement. Raising the torch again, he flashed it to show their position to the pilot, now circling overhead.
Biggles came back. ‘That’s all we can do,’ he said. ‘Watch the gate and tell me if you see ‘em coming.’ He took the torch and held it low to form a narrow flare path.
For the next sixty seconds, time, to Ginger, seemed to stand still. As Biggles had said, there was nothing more they could do. So there they stood, nerves tense, eyes staring into the dark vault overhead.
‘He’s a long time, what’s he doing?’ muttered Ginger impatiently.
‘He’s trying to avoid collision with something solid,’ answered Biggles.
‘Quite right. This isn’t the moment to make a boob. Here he comes. Watch out he doesn’t knock you down!’
The black silhouette of the aircraft suddenly appeared, hardening as it drew nearer. The wheels bumped, bumped again, and the machine ran to a stand-still. Ginger recognised the Proctor. It had overshot them a little way, but they ran on after it, and reached it just as the door was opened.
Bertie stepped out. ‘What cheer, chaps!’ he greeted. ‘Where’s this bally Iron Curtain I’ve heard so much about?’
‘It’s right here,’ Biggles told him curtly. ‘Get back in and cut the funny stuff. I’m in no mood for it. In you go, Ginger.’
Bertie returned to his seat. Ginger scrambled in behind him. Biggles followed and slammed the door. ‘Peel off, Algy,’ he snapped. ‘There’s no future in staying here.’
As he finished speaking several things happened at once. The engine roared. The Proctor began to move. A searchlight cut a blaze of white light across the stubble. A machine-gun started its vicious rattle, the bullets flicking dirt and scraps of straw into the air.
