35 Biggles Takes A Holiday

by Captain W E Johns

  " Bigglesworth doesn't strike anybody—at least, not with his fists," muttered von Stalhein. "He isn't one of these super-men who go about hitting people on the jaw. That isn't his way. I doubt if he could do it, anyhow. He has no weight behind him and his hands are more like a woman's than a man's."

  "Then how does he get away with these things you've told me about ? During the war his name was always cropping up in my department."

  "Since you ask me I'll tell you," answered von Stalhein politely. "What he lacks in brawn he more than makes up for with brain, plus sheer nerve. Look at tonight. The shock of seeing me must have been terrific, yet he didn't turn a hair. His brain must have gone straight into action because even before he sat down he knew just what he was going to do. It wasn't an accident that he sat over the flex."

  " Donnerwetter! You let him get away with the threadbare trick of putting out the light ! "

  "I was watching the light all the time, but I was thinking of the bulb, not the flex. In fact, I didn't know the flex was there."

  "He saw it," said the man called Oberhaupt, with biting sarcasm.

  "He would," returned von Stalhein, lugubriously. "I was watching his hands. How was I to know he was working with his feet ? The first intimation I had that he was doing anything at all was when the light went out. I daren't shoot for fear of hitting Rodnitz."

  Biggles frowned. Rodnitz ? Who was Rodnitz ? It was the first time he had heard the name, which, from the way it was spoken, had slipped out. The only other person in the room was Liebgarten. It could only mean that Rodnitz was Liebgarten's real name. He made a mental

  note of it.

  Von Stalhein continued. "I'm not making excuses. I'm simply telling you that this man's instinct always to do the right thing is uncanny. I suppose that's the reason why he's still alive. Remember, you haven't only Bigglesworth to deal with. There used to be three of them ; now I believe there are four. They work as a team ; and they've been working together for so long that each seems to know by a sort of telepathy when another is in trouble. One never seems to get them together. Get one, and the others come after him.

  To give the devil his due they make a formidable combination. I once tried to organise a task force on the same lines, but it didn't work."

  " Why not ? "

  "Because I found it impossible to eradicate certain factors inseparable from human nature, factors which Bigglesworth appears to have overcome."

  "Such as ? "

  "Oh—selfishness, jealousy, a tendency on the part of some, to use the British army idiom, to dodge the column. You can't rule those things out by any method that I know of. You'd have to find the men in which they simply do not occur."

  "Leadership, Erich. Leadership. That's the answer. Find me this man Bigglesworth and I'

  ll soon cope with the rest."

  Sitting in his dark retreat Biggles smiled as he listened to this analysis of his character by the man who had most cause to hate him.

  "Since you know his technique so well, von Stalhein, where would you judge him to be now ? " inquired a voice that had not previously spoken, cynically. After the others, it had a strange accent. This man, whoever he might be, was certainly not a German, noted Biggles.

  "I can only assure you, Colonel, that you never know where he is, what he is doing or what he is thinking," replied von Stalhein stiffly. "He's just as likely to be in these grounds as anywhere."

  "Oh come, von Stalhein, stop romancing," sneered the Oberhaupt. "You've allowed the fellow to give you an inferiority complex."

  "He may give you one, too, Stitzen, before this affair is finished," came back von Stalhein, in a voice which revealed that his patience was being tried.

  Again Biggles' forehead knitted. Stitzen 1 Who was Stitzen ? He was soon to know.

  "I've told you not to use my name here." The voice was that of the man previously called Oberhaupt.

  Biggles made another mental note. So the real boss was Stitzen. The name was vaguely familiar, but in what connection he could not recall.

  Von Stalhein went on. "Since you ask my opinion, I think, now that he has Mackail, he'll try to get away. Still," he added wearily, "where Bigglesworth is concerned nothing would surprise me."

  "Well, talking won't bring him back," was the curt rejoinder. "Colonel, get all your men after him. Warn the Indians. Have the river banks searched—I think you'll find he's gone downstream. Send the launch out. Shoot him if there's any trouble—or better still, shoot him on sight. He's better out of the way. I'm going back to bed. I should never have left it, running a temperature with this infernal fever Between you you'll be the death of me.

  You'd better be doing something too, Rodnitz."

  Footsteps receded.

  For a second or two Biggles thought they had all dispersed, but he did not move. Which was just as well, for presently the man who had been referred to as Stitzen continued the conversation, apparently with von Stalhein, who had stayed with him. Biggles noted, too, that there was now a definite touch of anxiety in his voice.

  "Confound you, Erich. If you go on like this you'll end up by having me as intimidated by the fellow as you seem to be. I suppose he didn't come here ?"

  "You mean—to this house ? "

  "Yes," answered Stitzen uneasily. "We went out in such a hurry when the alarm went that no one thought of

  locking up. If he did come here . . . Schrecklichkeit I I don't like to think of what he might have seen."

  "I should say he was in too much of a hurry to stop anywhere," opined von Stalhein.

  "Still, we'd better look round to make sure. Johann was working in the drawing-office and he rushed off with the rest."

  Voices receded. Doors were opened and closed.

  Biggles waited for what he knew was now inevitable. As the result of a chance remark the drawing he had taken would be missed. He had hoped that the loss would not be discovered until the morning.

  Here his thoughts were interrupted by the voice of Stitzen raised high in one of the rooms below. He knew what had happened. The document which bulged his pocket had been missed. There was nothing he could do about it. Presently the two men came back along the corridor.

  Said Stitzen in an agitated voice : "Four years work gone in a moment. Think of it !

  Curse the fellow. Johann will go out of his mind when he knows. Do something, Erich.

  Let the others know. At all costs we must catch him now. Let the whole valley know that I'll give five thousand dollars to the man who catches Bigglesworth. I'd go myself but I'm so weak with fever

  "I'll do everything possible," interrupted von Stalhein. Footsteps strode away. Stitzen shuffled down tilt, corridor. A door slammed.

  Biggles relaxed, thinking over what he had heard. So the head man, the Oberhaupt, was Stitzen. He had heard, or read the name, during the war. He tried hard to remember in what connection, but could not. And Liebgarten was Rodnitz—a name that meant nothing to him. Another was the Colonel. Colonel who ? He was not a German, that much was certain. He thought the accent was that of a Latin American. With one thing and another the pattern of the plot began to take shape. Here, obviously, were a number of men, outlaws, outcasts, men

  wanted by the police, some of them ex-Nazis, who had got together at the back of beyond, far from the reach of the law, to further a design of their own, which had for its ultimate objective the fulfilment of the dream of every man who has once tasted power—

  the triumphant recovery of what had been lost. These men were not ordinary crooks.

  They were something far more dangerous, because what they hoped to achieve could not be accomplished without bloodshed. These were the men who caused wars, men who thought nothing of the suffering involved as long as they got what they wanted. At present these conspirators had no country of their own. Each was like a rogue elephant, dangerous beast turned out by the herd, mischievous, cunning, ready to wreak vengeance even on its own kind.

  Remembering where he was Biggles roused him
self from his soliloquy with a start and looked at the luminous dial of his watch. He saw that with luck, without further delay, he might just be in time to keep the rendezvous. Not having a torch, an oversight which he now regretted, he flicked on his petrol lighter in order to see better the objects partly revealed by the moonlight.

  Having looked at the drawing which now reposed in his pocket he was not surprised by what he saw. He was only mildly astonished to fmd that the object drawn on paper had actually been constructed, or was in course of construction. Supported on tressels was a long torpedo-like metal cylinder, one end rounded, the other pointed, but carrying a number of fins. Precisely what the object was he did not know, beyond the obvious fact that it was a weapon of some sort. Closer inspection he thought, would probably tell him no more, even if he had time for it, which he had not.

  More than ever satisfied with the fruits of his foray into the enemy's camp he prepared to leave it with all possible speed. Knowing that a hue and cry was afoot he was aware that his trip down the river would be no easy matter. He remembered what had been said about warning the Indians. He also remembered that they carried poisoned weapons, and that he had only five shots left in his pistol out of a clip of seven.

  Moving with the greatest care, disposing his weight as far as possible on both feet to prevent the boards from creaking, he felt for the edge of the trap. He expected to find a handle, but as there was none he tried prising it up with his finger nails. Failing in this he took a further purchase by pressing his fingers against the wooden slat on each side. This raised the hatch the merest fraction of an inch from its seating ; then it came up against something that held it. This occurred at the precise spot where, he remembered, on the other side, the catch was placed. Then, of course, he realised what had happened—what he had done. The catch was an automatic one operated from outside only. Like the celebrated lady in the Mistletoe Bough he had locked himself in.

  XII

  THE COMING OF ALGY

  Down the river, the fever of impatience in which Ginger awaited the drone that would announce the approach of the aircraft, can be better imagined than described. Everything, certainly the success of the expedition, and possibly their lives, depended on the outcome of the next few minutes. Nor was his anxiety relieved to any noticeable extent when he did hear the Navigator's motors, for at the same moment the launch appeared round the bend at the head of the reach.

  " Och I The de'il run away with it I" was the only remark Angus had to make.

  Ginger scarcely heard it. Anyhow, he made no reply. His brain was racing at a speed which threatened to put it out of gear, trying to solve the problem that now presented itself. It was how to reveal himself to Algy without at the same time allowing himself to be seen by those on the launch. It took him half a minute to decide that there was no way.

  Whatever he did, whether he made a smoke signal or pulled the dinghy out on to the open water, would result in his being seen, if not by Algy in the aircraft, with its restricted field of view, certainly by those in the launch. Perceiving that there was no alternative he resolved to show himself and hope for the best, for it was all too clear that if they were not picked up now they would either be captured or left on the river for an indefinite time, without food and at the mercy of the Indians, to say nothing of the mosquitoes. Angus, from the look of him, needed both food and medicine urgently.

  His decision made, as soon as the aircraft skimmed into sight over the treetops he dipped his oars into the water and with a single stroke sent the dinghy clear of the bank. Then, dropping the oars, he stood up and waved. Would Algy see him ? That was the next question to set up a gnawing anxiety. He would probably see the launch first, for that was the larger object, and for a minute at least, concentrate his attention on it. Indeed, thought Ginger as a new horror occurred to him, Algy might even sheer off, assuming that the presence of the launch would automatically wash out the landing arrangements.

  For a little while Ginger had no indication of whether he had been seen or not. He watched the aircraft bank slightly, tilting a wing to get a clear view, and knew that the pilot was making a reconnaissance. Then the machine resumed even keel, banked the other way in a steep turn that took it downstream, turned vertically and came back, losing height. The engines died.

  "He's coming in, anyway," declared Ginger, in a voice slightly hoarse with excitement.

  "He'll overshoot us," observed Angus calmly.

  "No he won't ; he's beginning to slip off height 1 "

  almost shouted Ginger. "I hope he's seen that launch."

  "Aye. I hope he has, or he's liable to collide with her."

  Ginger stared upstream at the oncoming surface craft. It was still some distance away and did not appear to be making any great speed, although plenty of smoke and sparks were flying from its funnel. He could see men standing in the bows looking at them.

  "I reckon they haven't had time to get up a decent head of steam," remarked Angus, who was also watching the launch. "It takes more time with wood than with coal."

  "Then I'm glad they haven't any coal," asserted Ginger warmly, dropping into his seat and grabbing the oars, ready to move fast towards the aircraft as soon as it touched down. He dare not try to anticipate the spot for fear he got into the pilot's line of approach. Holding his breath with suspense he watched the gap between the water and the keel of the aircraft slowly closing—all too slowly for his peace of mind. He knew that Algy, assuming that he was at the controls, could do no more. He was too low now to risk slipping off any more height, and so could only let the machine run its course.

  With a smack and a zip a bullet slashed the surface of the river uncomfortably close to the dinghy. The report of the shot followed it. A second bullet close on its heels splashed water into the boat. A third struck the dinghy somewhere in the stern with an unpleasant jar. Splinters flew. A flight of arrows plopped into the water.

  "Hey I Get weaving I "ordered Angus crisply. "You're giving them a sitting target, and the little de'ils on the bank are getting close."

  Ginger needed no urging. He dipped his oars and pulled ; and it was as well that he did so, for two more shots ripped through the ripples of their wake.

  By this time the flying-boat was cutting a long creamy scar in the smooth surface of the stream. It lost speed quickly as it sank lower and the water clung to the keel, but even so, its way carried it on past the dinghy for some little distance. Still, by this time Ginger knew that he had been seen or Algy would not have risked a landing so near the launch, which was still coming on not more than two hundred yards distant.

  Ginger was now on the move, putting his weight behind the oars, rowing as he had never rowed before, thankful in one way that the aircraft was now between him and the launch so that he was shielded from the rifle fire. On the other hand he was alarmed for the safety of the machine, for he could hear shots, some so close that he suspected somebody in the flying-boat was returning the fire. He did not turn his head to look. He seemed to be making slow progress. The dinghy had become sluggish in the water, refusing to respond to his strokes as it should. At first he thought that this was the natural result of his impatience, but when water started sloshing up through the floorboards he realised what had happened. The bullet that had struck the dinghy had made a hole below the water-line.

  Angus must have become aware of this at the same time, for having shifted his weight

  forward to lift the hole clear of the water, with scant ceremony he ripped up the floorboards, flung them overboard, and started baling at frantic speed with his cupped hands.

  The difference this made was negligible, but if it did little good it did no harm, thought Ginger, as with sweat pouring down his face he dragged at the oars.

  Algy's voice, coming across the narrow interval that still separated the dinghy from the aircraft spurred him to a last desperate effort.

  "What are you waiting for ? 1" shouted Algy. "If you don't get a move on this kite'll be a sieve by the time y
ou get aboard 1"

  "Why don't you come and fetch me ? " yelled Ginger furiously.

  "Because if I swing round I shall swamp you I " roared Algy. He went on in a voice brittle with alarm. "Watch out you don't push a hole in my hull ! "

  Ginger had to look round to see where he was. Five yards away the cabin door yawned wide open. Shipping one oar in a single movement he backed with the other and brought the dinghy alongside. "Get in I " he shouted to Angus.

  Angus obeyed.

  Ginger dropped his remaining oar and followed—or tried to. But in his haste he forgot that he was not standing on a fixed platform. Consequently, as he jumped forward, the dinghy shot away under the pressure of his feet. He managed to grab the edge of the cabin floor as he fell, but the rest of him went into the water. Angus caught him by the collar. Mustering all his strength Ginger straightened his arms and got a knee up. Angus did the rest. Ginger fell into the cabin flat on his back, gasping and oozing water.

  Subconsciously he heard the engines bellow and felt the aircraft quiver as it surged forward. Then followed a brisk fusilade of shots both from inside the cabin and outside.

  As he raised himself to a sitting position Ginger heard Bertie's voice say : "By Jove I old boy, you fairly scraped her beastly funnel. I thought we were down the flue that time—

  absolutely in the soot, and what-not."

  Ginger buried his face in his hands and fought for breath. His heart was still pounding in his ears. A hand patted him on the shoulder. Said Bertie, in a voice full of concern : "I say, old lad, are you all right ? "

  "Yes, I'm okay," panted Ginger, smiling wanly.

  "Jolly good show," complimented Bertie. "By gad, you know, if the boat-race crews could have seen you they might have picked up a tip or two. And old Angus doing his stuff. What a cox—what a cox I How are you, Angus ? How's ma bonny wee laddie the noo ? "

  " Och, I'm nae so bad," answered Angus, smiling.

  "What about the aircraft ? "asked Ginger. "From the amount of shooting you must have collected some lead."

  "Nothing to speak of—at least, I haven't noticed anything," answered Bertie. "A little hole here and there, that's all."