" Where ? "
"On the edge of the forest. A man. I saw him move."
"Then he must have heard us. We were making the dickens of a din," said Ginger, reaching for his pistol.
Then an extraordinary thing happened. A man whistled —the up and down note of one who tries to attract attention to himself.
Ginger looked at Bertie. "Can he be whistling us ? "
"Don't ask me, old boy," answered Bertie helplessly.
Then an even more extraordinary thing happened. A man's voice called, in English with a strong north-country accent : " Hi ! Are you there ? Get a move on. I'm waiting."
Ginger turned a dumbfounded face to Bertie. "He must be talking to us. No one else is likely to be here and he must have heard us coming."
"He's English, so we've nothing to worry about," Bertie pointed out.
"We'll soon solve the mystery," declared Ginger, walking forward, not without a certain amount of caution, however.
A dozen steps and they saw the man apparently waiting for them. At least he was craning his neck in an attempt to peer into the undergrowth. He was a complete stranger —a thin, sun-tanned fellow of about forty, clad in the rags of what had once been a flannel suit.
"He must be one of the farmers," stated Ginger. He walked boldly into view.
The man did not seem in the least surprised to see them. Indeed, he walked forward, saying : "Come on. I'm waiting for you."
"Waiting for us ? "returned Ginger incredulously.
"I am—that is, if you're the chums of a bloke named Bigglestone ? "
"You mean Bigglesworth 1"
"Could be. That's near enough."
"Yes, we're his friends," confirmed Ginger.
"I was hoping I'd run into you," said the man casually.
"You were hoping—what " Ginger stared, hardly able to believe his ears. "But wait a minute," he requested suspiciously. "How could you hope to find us when nobody but ourselves knew we were coming here ? We didn't know ourselves until a little while ago.
"
"Well, there was a chance you might be here, put it that way."
"Who are you, anyhow ? " demanded Ginger.
"That don't really matter, but Tom Brigham's the name. You'd fetter get a move on if you want to see your pal alive."
Being quite unprepared for a statement of this nature the full force of it did not for a moment penetrate into Ginger's brain. When it did, the shock made him incoherent. "
What did you say ? See—him—alive ? Are you talking about Bigglesworth ? "
"I told you, didn't I? "replied Brigham dispassionately.
"But what—what's the matter with him ? What's happened ? " Ginger got the words out with difficulty.
"I dunno, but he's dying," was the shattering response.
Ginger stared and stared again. The words had the effect of a physical blow. "Did you say—dying ?" He hardly recognized his own voice. It sounded far away.
"He may be dead for all I know," returned Brigham calmly. "It's over an hour since I started and I've bin 'ere for some time. I wasn't a goin' ter face that jungle without a gun—not me. I was just pushin' off when I 'eard you a'comin'."
White to the lips Ginger strove to steady his reeling faculties. He felt stunned. "What happened ? "
"Don't ask me—I dunno," was the careless answer. "He just asked me ter come this way ter see if you was about."
"Who asked you ? "
"Joe Clarke—but I don't suppose you'd know 'fin."
"Clarke—Clarke . . ." The name rang a distant bell in Ginger's memory, but he could not recall where or when he had heard it. Indeed, he found it hard to think at all. "Have you seen Bigglesworth yourself ? "he asked.
" But—"
" What I want ter know is, are you comin' ? " broke in Brigham impatiently. "We've got a fair walk in front of us. It means cuttin' through the mesa—that's the nearest way. We don't want ter be seen."
"Why not ? " put in Bertie aggressively.
"You don't seem ter realise there's a reward out fer you chaps—five thousand bucks ; and that's a lot of money here. I don't know who'd give you away, but some of the foreigners might not be too particular. They're a mixed lot we've got 'ere."
Ginger, who had been striving to recall where he had heard the name Clarke recently, suddenly remembered. "You mean Joe Clarke, the Cockney who has a shack at the far end of the valley ? "
"That's 'im."
"But what's he got to do with it ? " questioned Ginger, amazement lifting his voice.
"That's what I'm trying ter make you understand," answered Brigham wearily. "That's where your pal is."
Ginger could have struck the man for his ambiguity and off-hand manner, although he appreciated that as the fellow did not know Biggles he was naturally indifferent about his fate. "But what's Biggles doing in Clarke's hut ? " he inquired, still groping wildly for concrete facts.
"I told yer, didn't I? " cried Brigham. "He's had it. Are you a'comin', or do you want me ter miss drawin' my rations ? "
"Lead on," requested Ginger briefly.
XIV
NATURE TAKES A HAND
BIGGLES, in the loft, did not waste time brooding over a misadventure which not only crashed his immediate plans, but seemed likely to have serious consequences. He started forthwith to seek a way out, a tour of inspection that did not last long because it was soon apparent that there was no way except through the aperture provided for that purpose.
There was no other possible exit except through the skylights, and as these were merely glass tiles, not windows made to open, they offered no solution to the problem. True, at the risk of making a din which would certainly be heard by Stitzen—who presumably was still in his room—he might, by standing on one of the trestles, have dislodged some of the tiles ; but even so, he thought the hole thus provided would be too narrow for him to get through. He was therefore forced to the conclusion that the only way out was by the way he had come in, and he returned to the trap door to examine it more closely.
That it was of no great substance he knew. Such traps seldom are, on account of the weight factor. It consisted of an outside frame of fairly stout timber with the middle filled in either by three-ply or matchboarding. In the feeble glim of his nearly exhausted lighter he could not tell which. This, he ascertained, was fastened to the underside of the frame with a security which would prevent it from being prised off by anything less than a heavy tool, and even then it would involve an operation which could not be completed without a considerable amount of noise. The only instrument that he possessed, excluding his automatic which was useless for this purpose, was his penknife. With this he thought it should be possible to cut a hole through the thin boarding, but how long this would take he dare not hazard a guess. It would depend almost entirely on the thickness of the material, which was something he did not know and had no means of finding out.
At first he tried probing for the latch with the point of his knife, hoping that it might be possible to force it back ; but he perceived after one or two failures that the most probable result of this would be a broken blade, which would not help matters.
After considering the matter he resolved to make four cuts in the form of a square, which could then be lifted out, leaving a space large enough for a hand to be passed through to the latch, which could then be unfastened. To cut round the entire inside of the frame was not a practicable proposition. Such a task would require hours of time.
Having made this decision he went to work. He could no longer hope to get clear in time to keep his rendezvous with Algy, and as in that case an hour or two could make little difference he worked with care rather than speed. Provided Ginger and Angus got through all would be well. That they would keep a lookout for him he did not doubt. He was confident of being able to take care of himself in the meantime, once he was out of the trap into which, with what he thought was an unpardonable lack of gumption, he had stepped.
The material on which he was w
orking turned out, unfortunately, to be three-ply—
unfortunately because it was tougher than the straight-grained matchboarding which he had hoped to find. However, he went on cutting, taking care not to go right through at any one spot, for fear of the mark being seen, until he was ready to make the final incision that would clear the section on which he was working, a square of about six inches. He knelt to his task. It was heavy going with a small knife, on which it was impossible to get any real purchase ; and having to operate in the dark did not make things easier. His forefinger soon had a blister on it, and he was compelled to take an occasional rest. During one of these he bound up the finger, and his thumb, with a strip torn from his handkerchief.
From the first to last the job took about an hour. By the end of that time the grooves he had made were sufficiently deep for him to be able to push the point of the knife through anywhere. Four stiff cuts now and the piece would be out.
He was bending to do it, his left hand bearing on his right wrist, when he heard someone open the front door and enter the hall below. This of course compelled him to wait, but he did not move his position, thinking that the newcomer would either retire to his room, or join Stitzen in his, in order to report the progress of the pursuit. Instead of which, Stitzen, who must have been wide awake, called out : "Is that you, Erich ? "
"Yes," answered von Stalhein's voice.
"There's a rat or a bird or something in the loft," Stitzen startled Biggles by saying. "I've been lying here listening to the thing gnawing. I don't want to get out of bed again with this fever on me, but it's keeping me awake. Besides, it might do some damage. Will you have a look to see what it is ? "
"All right," agreed von Stalhein.
It would be useless to deny that Biggles was dismayed, particularly after all his labour.
That anyone might go up into the loft at that hour of night was a contingency outside his calculations. Either he had made more noise than he was aware, or Stitzen must have extremely acute hearing, he thought, as he looked about desperately for somewhere to hide. Von Stalhein's feet were already mounting the steps.
Strictly speaking, there was nowhere to hide. The sloping ceiling was as bare as an arterial road. The only furniture was the trestles supporting the torpedo-like affair. The cover they provided would not have concealed the rat von Stalhein was expecting to find.
All Biggles could do was lie flat on the floor, just where he was, with his head pointing towards the trap and not more than a yard from it. Any other movement would have been heard by the man who was already slipping the catch.
A strip of light shot through from the hall and struck the ceiling as the trap door was pushed up. It grew broader. Von Stalhein's head and shoulders appeared, still rising. He did not stop, but came right on up to the top, one hand holding a torch not yet switched on. His figure, almost filling the aperture, cast a grotesque shadow on the ceiling.
Reaching the level of the floor, leaving the trap wide open, he stood erect and switched on his torch. The beam sliced a wedge of light through the darkness, cutting it into halves.
It is possible to speculate indefinitely on the trivial things upon which enormous consequences so often depend. There was no particular reason why von Stalhein's torch should explore any particular area of the loft. He might have directed it to the left, in which case, had he held it low, he must have inevitably seen Biggles lying there. He might equally have directed it to the right, or straight ahead of him. It is likely that what von Stalhein actually did was not the result of a decision at all. He simply switched on the light, so that the beam flashed in the direction in which the torch happened to be pointing, and that, in the event—naturally, perhaps—was straight ahead, neither high nor low, but between the two. The apparent effect of the flood of white light across the middle of the loft was to make the rest darker.
The position of the light was not maintained for more than a couple of seconds, which again was perfectly natural. Seeing nothing, von Stalhein moved the beam slowly towards the right, covering floor and ceiling in turn. Had he moved it to the left the outcome of the incident might have been very different from what it was ; but as has already been observed, there was really no reason why it should move in one direction more than another, unless it is that a man, normally right-handed, tends to move towards the right rather than the left. Anyway, Biggles was for the moment left in darkness, with von Stalhein's figure looming huge and black against the light, straight in front of him.
And as the torch travelled, so, naturally, did the holder move with it.
Biggles was well aware that this respite could last only for a matter of seconds, when von Stalhein, satisfied that there was nothing on the one side, would turn his attention to the other. Biggles decided not to wait for this to happen. It would be better to strike before, rather than after, discovery. Moving with no more noise than the shadow on the ceiling, he rose to his feet, raised his right foot, thrust it into the middle of von Stalhein's back, and pushed. The result was spectacular but not unexpected. Von Stalhein hurtled across the floor as if he had been propelled by a catapult launching apparatus. There was a slithering crash as he fell and collided with the floor. The torch bounded on, making a display like an enormous catherine wheel, and then went out. Even before that happened Biggles was half way down the steps. Having pulled the trap into its seating he went on down, leaving von Stalhein in the position in which he himself had been a minute earlier.
Stitzen's voice called sharply : "What are you doing up there ? " An inquiry that was not without justification.
Putting a hand over his mouth to muffle his voice, Biggles answered, making a not very successful attempt to imitate von Stalhein. "It's all right. I fell."
"Are you hurt ? "
"No," answered Biggles, who could hear von Stalhein blundering about overhead, probably looking for his torch.
Then von Stalhein really took part in the conversation. "Look out, Paul 1 "he shouted in a voice brittle with shock and alarm. "There's somebody about ! "
"What did you say ? "
Biggles could hear Stitzen scrambling out of bed, and waited for no more. He went out through the front door, and had hardly taken a couple of paces forward when an idea struck him, and he stopped again. He went back and stood close against the wall, near the door.
Von Stalhein was shouting frantically : "Let me out-- I'm locked in ! "
Biggles smiled as he heard Stitzen coming up the corridoi cursing under his breath. "
What on earth are you doing up there ? " he heard him yell.
Von Stalhein was by this time nearly choking. "Come up and let me out I " he shouted.
Stitzen went up the steps. The latch clicked. The trap door fell back with a slam.
Shadows falling through the open door told Biggles what was happening inside. Stitzen backed down the steps followed by von Staihein. Presently they stood in the hall, von Stalhein swearing softly in German as he brushed dirt from his clothes, and Stitzen demanding to be told what all the fuss was about.
"There was a man up there," grated von Stalhein. "I didn't see him, but it could only have been Bigglesworth. Just the sort of thing he would do."
"But you said you didn't think he would—"
"I said you could never tell where he was," rasped von Stalhein.
"Where is he now ? "
"Oh, he'll have gone. He wouldn't be likely to stay here," muttered von Stalhein.
Biggles stepped into the open doorway, his pistol hanging from his right hand. "Wrong again, von Stalhein," he said evenly. "Why look surprised ? After all, you yourself said no one knew what I'd do next—no, don't move, and when I say that I mean it seriously."
Von Stalhein inclined his head towards the loft. "Were you up there all the time ? "
"I was," admitted Biggles. "And believe me when I say that I found your conversation, a little while ago, vastly entertaining." As he spoke Biggles' eyes were searching Stitzen's face. It was vaguely familiar, but
he could not place him.
"Well, how long are we going to stand here ? "demanded von Stalhein curtly, making an effort to recover his usual dignity.
"There's no need for you to stand here at all," replied Biggles. "Would you mind walking along the corridor to the left, keeping your hands up, until I tell you to stop. I'm taking no chances, so do behave sensibly."
Von Stalhein shrugged and did as he was ordered. Stitzen, a short, stoutish man, practically bald, followed.
"Stop now," commanded Biggles, when the pair drew level with the store-room. "Right turn and in you go."
"Do you know what's inside ? " asked von Stalhein.
"Of course," answered Biggles. "I've had a good look round. I've chosen the store-room because there's no window. You won't &et into mischief there, and I still have one or two things to do. In you go—and by the way, don't try shooting through the door. You'll only spoil the door, because I shan't be in line with it."
Von Stalhein looked at Biggles with an expression on his face that might have meant anything. Then he opned the door and went in. The look Stitzen gave Biggles was murderous ; but he did the same. Biggles turned the key in the lock and without a backward glance strode back to the front door and looked out. The garden was still drenched in blue moonlight. There was nobody in sight. Then he moved swiftly.
First he went to the pantry, where he selected an empty tin, one with a well-fitting lid that had contained cocoa. This he thrust into a side pocket of his jacket. He then retraced his steps, stopping when he came to the armoury. Entering, he took the Mauser pistols from their hooks and disposed them about his person. This done he filled his pockets with cartridges of one sort and another. Finally, he took the rifles and guns from their racks, tucked them under his arms and walked away. The weapons made an awkward load, but he managed somehow, somewhat carelessly, as if he had only a short distance to go.
Making his way to the rear of the bungalow he walked along the cactus hedge until he found the gap about which Ginger had told him. In getting through this he had a little difficulty with his burden, but he pushed on through, and arrived at the water's edge, shaking his head—for his hands were occupied—in a futile attempt to dislodge the mosquitoes that were settling on his face. Turning downstream he went on for a few yards, and then, with a grunt of relief, dropped the guns and rifles into about two feet of water. The Mausers and the cartridges he pushed well back into the hedge, out of sight.
35 Biggles Takes A Holiday Page 15
