Biggles And The Black Peril (06)

by Captain W E Johns

  "Keep going," he called to Biggles and Algy, who had turned round to wait for him when they saw him coming. "Get to the car."

  A bullet whistled over his head, but it was the last one of the action.

  "You be careful what you are doing with that gun, my lad," Biggles told him seriously, as Algy started up the car and they climbed in. "You had better give it to me before you hurt yourself; where did you get it?"

  "Spoils of war," replied Ginger. "I shall need it, too, from what I can see of it, if I am going to see much of you two."

  "Where are we going?" asked Algy from the wheel.

  "Anywhere," replied Biggles. "Let's get away from here, for a start; then we'll make for the nearest town. Where is the machine?"

  "Cramlington."

  "Where are we now?"

  "About an hour's run from Newcastle."

  "Then make for Newcastle. We'll get rooms there for the night and then tomorrow decide what we are going to do; we shall have a lot to talk about."

  "What I should like to know is, how the dickens did you get up here?" asked Algy, as they sped along the road.

  "I'll tell you all about it presently," replied Biggles. "What I want is some food, a bath, and a general overhaul."

  CHAPTER VI

  COUNCIL OF WAR

  Two days later they sat basking in the autumn sunshine at a quiet spot on the aerodrome at Cramlington. Nothing of interest or importance had occurred since the rescue, for which Biggles' sincere thanks had brought a flush of pleasure to Ginger's face. They had compared notes and decided that in the circumstances their obvious and proper course was to report the whole matter to the authorities and leave them to finish the affair with the more efficient resources at their disposal.

  Biggles had accordingly drafted out a detailed report, describing the position of the hidden floodlights, and dispatched it to the Intelligence branch of the Air Ministry. Having thus washed their hands of the affair, as they thought, they had discussed Ginger'

  s future, with the result that they had decided to take him back to London with them and endeavour to secure his entry into the Royal Air Force as an aircraft apprentice, failing which they would use their influence to get him a place in one of the many aircraftmanufacturing firms they knew, with a view to subsequently obtaining his ticket as a ground engineer. Biggles had also agreed, in return for his part in the rescue, to have him taught to fly at a school—a proposal that met with Ginger's entire approval. They were in no immediate hurry to return, so they spent their time between Newcastle and the aerodrome, waiting for Biggles' ankle, which was rapidly mending, to become quite sound again.

  Algy had given Ginger several flights in the amphibian and had shown him how to work the controls; on one occasion, to his intense joy, Ginger had even been allowed to hold the joystick for a few minutes while they were in the air.

  "It was my lucky day when I fell in with you and no mistake," he said with an emphasis that made them laugh. Indeed, the lad's strange but inoffensive air of familiarity and selfassurance, combined with his occa sional lapses into American film jargon, caused them endless amusement.

  "Don't be too sure of that," Biggles told him seriously. "We never know quite what is going to happen next—Hullo, this fellow's looking for us, I fancy." A steward had appeared round a corner of the clubhouse and was pointing them out to two smartly dressed men, who walked quickly towards them.

  "Major Bigglesworth?" asked one as they came up.

  "That is my name," replied Biggles. "Forgive me for not getting up, but I've had a little trouble with one of my ankles."

  "Certainly. I am Squadron Leader Taglen, of the Air Ministry, and this is Colonel Barlow of the Special Intelligence. You sent in a report recently."

  "I did."

  "Why did you do that?"

  "Why?" Biggles opened his eyes wide. "Because I thought you would be glad to have the information." "Was it intended to be a joke?"

  Biggles frowned. "What do you mean?" he asked tersely. "It was anything but a joke for us, I can assure you."

  Taglen looked at him queerly. "I cannot think of any other reason why you should send us off on a wildgoose chase. We know your record, of course. You have been an officer, a responsible officer holding a command. What made you do this, Bigglesworth?" Biggles stared at him in amazement. "What the dickens are you driving at?" he replied curtly. "Are you suggesting that I'm a liar? You can soon satisfy yourself of the truth of the matter by inspecting the places I named in my report. I told you exactly where you would find the switches controlling the floodlights."

  "I know; we've been there."

  "Then why do you take this attitude?"

  Taglen looked at Colonel Barlow with an odd expression, then back at Biggles. "Are you really serious?" he asked.

  "Dash it all, man, do you think I'd be likely to invent such a yarn?"

  "We thought not, but there is little to substantiate it." "But the floodlights?"

  "There are no floodlights there—nothing at all."

  Biggles sprang to his feet, his injured ankle forgotten. "Good heavens!" he cried, suddenly understanding. "But you saw the mark on the wall?"

  "There is no mark."

  "But the switch under the floor?"

  "If there is a switch we were unable to find it."

  Biggles threw up his hands. "I might have guessed it," he muttered bitterly. "But what about that house, though, where I was held prisoner?" he added quickly.

  "There is no such house."

  "You mean you couldn't find it?"

  "We found where there had been a house." "Don't talk in riddles, man; what do you mean?" "The house has been burnt down; there is only a charred skeleton left."

  Biggles looked at Ginger with a grim smile. "You either made a bigger bonfire than you intended, my lad—or else they have deliberately burnt the place down to cover up their tracks. Well, Taglen, I am sorry," he went on, turning to the others, "but I can only give you my word that everything I told you in that report was true, and to my mind the subsequent actions of these people, the swift and efficient way in which they have removed all traces, go to show how serious the matter is."

  "Personally, I believe you," Taglen told him, "but whether the higher authority will take the same view or not I cannot say. But one thing is certain: there is nothing left for us to work on, not a single clue. If you hear any more about the affair, or pick up the thread again, perhaps you will be good enough to let me know. You can always get in touch with me at the Ministry."

  "I will."

  "That's all there is to be said, then; we might as well be getting back. Good morning, Bigglesworth!"

  "Well, what do you know about that?" asked Biggles, after the two officials had departed. "By James, these people waste no time; they knew we should report the matter as soon as I got away, and acted accordingly. They're smart and no mistake. Well, come on."

  "Where are you going?" asked Algy.

  "Norfolk. Before I do anything else I am going to satisfy myself that what these fellows told us is true. I don't doubt it for an instant, mind you, but—well, I'd just like to have a look around. What are you going to do?" The last remark was addressed to Ginger, who had whipped a flying cap and pair of goggles from his pocket—two presents from Algy. Ginger's face fell. "Aren't I coming with you?" he

  cried despairingly. His disappointment was so genuine that Biggles' heart softened.

  "But this is all very fine, my lad," he said. "What is your father going to say if anything happens to you? This may turn out to be no joyride, you know."

  "Oh, there's no need to worry about that," replied Ginger quickly. "I wrote a postcard from Newcastle to say I'd got a job, flying."

  "And what did he say to that? Was he pleased?"

  "Well—er—" Ginger looked sheepish—" not exactly pleased. He said—" He took a dirty envelope from his pocket.

  "Just what did he say? Come on; let's have the truth."

  "Well, if you must know, he
said that if I broke my blinking neck it would be my own fault."

  "And he'll be quite right. Very well, you can come, but you do what you're told—

  understand?"

  Ginger nodded. "O.K., chief," he said brightly.

  They reached the creek on the Norfolk coast about the middle of the afternoon, and after a brief survey of the landscape from the air landed in exactly the same place as when they had been forced down by the storm. Seen in the clear light of day, its utter solitude was even more depressing than before, for the only signs of life were the wheeling seagulls. They taxied to the beach and walked quickly up to the hut, where a quick examination revealed that what Taglen had told them was true in every detail. Not a sign or mark of any sort remained; the place might have been unvisited since it was abandoned at the end of the war; even the candle had gone, and the mark on the wall had been carefully erased. They dug into the sandy floor, but all they uncovered was more sand.

  "Well, that's that," observed Biggles. "I don't think it's any use going back to the place on the Northumberland coast, because if they have made such a thorough clean-up here they will certainly have done the same thing there. It looks as if we've come to a dead end."

  "Not quite," said Algy slowly. "I've still a card up my sleeve."

  "What's that?" asked Biggles sharply.

  "You remember the night you left me here, and I crept up to the hut to see what I could find out?" "Perfectly well."

  "I risked a peep through the window, and this is what I saw. The head chap—you know, the one with the black beard

  Biggles nodded.

  "He had got a map held up against the wall," went on Algy. "I couldn't see very much, but I just had time to spot one or two things. The first was that there were several marks—six or seven, I should think—on the east coast of England. We know about two of them; one was the place on which we are now standing, and the other was in Northumberland. If you remember, the sign on the wall had a number over it—a figure eight, in Roman numerals, wasn't it? Well, I should say this place was number eight; there are still six others that we haven't located. I noticed that one seemed to be somewhere in Essex, but I was too far away to see the exact spot. The important thing is, though, that from each one of these places a line had been drawn, in the way they mark shipping routes on a map, to a spot in Europe, which, I imagine, is the headquarters of the whole thing. It looked to me as if a course had been plotted on the map to each one of the places over here."

  "Where was this place?" asked Biggles abruptly.

  "I'm not quite certain, because it was a small-scale map, but I could put my finger on the spot to within fifty or a hundred miles. The lines ran straight across the North Sea, across northern Germany, to the Baltic coast. They either ended in Eastern Prussia, or in Russia.

  "

  Biggles whistled. "Russia, eh? Those fellows who came to see me in the house were Russians; I'd bet on

  it. ,,

  "Well, that's where the big machine started from and where it's gone back to," declared Algy. "Well?" "I was just wondering."

  "Yes, and I know what you were wondering. You were thinking about flying over the ditch and having a look round?"

  "You've got it," admitted Biggles. "It would be a bit risky

  "I don't see why it should be if our papers are in order. We've got our passports. We can get carnets* from the Aero Club, and set off on an ordinary air tour. Who is going to say that we aren't just air tourists?"

  "That might be all right in most places, but I'm not so sure about Russia. I do not think we should be able to get permission to even fly over Russian territorial waters. If we did go without permission, and had

  1Touring abroad by air is not merely a matter of " Go as you please." The aircraft must carry a Journey Logbook (which is made up like a ship's log), an Aircraft Log, Engine's Log, and Pilot's Logbook. The Journey Logbook must be made up at each port of call and signed by a responsible official. Then there is the Customs Carnet (pronounced carnay), which is issued by the Royal Aero Club to avoid difficulties with Customs officials in the matter of import duties. The machine's Certificate of Airworthiness must be carried; the pilot must carry his Pilot's Certificate and the Registration Certificate of the aeroplane. Passports must, of course, be carried, and endorsed or visaed at certain places.—W.E.J.

  to come down for any reason, there would be the dickens of a stink. I don't want to end my days in Siberia. Blackbeard knows us; don't forget that. If he saw us it wouldn't be much use saying we were just on a harmless tour."

  "Then why not go to Germany? Let's go as far as the Baltic and see what happens there before we make further plans."

  "Yes, we could do that. It looks to me as if Russia and that part of Germany dominated by Russia are in this, with Great Britain as the objective. It's a long way from Russia to here, but not too far for a high-efficiency bomber. If they'll go as far as fitting up elaborate floodlights over here, there is no reason why they shouldn't have petrol dumps for refuelling; submarines could lie around the coast with petrol and oil on board, if it comes to that. Well, we've nothing else to do; if there is a plot afoot it's up to us to find out what it is, if we can."

  "You've sure spilt a bibful," observed Ginger. "I guess—"

  "You keep your guesses under your hat for a bit, my lad, and for goodness' sake stop that Yankee drawl, or you'll have us all doing it before you've finished."

  "O.K. baby—sorry—I mean, righto."

  "That's better."

  "That's settled, then," put in Algy.

  "Yes, we'll get back to the drome and fix things up; it shouldn't take more than a day or two."

  "That's fine," declared Ginger.

  "I didn't say you were coming."

  "I know you didn't, but I sort of took it for granted." "You take too much for granted, young fellow-melad. You know what your father told you?"

  "You mean about if I break my neck it will be my own fault?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I shouldn't grumble; it's my own neck, anyway." Biggles looked at him doubtfully. "All right," he said slowly at last. "I suppose there's no way of getting rid of you."

  "You've said it," Ginger told him cheerfully.

  CHAPTER VII

  WARNED OUT

  THE amphibian circled gracefully and dropped lightly on to the smooth waters of a oncefamous German seaplane base, and taxied slowly past several machines that rode at moorings, towards the Custom House.

  "Well, we're over the ditch, anyway," observed Biggles to Algy, who sat beside him. Eight days had elapsed since their decision to explore the Baltic coast had been made, eight days of exasperating delays while their papers were being prepared. The party had now increased to four, for Biggles would not risk travelling so far afield without Smyth, their efficient mechanic, who now shared the cabin with Ginger.

  "The thing I don't like about this show is that we've got to travel under our proper names,

  " muttered Algy, as they made fast to the slipway. "That doesn't matter very much as far as I am concerned, I know, but Black-beard knows your name, and so do some of the others, and the chances are that they are over here somewhere at this very minute; you say the chances of running into them or of their hearing your name mentioned are remote, but I don't agree with you. There are only one or two seaplane stations in Germany today, and you know how news travels. People—flying people, at any rate—

  are bound to come quizzing round a British machine; we should do the same thing to a German kite in England—in fact, we've done it more than once."

  "Suppose Blackbeard does learn that I'm here, what

  of it? He can't very well have us arrested for just being here, if our papers are in order, as they are; the British Consul would want to know why. In any case, I think the chances are against anyone even noticing our names; they will mean nothing to the people in the Passport Office. We couldn't fake our passports, anyway, so we had to travel under our real names or not at all."


  "You're right there, but I don't agree about not spotting our names. On the Continent people pay a good deal more attention to such things than we do, and if Blackbeard wanted us out of the way he'd find an excuse to get us out of the way, don't make any mistake about that; if you don't know German methods by this time it's about time you did."

  "We're here, so it's a bit late in the day to argue about that," replied Biggles shortly. "Let us report in and get filled up with petrol. If any questions are asked you know the story—

  we're just on a pleasure cruise round the Baltic. Let's get fixed up and have a bite of food.

  "

  The formalities proved far less exacting than they expected; indeed, if the attitude of the officials could be taken as an indication they were more than welcome in the country. Their Journey Log was stamped, and they were cleared by Customs with a minimum of trouble or delay. Neither was there any difficulty about getting their tanks filled with oil and petrol. The officer who examined and " cleared " the machine, in reply to their inquiry, told them in quite good English that they would get excellent food at the aerodrome cafe, and pointed it out to them.

  Accordingly they all made their way towards it, and were soon eating an acceptable meal. There were very few people in the place: one or two mechanics in overalls, an obvious sightseer, and a couple

  of fellows who might have been club pilots. The English party attracted little or no attention.

  They heard a machine come in and land while they were rounding off a well-enjoyed meal with cheese, but they paid no attention to it. A moment later, as a voice reached them from outside, Biggles suddenly stiffened, and moved his chair quickly so that his back was towards the door.

  "Go on eating," he said quietly, "and don't stare. Order coffee, and on no account mention my name. Speak quietly and we may not be noticed."

  Algy, after Biggles' first half-dozen words, glanced towards the door. A man was looking in through the glass panels, as if in search of somebody. It was Black-beard. He pushed the door open and entered, speaking quickly to the waiter. He spoke in German, so they could not understand what he said.