40 Biggles Works It Out

by Captain W E Johns

  He hurried on, his weariness falling off him like a garment now that the solution of the mystery—as he had reason to hope—was at hand. Making as little noise as possible on the pebbles, he advanced upon the bungalow, which he could now see was occupied, because although the windows were blacked-out with some flimsy black material, any slight movement of air caused the material to move, showing chinks of light. This told him, too, that the windows were wide open, as they naturally would be after the heat of the day. At the finish he could hear a murmur of voices. Listening, he made out that the language used was German.

  Just as he got right up to the building a buzzer zipped a signal. It brought the conversation to an end, except that someone said: "Good. Here he is, on time." The voice seemed strangely familiar. An instant later the blind moved slightly, but enough for Algy to get a glimpse of the interior of the room. There were two men there. They were turning towards the door. One was Groot. The other was Biggles's arch enemy, Erich von Stalhein.

  Realizing that the men were coming out, Algy sank into the inky shadow of the building—for the moon was now low on the other side—and lay flat. He crept as near to the corrugated iron as possible, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and turned up his collar to show as little of his face as possible. His nerves were tingling from the shock of his discovery. True, Biggles had remarked, to illustrate an argument, that von Stalhein was just the sort of man to be mixed up in the racket he had visualized; but no one had been farther from Algy's thoughts at that moment. The presence of Groot did not surprise him. Apparently he was the driver of the van.

  Algy had little time to ponder this startling development. Von Stalhein, now outside, gave a hail, and then rapped out an order. Four men in mechanics' overalls appeared from somewhere, from one of the hangars or adjacent buildings, and stood in attitudes of expectancy. A sound overhead told Algy what they were expecting, and explained the signal. An aircraft was approaching. He could not see it, but from the volume of noise it made he knew that it was gliding. The Plaine de la Crau, or the low-lying marshes of the Camargue that adjoined it, he thought swiftly, would be an ideal place for an aircraft to cross the coast unobserved. Nowhere along the whole

  North Mediterranean coastline was there a region so lonely, so devoid of human habitation, as this.

  Von Stalhein and Groot stood outside the bungalow, talking in low tones, while they waited. Then von Stalhein gave another order. Somewhere a switch clicked, and a widely spaced line of lights, five in all, set in the ground, marked out the concrete runway.

  Almost noiselessly a big aircraft took shape over it. The pilot made a perfect landing. A touch of throttle was all that was necessary to send it on to the bungalow.

  Algy stared at it, but not with surprise. He had a pretty good idea of what the machine would turn out to be. And he was not mistaken. It was a Douglas D.C.3— with a tricycle undercarriage. There, not twenty yards away, stood Marcel's mystery plane, resting on its three wheels, its tail raised in level flying position. The landing-lights were switched off.

  The pilot and a passenger got out and walked to the two men who were waiting. Algy recognized one of them. It was Canton. The other, a short, heavily built man, he had never seen before. He noticed that they made little noise on the pebbles as they walked.

  The reason, he guessed, was because they were shod with crepe rubber. The machine, Algy supposed, was the one that had made the raid in Australia. If not, it was one exactly like it. The mechanics, obviously the ground crew, closed in on the machine.

  "Everything all right?" asked Canton, yawning as if he was tired. He spoke in English.

  "Yes. Have you brought the stuff?" asked von Stalhein.

  "Sure."

  "Then let's get it out so that Groot can get away before daylight. Groot is to take the machine back."

  "That suits me," muttered Canton. "I've seen all I want of it for tonight."

  The ground crew unloaded the "stuff". There was not much of it. Five small but obviously heavy sacks were dragged out of the Douglas's cabin and dumped into the van.

  The contents of the bags, from the dull noise they made in this operation, might have been sand or corn.

  "It would have saved a lot of trouble if the old man had brought the lot over in one go instead of in driblets, just to suit that bunch of Roumanian bullion-mongers," grumbled Canton. "Still, I suppose he had a reason for it."

  "As you grow older, answered von Stalhein, rather coldly, "experience may teach you that it is not wise to put all your eggs in one basket. The dump is safe where it is.

  Whatever happens, no one is likely to find it there, or get within hundreds of miles of it.

  Apart from that, considerable sums of money are involved, and our Roumanian friends had difficulty in getting it out of the country even in instalments."

  "Okay—okay," retorted Canton. "I can speak, can't I? I have to fly over that sun-blasted desert, not you. I cross my fingers every time I do the trip."

  "That's what you're paid for," snapped von Stalhein. "You'll be doing a longer trip soon."

  "Does that mean the old man has completed his arrangements for the diamond scoop? If so, I suppose he'll want me to do the usual, and get the gen from Alexander Bay?"

  "You'll get your orders when the time comes," said von Stalhein curtly.

  "All right. Give me a drink. The air's like an oven over the other side. You ask Luis. He came over with me."

  "I might as well have one, too, while the boys are filling up," said Groot.

  The men all went into the bungalow. Glasses chinked. A cork was drawn.

  In the shadow, hardly daring to breathe, Algy listened. After some desultory conversation Groot asked casually, "How's the new man getting on?"

  "All right," replied Canton. "He doesn't say much, and what he does say is mostly guff; but I reckon he's the

  right type. He may sound dumb, but he can fly. I let him take over going out. He knows his stuff."

  "New man! What new man?" Von Stalhein spoke sharply. "I've heard nothing about a new man. Where is he?"

  "Over the other side," answered Canton. "The old man told me to take him over right away so that he could carry on with the Hurricane."

  Said von Stalhein, speaking distinctly : "I particularly asked the Count not to employ any pilot without first letting me see him. He knows nothing about aviation."

  "What's the odds?" came back Canton. A suspicion of sarcasm crept into his voice when he added, "Have you still got this fellow Bigglesworth on your mind?"

  "I know Bigglesworth, you don't," returned von Stalhein grimly. "He's a menace, and you'd be wise never to forget it. You say he's been to Australia. Someone has been asking questions in Algeria about the Ahaggar. Put those two facts together, and I don't like the sound of them. The sooner we move our headquarters to behind the Iron Curtain, the sooner I shall sleep comfortably. What's the name of this new man?"

  "Smith," Canton told him. Algy had to strain his ears to catch the answer on account of the noise being made by the mechanics, who were refuelling the Douglas with a mobile motor-driven pump.

  "Smith is a convenient name," said von Stalhein cynically. "Did you see his passport?"

  "Why not?"

  "He'd lost it."

  The sceptical note in von Stalhein's voice became more pronounced. "That is sometimes convenient, too. Are you telling me that the Count took on a new man without checking up on his identity?"

  Canton laughed shortly. "Any man likely to be of use to us would probably take good care to lose his identity. We were stuck for another pilot, weren't we?"

  "What you mean is, you were," rapped out von Stalhein. "You were afraid the Count would send you back to the dump to mount guard in the Hurricane."

  "Put it that way if you like," replied Canton irritably. "No man in his right mind would want to sit and fry in that hell-hole. I've had one go of it."

  "So you picked up the first pilot to come along? Where did this happen?"

 
; "Nice—at the airport."

  "What was he doing there?"

  "Hanging about, flat broke. I found he was a pilot after we'd got talking. He'd lost his wad in the casino at Monte Carlo. He as good as said it wasn't his own money he'd lost, anyway. He may have been on the run, which is as good a recommendation as any. Oh, I sounded him pretty well, don't you worry. I rang up the Count, and he told me to bring him along. He engaged him—not me. That's all there was to it."

  "Quite enough, too," von Stalhein went on sourly. "The trouble with you is you talk too much. This picking up of new hands casually is dangerous. We're getting slack. It'll lead to trouble, mark my words."

  "I can't see what you're fretting about." said Canton impatiently. "This fellow is dumb, anyhow. Just bone from ear to ear, judging from the way he talks."

  "That means nothing," asserted von Stalhein. "One of Bigglesworth's men talks more blah than anyone I ever met. As if that isn't enough he fools about with a monocle. He looks and sounds the complete ass—but he isn't."

  "This fellow Smith sports an eyeglass," said Canton, a suspicion of doubt creeping into his voice for the first time.

  There was a brief, stiff silence, before von Stalhein said: "Describe him."

  Canton gave a fair description of Bertie, which did not surprise Algy, for it confirmed Marcel's story.

  "As a matter of fact," went on Canton, as if he had just remembered something, "now you put it like that there's been a police Auster in the shed at Nice. I should know. The last time I saw it it was on the tarmac at Gatwick.

  I was surprised to see it at Nice, because I'd stuck a firework on the exhaust."

  "And you said nothing about this?" grated von Stalhein.

  "I didn't see how it could have any connection with us."

  "You didn't see!" Von Stalhein's voice was brittle with accusation. "You fool! You blundering idiot! It may interest you to know that the man you picked up is Lissie, one of Bigglesworth's best men. There can't be two like him in the world. The Auster being there clinches it. I'll go to Nice and ask a few questions about it. Lissie must have trailed you from England. You picked him up! Don't flatter yourself. He picked you up."

  "I wasn't to know," muttered Canton in a surly voice, in a weak attempt to excuse himself.

  "And you took this man to the villa?"

  "Then heaven help you," said von Stalhein simply. "The Count will fix you for this. You know how he treats blunderers."

  Anxiety and alarm leapt into Canton's voice. "Now wait a minute, Erich," he pleaded. "I acted for the best, after all. No harm's been done yet. Don't upset the Count. There's no sense in that. I can square things without him knowing anything about it. Give me a break, Erich. Groot will, I know. Lissie—if it is Lissie—and I won't take any chances about that, is safe over the other side. I didn't take my eyes off him till we got there.

  Those were the Count's orders. He didn't have a chance to speak to a soul. He can't get away. You know the rule about petrol for men on probation? I'll go straight back and fix him."

  There was a short silence as if von Stalhein was considering the matter. "What are you going to tell the Count? He'll want to know why you went back instead of Groot. He said Groot was to take the machine back."

  "Groot can say he felt sick and I offered to go. You'll do that for me, Groot, won't you?

  You don't want to go over there?"

  Groot agreed.

  "If you bump him off, how are you going to account for his disappearance?" inquired von Stalhein.

  "I'll say he had an accident. He'll have one, too. I promise you, when I get near him."

  Canton's voice was charged with venom.

  "How do you feel about it, Luis?" Von Stalhein was apparently speaking to the fourth man.

  "P'raps it ees best that way."

  "All right," consented von Stalhein. "Perhaps you're right. If the Count learns the truth anything can happen. Make a clean job of it, Canton—and do it as soon as you get there."

  "Leave it to me," said Canton crisply.

  "You'd better be going, then," answered von Stalhein. "It'll soon be getting light. You know the Count's orders about not crossing the coast in daylight. And you, Groot, had better push along to the villa, or the stuff will be late. You know how the Count hates being kept waiting."

  "What about Luis?" asked Canton.

  "He'll go with Groot. He's due for a spell this side." "Okay."

  There was a general movement in the room.

  X

  A TRIP TO REMEMBER

  ALGY'S state of mind as he listened to this illuminating conversation can be more easily imagined than described. His brain raced in an effort to keep up with it. He knew, now, all that Biggles wanted to know—and more. Yet how, he wondered feverishly, was this knowledge to

  be applied. How could he get the information to Biggles in time for it to be of any use?

  Speed was vital. If von Stalhein went to Nice Airport and made inquiries about the Auster it would not take him long to discover that he, not Bertie, had parked it there. He would then know definitely that Biggles was on the trail, and would naturally tell the Count everything, with the result that the leaders, if not the whole crook outfit, would scatter, or fly to an unknown hide-out.

  But the overwhelming factor that governed the situation was Bertie's deadly peril. By a casual remark, almost in the nature of a fluke, von Stalhein had learned that he was at El Asile. Algy was in no doubt as to what Canton intended to do. He was going to El Asile—for this was the place obviously meant by "the other side"—and when he got there he would shoot Bertie forthwith—or kill him somehow. Bertie, unprepared for anything of the sort, wouldn't have a chance. Even if he did escape the initial attack, he would have no hope of getting away, for the waterless desert was a more effective barrier than would have been stone walls or iron bars.

  Algy would have liked time to think, but time, at that moment, was a commodity in short supply. He saw that whatever he decided to do would have to be done at once, for the men were already on the move. Once Canton was in the air there could be no stopping him. Bertie would be as good as dead. Could that be prevented, and if so, how?

  Algy first considered making off in the Douglas. But that, he saw very soon, was useless.

  It would tell the men that they had been traced, and perhaps all to no purpose, for it would not prevent Canton from flying out to El Asile in another machine. Von Stalhein might be in radio communication with El Asile, in which case he would certainly warn the people there to be on their guard. The thought of radio worried Algy not a little. His second idea was to wait until Groot and Luis had gone off in the car and then hold up von Stalhein and Canton at the muzzle of his automatic. This thought was induced by the fact that the mechanics, having refuelled the Douglas, were returning to their quarters, so they would not have to be dealt with. But he saw that this was no use either. What if the machine went off before the van departed? Algy's head spun with the speed of these thoughts. In the end he saw that there was only one certain way of preventing Canton from carrying out his intention. It had this advantage, too. If it came off it would leave the others unaware of danger. On this plan he decided.

  Crouching low, he made a dash for the machine and got behind it just as the door of the bungalow was opened and the four men came out. For a minute they stood there, talking in low tones; then Groot and Luis went on to the van. Von Stalhein and Canton walked slowly after them, apparently to see them off. This gave Algy the opportunity he needed.

  The starting of the van smothered the slight noise made by his shoes in the pebbles as he sidled along to the cabin door, got into the aircraft, and lay flat in the afterpart of the empty cabin, where he felt there was little risk of discovery.

  After that he could judge what was happening only by sounds. He heard the van drive off, and soon afterwards heard Canton climb into the cockpit. He heard his parting call to von Stalhein. "Don't worry. I'll fix him." Then the fuselage quivered as the engines sp
rang to life. Their growl rose to a bellow. The machine began to move.

  Algy took a deep breath of relief. So far so good. There was this about it, he thought.

  Indecision was a thing of the past. He was now committed absolutely to his adventure.

  How it would continue would depend on Canton's behaviour when he revealed himself; for he had no intention of allowing Canton to transport him to El Asile, where he would certainly share Bertie's fate. For the time being he was content to sit still, to give the machine time to get clear of the airstrip and gain some altitude. Moreover, he wanted to compose himself, after the shock he had received, to be calm and resolute for the next move. The tricky part of the business was yet to come.

  He allowed rather more than half an hour to pass, then got up and looked out of the window. To the east, the first flush of dawn was painting streaks of pallid grey among the stars. Below and ahead lay the Mediterranean, calm, colourless, and deserted.

  Behind, the coastline of France was a faint indigo smudge. Altitude he reckoned to be about eight thousand feet, with the machine still climbing.

  He waited a little longer and then walked forward. Opening the bulkhead door, he could see Canton's head and shoulders. He was well down in his seat, gazing ahead, his right hand resting lightly on the control column. Knowing that the man would probably be armed, Algy took, as he thought, no chances. It would have been a simple matter to hit the fellow on the back of the head and put him out of action with one blow; but, even though Canton was a potential murderer, if not an actual one, it took more callous toughness than he could muster to strike another pilot so foul a blow. He hoped, foolishly perhaps, and certainly ill-advisedly as things fell out, that Canton would surrender when he saw how matters stood.

  Taking out his automatic, he pressed the muzzle firmly between Canton's shoulder blades, and said tersely: "All right, Canton. The game's played out. Raise your hands and get out of that seat."

  His intention was, when Canton complied, to relieve him of the gun which he suspected he carried, and take over control. Canton did not comply. His body stiffened under the first shock of surprise, which must have been considerable; then, quite slowly, he looked back over his shoulder. For a brief moment their eyes met. Into Canton's dawned recognition. Then they clouded. "So that police Auster was yours?" he said. "I should have guessed it."