Biggles In The Cruise Of The Condor (02)

by Captain W E Johns

  "Do you mind if I come with you?"

  "Not a bit. Come by all means, although I'm hanged if I can see any way of getting your uncle out. If I can be of any help--"

  "You've taken enough risks already," interrupted Biggles. "Is there any chance of bribing the guards, do you think?"

  "Not a hope. I've tried that already. They're willing enough to accept money, but they're scared stiff of da Silva. If your uncle got away, they'd be for the high jump—and they know it. No, I'm afraid it's force or nothing."

  "Force it is, then," replied Biggles shortly. "Come on, Smyth, I may need some help. Algy, you stand by for a quick move."

  He dived into the cabin and emerged with two

  revolvers and a steel mooring-spike. "Take this, Smyth," he said, handing the mechanic one of the revolvers, "but don't use it unless you have to, and then use the butt for preference. If we kill somebody, the fat will be in the fire with a vengeance. All set? Off we go then. Cheerio, Algy."

  A brief handshake and they had climbed aboard the old Ford and were on their way back to Manaos.

  CHAPTER VI

  ESCAPE

  "JusT what do you think you are going to do when you get into the town?" asked Carter as the lights of Manaos shone through the trees ahead.

  "I haven't the faintest idea, and that's a fact," admitted Biggles reluctantly. "I'm not even trying to make a plan until I've seen the layout of the place where they've locked my uncle up."

  "Well, I'd better drop you here, I think," continued the agent, slowing up. "They haven't seen you yet—at least, not at close quarters—so they don't know you, which is all to your advantage; but if they see us together they'll form a shrewd idea who you are, and you'll be a marked man."

  "Good enough," replied Biggles. "That sounds wise to me. We don't want to involve you in trouble, anyway. How do you get to this place—this Stretta something-or-other?"

  "Fontana. Go straight down the avenue which is a continuation of this track, take the third turning on the right, and it's about a hundred yards down on the left. You can't miss it; there's a gendarme on duty at the door."

  "How many guards have they inside, do you think?"

  "To tell you the truth, I don't know; probably not more than two or three. As you go in through the door there is an office on the right where the chief officer sits. There's a short corridor leading straight ahead, and the cells are at the end, facing you, at right angles to it. The doors are open, grille-like affairs, like the American prisons," concluded Carter.

  "I see," answered Biggles, climbing out of the car. "Just a minute before you go." He stooped and groped

  around the axle of the car until his hand was covered with thick black oil, which he smeared over his face. "You'd better do the same, Smyth," he advised; "we shan't be quite so conspicuous if our faces are a little less white. Well, goodbye, Mr. Carter, in case we don't see you again," he went on, turning to the agent. "Many thanks for all you'

  ve done. I'll see that my uncle knows about it."

  With a parting wave, he set off with Smyth up the long avenue that opened in front of them. They took the third turning, as directed, passed the cathedral, and pulled up opposite a low building in front of which two gendarmes were idly talking and smoking.

  "Well, there it is," muttered Biggles half to himself, taking a careful look around to mark his bearings. It' was still early, and most of the shops on either side of the street were still lighted. "This would be easier if we could speak the language," he went on quietly. "We had better try and locate the river first, to get a line of retreat in case we have to bolt. We don't want to trail all the way back by that infernal forest track. A boat would be easier. The river should be down here somewhere—yes, here it is," he continued, as the moonlit river came into view.

  There were plenty of small boats by the water's edge, and there appeared to be no obstacle in the way of purloining one. After a cautious look around, Biggles picked out a canoe, and having satisfied himself that there were paddles in it, he moved it a few yards nearer the water. "That's the one," he said quietly.

  "If we get separated, make for here. Come on, let's get back." Again Biggles regarded' the jail from the opposite side of the road. "If I could speak their beastly language I should try bribing the guards; I've plenty of money on me," muttered Biggles.

  "Well, as we can't, that isn't much use," observed Smyth shortly.

  "You don't often speak, but when you do you say something," grinned Biggles. "Stand fast while I have a closer look."

  He walked on a few yards, crossed the road, and then strolled slowly back past the jail. It was a wretched, dilapidated-looking place, like most of the other buildings in the vicinity, and built of adobe, or mud bricks. Through a small window he could see the chief gendarme at his desk, exactly as Carter had described. He retraced his footsteps, and joined Smyth on the opposite side of the road again.

  "If we could get everybody out of the building for a couple of minutes it would be simple," he mused, "but how to do it—that's the question.'

  They strolled a few yards farther on, and suddenly Biggles paused in his stride and nudged Smyth in the ribs. Just beyond the jail was an open yard filled with wooden cases and several piles of dried palm fronds, which were evidently used as packing for the stacks of adobe bricks that stood at the far end of the yard. Biggles eyed it reflectively, and then, followed by Smyth, crossed over to it. A flimsy fence with a gate, which they quickly ascertained was locked, separated the yard from the road. He turned as a car pulled up a short distance away and a man alighted, lit a cigarette, and then disappeared into a private house. Biggles strolled idly towards the car, his eyes running over it swiftly. It was a Ford, and he noted the spare tin of petrol fastened to the running-board.

  "I want that tin," he hissed. "Get it off while I stand in front to hide you as much as I can." It was the work of a moment for Smyth to unscrew the butterfly bolts that held the tin in place.

  "Good. This way," whispered Biggles, and led the way back to the yard. He looked quickly up and down the road. There were one or two pedestrians about, but no one was taking the slightest notice of them. With his jack-knife Biggles unscrewed the metal cap of the petrol-tin and then tossed the whole thing on to the nearest heap of palm fronds. Leaning against the gate, they could hear the steady gurgle of the liquid as it gushed out.

  "So far so good," he muttered softly. "Now, Smyth, when we move we've got to make it snappy. Speed is everything." He turned and looked again at the car, which was still standing by the kerb.

  wonder," he mused. "I wonder. It would make a good job of the thing," he went on, half to himself. "Did you bring your nerve with you, Smyth?" The old flight-sergeant chuckled. "Never left it behind yet, sir," he smiled.

  "Have you got enough to drive that car slap through this gate? I want to make a noise, a real bang, the bigger the better. Drive the car straight up the road on the other side, then swerve right across straight through the gate. It's only thin, and will go to pieces like match-wood, so you shouldn't get hurt; I wouldn't suggest it if there was any chance of that. Have a box of matches in your hand, and when you hit that bunch of palm-leaves strike one and set the whole works on fire. Then let out a good yell or two and bolt for the canoe. Wait for me there. Have you got that?"

  Smyth nodded. "I have, sir," he grinned delightedly. "I've wanted to do something like that all my life."

  "Well, now's your chance," retorted Biggles brightly. "Go to it." He turned on his heel and walked away without another word. Outside the jail he stopped and leaned against a tall palm, as if in contemplation of the starry sky. A couple of yards away a single gendarme squatted on the step in front of the open doors of the jail, and, except for a faint breeze which rustled the leathery palm-tops, all was quiet. One by one the lights in the shops were going out; a few wayfarers were meandering slowly, after the fashion of the tropics, along the street.

  Biggles heard a car start up not far away and braced himself f
or what was to follow, feeling for the mooringpin under his coat. He heard the car coming nearer and a clash of gears as the driver made a bad change. There was a sudden shout of alarm, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the gendarme spring to his feet. Then came a screeching of skidding wheels and even Biggles, who knew what was coming, was utterly unprepared for the crash that followed. In the sultry calrn of the tropic night it sounded like the end of the world. For a fleeting instant there was silence, a silence in which Biggles stood rooted to the ground, too stunned to move. Then a long, piercing yell rent the air.

  Biggles turned pale. "Strewth," he whispered, "he must have killed himself." But there was no time for idle speculation. Pandemonium broke loose. Windows were flung open, dogs barked, doors banged, and there was a great noise of shouting and running feet. A lurid glow, quickly increasing in intensity, illuminated the scene in a ghastly glare. The gendarme who had been on duty had disappeared at a run at the first crash, and now three or four others, some hatless and others coatless, bundled out of the door and dashed towards the scene of ruin, on which a crowd was now converging in a babble of wild excitement. Biggles waited for no more. He swung round on his heel and darted towards the open door, almost colliding with the chief gendarme on the steps. But the official was too taken up with the unusual occurrence even to notice him. With the mooring-spike in his hand, Biggles sprinted down the corridor towards what looked like a row of cages and from which came an excited chatter.

  "Dickpa!" he shouted. "Where are you?"

  "Here."

  Biggles leapt towards the iron grille through which Dickpa was peering and dancing with excitement.

  "Take it steady," said Biggles, as cold as ice now the actual action was in progress. Inserting his spike between the grille and the wall, and using the latter as a fulcrum for his lever, he flung his weight behind the instrument.

  "Look out!" yelled Dickpa.

  Biggles ducked as he turned. Something swished through the air over his head; it was a truncheon wielded by a gigantic negro policeman. Had the blow, struck with all the power of the negro's arm, reached its mark, Biggles's part in the affair would have ended forthwith. As it was, however, the blow spent itself on empty air; the negro overbalanced from his own impetus, stumbled, and then pitched headlong over the foot that Biggles had flung out to trip him. The pilot was on him in a flash. His spike descended in a short, gleaming arc that landed on the back of the fallen man's skull. Turning, he whipped out his revolver and thrust it through the bars into Dickpa's hands.

  "Use that if you have to," he said grimly. "We might as well be hung for sheep as lambs." He thrust the spike through the bars again and flung his weight on it. The wall crumbled for a moment, and then, with a crash, the lock tore itself through the dry clay wall and the door flew open. "Come on," was all he said, and, heedless of the yells and groans from the other prisoners, he raced towards the door with Dickpa at his heels. As he reached it, he paused for an instant aghast at the scene that met his eyes. The street was packed solid with people watching the roaring conflagration that seemed to reach half-way to the sky. "Strewth," he gasped, "I've heard of people setting a town alight, but we seem to have done it. Come on; hang on to my coat; if we lose each other we're sunk. Keep your face down or someone may recognise you."

  Jostling, pushing, and snarling, they forced their way through the throng and hurried towards the river. A shrill whistle split the air from the direction of the jail.

  "They've missed you," muttered Biggles grimly. "No matter; we shall take some catching now."

  "Where are you making for?" gasped Dickpa.

  "The river," replied Biggles tersely. "Follow me, and don't talk," he added, with an excusable lack of respect. "Here we are," he went on, as they reached the rendezvous. " Hullo!" He pulled up with a jerk. The boat had gone.

  "Here you are, sir," called a voice from the darkness a few yards ahead.

  "Good man, Smyth," cried Biggles, as he saw the faint outline of the mechanic in the canoe, already on the water. "In you go, Dickpa."

  Obediently Dickpa stepped aboard, and settled himself on the floor with a sigh of relief.

  "Where's the machine?" he asked calmly.

  "A bit lower down the river—Algy is in charge." "Good." Biggles picked up a paddle, and with a quick shove sent the canoe far out into the stream.

  "Straight ahead, Smyth," he muttered as he drove his paddle into the water. "I don't think there is any immediate cause for alarm, but the sooner we get to the machine the better. They won't know which way we've gone, that's one good thing." Ten minutes' brisk paddling brought them to the creek, where the amphibian glowed dully white in the moonlight.

  "Algy, ahoy!" hailed Biggles.

  "Got him?" came Algy's voice over the water. "Yes, we're all here," cried Dickpa gaily.

  "Fine," answered Algy, with intense satisfaction.

  They climbed aboard and kicked the boat adrift.

  "What's the next move?" asked Dickpa, with some concern. "They'll hunt the river upstream and downstream before morning looking for us."

  "Well, I'm not going to take off before dawn unless I'm compelled to," replied Biggles. " We'll cut loose and drift out into midstream—from there we shall see anyone coming as soon as they see us. We shall have to take it in turns to keep watch. Let her go, Algy."

  CHAPTER VII

  THE FALLS

  THE RAYS of the rising sun were tingeing the tree-tops with gold and orange as the amphibian, with her engines purring like a well-oiled sewing-machine, swung round in a circle to face the stream in readiness for a takeoff.

  "It's about time we went," muttered Biggles to Dickpa, who sat beside him in order to act as guide, and nodded towards a distant bend of the river, around which a launch came into view, two feathers of spray flying back from her bows betraying the urgency of her mission, which was made still more apparent by a group of uniformed men crowding near the bows. "Well, boys, it's too bad, but you're just too late," he murmured with mock sympathy as he opened the throttles.

  The purr of the engines rose to a deep, vibrating roar that sent a cloud of macaws wheeling and screeching into the air from the trees on the bank. The Condor moved forward with swiftly increasing speed, and, after a quick glance at the instrument-board to make sure the engines were giving their full revolutions, the pilot drew the joystick back towards his safety-belt. The amphibian left the water like a gull and rose gracefully into the air.

  Slowly the tropic sun swung upwards into a sky no longer turquoise, but hard steely blue. Its rays struck full upon the polished hull of the amphibian and flashed from time to time in glittering points of light in the eyes of the pilot as he moved his head to scan the savage panorama below. Manaos, shining whitely, soon lay far astern For two hours they cruised steadily westwards, following the winding river that wound like a silver snake to the far horizon. From time to time they passed over places where the river assumed a milky whiteness, and Biggles hardly needed Dickpa to tell him that such stretches indicated foaming rapids where the water hurled itself over boulders as it dropped swiftly to the lower level. Occasionally the river disappeared under filmy clouds of spray where it dropped over gigantic falls into boiling whirlpools below. On each side lay the vast, untrodden, primeval forest, dark and forbidding, hiding the earth under an impenetrable canopy of mystery. Biggles, as he watched it, could not help reflecting on the strange fascination that urged men like Dickpa to leave home, comfort, and security to face its hidden terrors.

  He was aroused from his reverie by a light touch on the arm, and turned sharply to find Dickpa pointing at something ahead upon which he had riveted his gaze. Following the outstretched finger, he saw a wide tributary branching away to the south, and with a sharp inclination of his thumb Dickpa indicated that he was to follow it. In spite of his coolness, Biggles felt a thrill of excitement run through him. Before them, not far away, lay something which a thousand men had sought in vain, and presently, all being well, it would be hi
s good fortune to see it. Treasure! The very word, charged with the romance of ages, was sufficient to bring a sparkle to the eyes. Obediently he swung round in a gentle bank to follow the new river. For another halfhour he flew on, once exchanging a grim smile with Dickpa as they passed a foaming cascade. The forest on each side began to give way slowly to more open country, and presently they could see vast stretches of rolling prairie spreading into the far distance. Biggles suddenly caught his breath as_ the note of

  the engines changed. It was slight, so slight that only a pilot or an engineer would have noticed it; he did not move a muscle, but listened intently to the almost imperceptible hesitation in the regular rhythm. Then, without further warning, one of the engines cut out dead. Before the whirling propeller had run to a standstill Biggles had pushed his joystick forward and was going down in a long, gentle glide towards the river, eyes searching swiftly for the best landing-place.

  After the first start of surprise when the engine had so unexpectedly stopped, Dickpa remained perfectly still, watching the pilot for any signal he might make. Once, as Biggles glanced in his direction, his lip s formed the word "parachute," but the pilot shook his head severely. The details of the river grew clearer. A long straight reach lay before them, and Biggles, losing height steadily, headed the amphibian towards it. With his lips set in a straight line, he glued his eyes on the water for signs of rocks or other obstructions which might Tip the bottom out of the delicate hull, but he relaxed with relief when he saw all was clear.

  Swish . . . swish . . . swish . . . sang the keel, as it kissed the placid water, and a moment later it had settled down as it ran to a stop in the middle of the stream.

  "Confound it!" snapped Biggles irritably, his voice sounding strangely unnatural in the silence.

  "What is it, do you think—anything serious?" asked Dickpa anxiously.

  "No, I shouldn't think so," replied Biggles.