Biggles in the Underworld

by W E Johns

  ‘I reckoned he was coming here.’

  ‘That’s what I would have thought. He may have come here to the farm. He would have had time to do that and then go back to the club. Let’s suppose he came here. He must have intended to stay. He would hardly have come all this way had he known he was later going to the club. Why did he go back to London?’

  ‘Because of something that happened here.’

  ‘Good. That’s reasonable. There was somebody here, somebody who sent him back to London; somebody who drinks champagne. There’s something queer about that. It suggests this is no ordinary farm. I’d wager you could go, into thousands of farms in this country without finding a bottle of champagne put on the table for evening meal. But never mind that. It’s a detail. Let’s go on. We were saying Caine came here when he left his flat. Then, for some reason he went back to London. If it was his car we saw on the hill, then after leaving the club he must have come back here. This is where the time factor gets a bit tighter.’

  ‘But he could have done it.’

  ‘Yes, he could. All right. He came back. Then something must have happened to cause this mess. It’s not much use trying to guess what that was.’

  ‘But what about Bertie?’ questioned Ginger. ‘How does he fit into this? He must have been about, or his car wouldn’t still be here. That’s what worries me.’

  ‘It worries me, too. Of course, something may have happened to cause him to abandon his car and try to get home by some other method.’

  ‘In which case he’d have taken the first opportunity to get in touch. He may have done that by now.’

  ‘If the telephone in the living-room is still working we can soon settle that,’ Biggles said, returning to the living-room and picking up the instrument, indicating with a nod to Ginger that it was in order. There was no dial, so he gave the operator the number of the flat. Algy answered. Biggles put a straightforward question. Had there been any word of Bertie?

  The answer was ‘no’.

  Biggles went on. ‘Listen, Algy. I’m speaking from Twotrees Farm. We’ve found Bertie’s car, but no Bertie. There’s nobody here. Something’s happened. We don’t know what, but from the blood over everything it looks like murder. Get the Yard to check all hospitals within twenty miles of Winchester to find out if a badly injured man has been brought in; probably suffering from knife wounds. While you’re at it you might put out a general call to pick up a sports car, probably a Jaguar, with bloodstains on the floor. That’s all for now. I can’t say when we shall be back. We may be some time.’ Biggles hung up. ‘Now we’d better start looking for Bertie,’ he told Ginger in a brittle voice. ‘I’m not leaving here without him. I don’t think he can be far away.’

  They found the dog waiting outside the door. Biggles ordered it firmly into the house, pointing the way. The dog, after a moment’s hesitation, evidently having been taught obedience, obeyed, taking up what may have been its usual place. Biggles closed the door, shutting it in, and walked towards the nearest outbuildings. ‘We’d better not make a noise,’ he said. ‘There may be someone else not far away.’

  ‘You mean — the man responsible for the mess in the house?’

  ‘Of course.’

  There were not many buildings to search. They found nothing of interest in any one of them. As Biggles came out of a stable, having left Ginger on guard outside, Ginger laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Hold hard a minute,’ he said. ‘Stand still.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I could have sworn I heard voices.’

  They listened for a minute; then, hearing nothing, they walked on. They moved slowly, nerves alert. They came to the big barn.

  ‘There it is again,’ breathed Ginger.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It seemed to come from here.’ Ginger touched the hay.

  Biggles looked up at the towering mass. ‘That’s impossible. How could it?’

  Ginger shrugged. ‘Search me.’

  They made a complete circuit of the barn, returning to their original position without finding the solution to the mystery.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ Biggles said.

  ‘Listen.’

  Again, unmistakably, came the muffled murmur of human voices.

  Again looking up at the stack Biggles said: ‘There’s something phoney about this. I’m going to have a look. Give me a leg up. Hold this.’ He handed Ginger the torch.

  CHAPTER 7

  WHAT BECAME OF BERTIE

  For how long Bertie remained unconscious — stunned would perhaps be a better word — he had no means of knowing; but it could not have been for very long. He recovered his senses slowly, in darkness as black as the inside of a cave, and it took him some minutes to remember what had happened. Slowly it all came back. Only then did he realize where he was.

  It dawned on him that the haystack must be hollow; a dummy; and he had fallen into the middle of it. He had no idea of the time. He could see absolutely nothing. He had a petrol lighter in his pocket, but he was afraid to use it for fear of setting fire to the hay. He seemed to be half smothered by the stuff. In fact, his first really conscious sensation was of an overwhelming reek of hay. And not only hay. There were other, even more familiar, smells. Petrol. Oil. Aeroplane dope. Clearly there was an aircraft near at hand. He had been right when he thought he had caught a whiff of one when he was standing outside the barn.

  It did not take him long to ascertain that he was not seriously hurt. He had banged his head on something. He could feel a bump on his forehead, but it was not particularly painful. The skin was not broken.

  With some care, for the first movement made him a little giddy, he got to his feet and shook himself free from loose hay. He was careful because he was afraid of bringing more trusses down on top of him, perhaps enough to smother him. For, as he knew, a truss of hay is a fair weight. Cautiously he groped in the darkness. His hands came into contact with something solid. Or nearly solid. It was smooth, and had such a familiar feel about it that he thought he should know what it was. Then, as his hands followed it along, the penny dropped — as the saying is. It was the wing of an aeroplane; a wing folded back along the side of the fuselage.

  He drew a deep breath. So that was it. Being where it was, at the address Caine had given, the machine must be his. So he had told the truth after all, Bertie thought. He did own an aircraft. This was what Biggles had sent him to check. It was what he had been looking for. But why had it been so cunningly concealed? For that this was so was obvious. The barn had not been used merely as a hangar. It was a hiding-place. And a clever one. No one would suspect it was there. He would never have guessed it. There was something sinister about that. Caine had even had the nerve to tell Biggles where he lived, knowing that there was small chance of his suspecting there was a small plane on the premises.

  However, Bertie did not stand long pondering the matter. Now that he knew what he had been sent to find out, he decided, the thing was to get home with the information which, by a curious accident, the dog had put in his way. Had he not been forced to climb the haystack to escape its attentions, he would never have suspected the truth. Indeed, he would almost certainly have gone home with a false report, convinced that there was no aeroplane at the farm. All was now plain.

  The immediate problem was how to get out of the place. He felt for the inside of the wall of hay, for that was what it was, and found it. With only his sense of touch to guide him he groped his way round, hoping, and at first expecting, to find an exit, or some sort of device that would provide the necessary opening through the mass of hay. Then, of course, he remembered there wasn’t one, or he would have found it from the outside, when he had walked all round the barn. But that, he told himself, was ridiculous. If an aircraft had been brought in there must obviously be a way out. Moreover, as he realized now, there had been a man inside, recently. He had heard him cough. And drop something. Probably a tool. How did he get in and out? Whatever he had been doing he would not be working i
n the dark. There must be some sort of lighting, somewhere. Yet Bertie, to his chagrin, had earlier made a complete tour of the barn without finding anything like a door or a light. And now he knew he had been all round the walled-in space when he came to, and nearly fell over, the truss of hay that had deposited him where he was.

  He thought of trying to tear a way through the walls that hemmed him in. Hay was flimsy stuff, or so he thought until he discovered that when compressed, into trusses, with the weight of more trusses on top of it, it was anything but soft. He desisted when he realized he was in some danger of bringing tons of the stuff down on top of him. Again he felt for his petrol lighter to see what he was doing, but still he hesitated to flick it on, aware that one spark might set the place ablaze with him inside and no way out. To be burnt alive, as he most certainly would be, was not the way he would have chosen to make his exit from the world.

  He tried climbing up the wall of hay hoping to get out as he had come in; over the top. But the bales wobbled dangerously, apparently simply being balanced one on top of another, so that while the bands that held each truss as a single unit offered a handhold, there was an obvious risk of the entire wall collapsing on top of him, crushing or smothering him to death under its weight.

  The smell of the stuff, in the enclosed space, was suffocating as it was.

  What still puzzled him was this. How was the plane taken in and out? It seemed ridiculous to suppose that one end of the rick, or a complete side, was taken down every time the machine was needed, and rebuilt again afterwards. He felt sure there must be some arrangement to allow for this. Another point struck him. The engine would never be started inside the stack. No one but a madman would do that knowing that sparks or hot gas from the exhaust might set the place on fire. No. When it was required the plane would be manhandled out, probably to the big field, before the engine was switched on. One man alone would not be able to do that. At least two men would be necessary. Who were the men? Caine would be one, no doubt. And the other? The Sheikh? Why not? They had been seen together.

  Twice Bertie groped his way all round the inside of his strange prison without finding what he sought. There appeared to be no loose place, or an area that felt more flimsy than the rest; but again he was afraid to push too hard for fear of bringing the whole mass down on top of him. He could find no sort of latch. It began to look as if he would have to wait until daylight for release. The wall did not quite reach to the roof, as he had discovered when making his accidental entrance. When the sun came up a certain amount of daylight would penetrate over the top, enough to enable him to see what he was doing, he thought.

  True, this would mean a long and tiresome waste of time; but at least it was a safe way, he told himself. After all, he was in no desperate hurry. It wouldn’t really matter if he didn’t get back home until the following day. No doubt Biggles would wonder what had detained him, but that could be explained in due course. Oddly, perhaps, it did not occur to him that anyone might come into the place before morning.

  At all events, having decided what to do he felt his way to the nose of the machine and squatted on an undercarriage wheel. Many a time he had used an undercarriage wheel for a seat, but never in such peculiar circumstances as there, he reflected whimsically. Silence reigned.

  After a while, finding his position not as comfortable as he could have wished, he had a better idea. A seat in the cockpit promised an easier way of spending the night. Without much difficulty he changed his position and settled down to have a nap as the most agreeable way of passing the time.

  He was well on the way to doing this when he was brought to attention by the sound of running footsteps, close outside. Then came a noise. A fairly considerable noise, of brushing, as if the hay was being moved. This was outside his calculations and he sat up the better to see what was happening. A moment later he was nearly blinded when a light came on; a single but powerful electric bulb depending from above.

  The man who had switched it on stood there, breathing heavily, as if he had been running. How he had got in Bertie could not imagine. There was still no sign of a door, or an opening in the hay, although obviously there must have been one, if only small, or the man could not have got in. He walked up to the plane, with what object Bertie never knew, for when he came level with the cockpit, and stopped as if he intended to get in, inevitably he saw it was already occupied. Not surprisingly, his lips parted in astonishment. Bertie, on his part, as the light fell on the man’s face, recognized him instantly from the photograph Biggles had shown him.

  It was Nick the Sheikh.

  After groping for words for a moment the Sheikh burst out: ‘Who the hell are you and how did you get in here?’ In the circumstances it was a perfectly natural question.

  Bertie adjusted his monocle. ‘Matter of fact I fell in,’ he stated with a smile. ‘And having fallen in I couldn’t get out. Wherefore, I need hardly say, I’m delighted to see you. Where’s the door?’

  ‘What do you mean — you fell in?’ inquired the Sheikh tersely.

  ‘I was chased by a bally dog and shinned up what I took to be a haystack to save a lump being taken out of my leg. In the dark I went over the top and landed here. How was I to know the confounded stack was hollow?’

  ‘What were you doing when the dog found you?’ asked the Sheikh icily.

  ‘I was on my way to a house I could see,’ Bertie answered readily.

  ‘Why?’ snapped the Sheikh.

  ‘To ask if I could use the phone to get some help with my car, which had decided not to go any farther.’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘With pleasure,’ agreed Bertie. ‘I’ve been here quite long enough. I don’t think you have any cause to get upset. I haven’t done any damage as far as I know. Not that I could see much in the dark — if you get my meaning. If that bad-tempered hound belongs to you—’

  ‘Cut the cackle and get out.’

  ‘Okay, okay, I’m on my way.’ Bertie climbed down. He was not particularly alarmed, thinking he had this advantage. He knew the man, but the Sheikh did not know him, so could not suspect his real purpose in coming to the farm. Having got down, he turned to find himself looking into the muzzle of an automatic pistol.

  ‘Oh here, I say, what’s all this about?’ he protested.

  ‘You’ll find out.’

  ‘Be careful what you’re doing with that gun,’ Bertie said seriously. ‘It might go off, in which case it might start a bonfire of no small dimensions — with us inside it — if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Get over against the wall.’

  ‘Very well, if you say so,’ agreed Bertie who, being unarmed, was in no position to argue. He walked to the wall indicated, where the Sheikh tapped his pockets presumably to check that he did not carry a weapon.

  ‘Now let’s have the truth,’ said the Sheikh grimly. ‘Who sent you here and for what purpose?’

  Bertie feigned astonishment. ‘Sent me? I’ve told you—’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Why on earth should anyone send me round climbing haystacks on a night like this?’

  ‘Don’t argue with me,’ snarled the Sheikh. ‘Answer my question. Or else.’ With a quick movement he put the gun in his pocket and produced a razor, flicking open the blade, which he held a few inches from Bertie’s face. ‘Now talk,’ he said through his teeth.

  ‘What about?’ inquired Bertie.

  For an instant he thought he had gone too far, for the Sheikh’s face flushed with anger and it looked as if he was really going to strike. ‘Talk,’ he hissed. ‘You can’t fool me. Who sent you here? Quick, or by the time I’ve finished with you your own mother won’t know you.’

  Bertie perceived he was in a tight spot and it may have sharpened his wits. He had an idea; one that would give the man confronting him something to think about and in that way delay the final issue. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘If you must know it was a fellow named Caine.’ Which, indirectly, was true.

  The Sheik
h stared. He looked amazed. ‘Caine told you to come here?’ he exclaimed incredulously.

  ‘Well, he didn’t exactly tell me,’ Bertie admitted. ‘He gave me a sort of open invitation to look in if ever I was this way. He said he lived at a place called Twotrees Farm, so seeing the trees I thought this must be it.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘If I’m lying how did I know he lived here — assuming he does?’

  ‘Where did you meet Caine?’

  ‘At a club in London. A place called the Icarian. You may have heard of it. Anything else you want to know?’

  ‘I’ve never seen you there.’

  ‘I’ve never seen you there, if it comes to that.’

  ‘Don’t try getting smart with me,’ grated the Sheikh viciously, holding up the razor as if he really intended to strike.

  How the clash would have ended is a matter for surmise, but at this critical juncture there came an interruption. A voice spoke; a voice hard and brittle with authority. ‘Stand back, Lazor, or I’ll drop you cold!’

  Bertie recognized Biggles’ voice. His eyes turned up in the direction whence it came and he saw Biggles’ face, on top of the hay, looking down at them. The Sheikh looked up, too. There was a moment of frozen silence, without movement, like a motion picture that has been cut. Then it sprang to life.

  Biggles came sliding down the inside of the wall to land on the truss that had been the cause of Bertie’s downfall. He fell, but was on his feet again in an instant. Quick as he had been, the Sheikh had moved as fast. He darted to the spot at which he had entered the place. Just what he did there Bertie could not see, but an aperture appeared; a small doorway; apparently an accommodation door, it was nothing like large enough to allow the plane to go through. He did not stop to close it, but after firing a random shot from his gun, sending a stream of sparks in the general direction of Bertie, he disappeared into the outer darkness.