by W E Johns
The order was obeyed and an attentive silence fell.
Time passed. So slowly as to be almost imperceptible the grey mysterious light of dawn crept through the ancient loopholes.
There was nothing to eat, nothing to do, after one of the men with what seemed an unnecessary amount of noise pulled up a bucket of water from the well.
After a while von Stalhein said “Excuse me, Bigglesworth; what are we waiting for?”
“For nothing in particular. There is a chance that the Kurds may go. There is a remote chance that we may be relieved. Should either of those things happen, if we are alive we shall profit. If we’ve thrown away our lives uselessly we shall not.”
“Relieved? By whom?”
“Two friends of mine. You know them. They know roughly where we are. By some means or other they will get here. On that you may rely. The only matter in doubt is when they will get here.”
“Surely the matter for doubt is what they will do when they come.”
“That, I’m afraid, we must leave to them.”
There was another interval of silence.
It was broken, first, by wild cries on the hillside, and then, a moment or two later, by the drone of aircraft.
“Here comes Algy,” said Ginger, striving to remain calm.
“If it is he, then he is not alone, for I can see six machines,” announced von Stalhein from the doorway.
The drone became a roar as the machines came on, and could presently be identified as Harts2 of the Iraqui Air Force. Curiously, perhaps, no one appeared to guess their purpose; at any rate it was not remarked. Ginger had just decided that it was only a routine patrol when there came the scream of falling bombs, and a few seconds later the sticks were throwing up clouds of sand and broken rock. Then the air vibrated as the machines broke formation, and diving, weaved over the landing ground and the surrounding hillsides. Machine-guns chattered.
Occasionally through the dust Ginger could see Kurds galloping towards the shelter of their mountains.
“Your friends seem to have gone to quite a lot of trouble,” said von Stalhein.
“Whether they were responsible or not, someone is making quite a spot of trouble for our enemies,” returned Biggles. “Ah! Here comes that old Dragon. That explains it. I think we had better stay where we are for a little while.”
They watched while the Harts recovered formation and stood away to the west. The Dragon landed. Then, into the Valley, slowly, rolled three armoured cars.
“That seems to be all,” said Biggles. “Let’s go down.”
“May I have your orders please?” requested von Stalhein, as coldly emotionless as ever.
“Oh, you’d better come with us,” answered Biggles casually. “Our friends may have some cigarettes. I’m sure you can do with some. Anyway, I can.”
Keeping a watchful eye open for snipers they marched out of the castle and on to the landing ground.
Long before they reached the Dragon, Ginger had recognized not only Algy, Bertie, and Marcel, but, to his unbounded amazement, Air-Commodore Raymond.
“Quite a family reunion,” observed Biggles whimsically. “As they say, wonders will never cease.”
If Ginger was astonished to see the Air-Commodore it was no more than that of the others when they saw von Stalhein, as their expressions made apparent. Ginger realized, of course, that the rescue party didn’t expect to find any of them alive; as in fact they were saying a few minutes later.
The Air-Commodore’s face when Biggles introduced von Stalhein was a study. “You’ve heard of this gentleman, sir, but I don’t think you’ve ever actually met,” said Biggles, deadly serious.
“Yes... I mean no,” said the Air-Commodore, in a curious voice.
Biggles winked at Algy as von Stalhein clicked his heels and bowed stiffly from the waist.
“War certainly makes strange bedfellows,” averred the Air-Commodore, in a voice heavy with wonder. “I don’t know why you aren’t all dead. You can tell me later.”
“Things were a bit sticky at times,” admitted Biggles. “And the deuce of it was we hadn’t a cigarette between us. Can anyone oblige?”
The Air-Commodore pulled out his case. After Biggles had taken a cigarette the Air-Commodore offered the case to von Stalhein with the remark: “This is something I never expected to do.”
“And this, sir,” answered von Stalhein without a smile as he took a cigarette, “is something I never expected to do.”
“I think we’d better get along to Baghdad,” stated the Air-Commodore. “There will be a lot of explaining to be done.”
* * *
1 A dry waterbed.
2 Hawker Hart. A biplane 2-seater light bomber, armed with two machine guns.
CHAPTER XVII
AFTERMATH
So ended a case which provided Biggles and his comrades with material for argument and conjecture for many days to come. The war-mongering racket had been wiped out completely, but who had been responsible for it? To Marcel undoubtedly went the credit for realizing what was going on, but who had broken up the gang? A case could be made for several people—Biggles, Algy, Lindsay and even the Kurds. Biggles took the view that with the death of Klutz, the chief organizer, the thing would have gone to pieces anyway. Klein, the commander of the secret squadron, by his own folly had contributed largely to the breakup. Had he done his job properly the Kurds could not have done what they did. But, as Biggles said, there is always a weak link in a chain as long as the one organized by the Committee of Three. Had the French Air Force not been on guard when Voss had tried to steal a machine things would have fallen out very differently. And so the argument could be carried on indefinitely. All that really mattered was the war-makers syndicate was finished. With the death of the ringleaders the rank and file would inevitably break up when no more pay was forthcoming.
The Air-Commodore’s explanation of the final phase was simple. When the Dragon had arrived over the Valley, and those in it had seen what was happening below, they had concluded, naturally, that every white man had been massacred. The machine had gone to Mosul, where the Air-Commodore had reported the raid, withholding his own particular interest.
The Iraqui Government, it transpired, knew there were people in the Valley of the Tartars, but was under the impression that they were prospecting for oil. Indeed, Klutz had obtained a concession for that purpose. Anyway, officials at Mosul had reported the raid to Baghdad, with the result that a punitive force had been sent out. This sort of thing, to them, was nothing new. They did not know, and may not know to this day, what was actually going on in the Valley. The Air-Commodore, maintaining his policy of silence, did not enlighten them, seeing no reason to do so now that the gang no longer existed. He, with the others, had returned to the Valley for no other purpose than to find and bury the bodies of Biggles and Ginger, not for a moment supposing they were still alive.
The Dragon finished its day’s work at Baghdad, and there, at the Maude Hotel, arose the question of the disposal of von Stalhein and the surviving members of the Valley establishment. After some discussion with Biggles the Air-Commodore decided that there was no case against them. It was useless to surmise what von Stalhein would have done had he been given time and opportunity; the fact was, he had joined the gang just in time to witness its dissolution.
As for the others, what could be done with them? There was no evidence against them likely to impress a court of law, and they were not likely to provide it. All that would happen, if they were charged with anything, would be the exposure of the whole unsavoury business. That did not suit the Air-Commodore, who, still fearing political repercussions, thought it better to let sleeping dogs—and dead dogs—lie. So the men were allowed to go free, Marcel warning them that if ever they set foot on French soil they would be arrested as deserters from the Foreign Legion. He could not, of course, arrest them on foreign soil, and it was hardly worth while going through the long and difficult process of extradition. So statements, not t
o be used as evidence against them, were taken, and the men allowed to go. These statements were in due course filed with the reports of Biggles and the Air-Commodore.
Raban and Voudron, who were under arrest in French North Africa, were not so lucky. They were tried, and sent to prison, one for inducing legionnaires to desert, and the other for aiding and abetting him. The Villa Mimosa is now empty.
It may as well be said here that the murders in the Hotel Continentale were never regarded by the Egyptian police as anything but the work of an ordinary thief. What ultimately happened to the man responsible, Lindsay, was not known, for when the Scotland Yard party got back to London he had vanished. They never saw him, or heard of him, again.
Perhaps the most curious feature of the whole extraordinary finale, at any rate to Ginger, concerned von Stalhein. In spite of all that was known of his sinister activities and associations there was no case against him, either, for the simple reason that nothing could be proved. When Biggles asked him, as a matter of formality, what he intended to do, he replied, coldly, that he had the matter under consideration. Asked if they could give him a lift to Egypt, where they were going to return the Dragon to its owners, he said he was quite capable of taking care of himself. Was he free to go? he enquired. Biggles said yes. Whereupon he clicked his heels, bowed, turned abruptly and marched out of the hotel to mingle with the motley brown-skinned crowd taking the air after the heat of the day.
“A strange man.” remarked the Air-Commodore. “I wonder what he’ll do?”
“Oh, he’ll find some mischief somewhere no doubt,” replied Biggles. “It seems to be one of the things he does really well.”
“He’s had a lot of practice.”
“He also seems to be as good at getting out of scrapes—”
“As you do,” murmured the Air-Commodore, succinctly.
Today, in Biggles’s private museum, there is a souvenir of this strange affair. It is a small buttonhole badge, and the device is an Oriental Lamp—the one, as Ginger says, they helped to put out.
THE END
