Biggles and the Black Raider

by Capt. W. E. Johns

  "The airport manager suggested that I came over and had a word with you," he began. "He said you'd been here for some time and thought there was just a chance that you might be able to help me."

  "How can we do that?" enquired Biggles.

  "Well." The Scot smiled a trifle sheepishly. "It may sound silly to you but I've lost my father." I'm looking for him. He is Dr. Allan, of the Horticultural College, the well-known botanist."

  "Go ahead," invited Biggles, smiling. "I haven't noticed any odd fathers knocking about. Where did you lose yours?"

  "It's like this," explained Allan. "About six months ago my father decided to make a trip to Mount Ruwenzori to look for some rare plants that are known, to exist there. He told me he would not be away for more than four months. In any case, he promised to be back for my twenty-first birthday, which occurred seven weeks ago. My father is a man who keeps his word, and when he didn't turn up I began to get worried. I gave it another week and then asked the authorities in London to make inquiries. I got their report a fortnight –ago. It wasn't very satisfactory, although I realised there was little they could do; and, after all, it isn't their affair. All they know is, father, with plenty of native porters, started off for Ruwenzori, sometimes known as the Mountain of the Moon. Half-way up the mountain the porters packed up. They said they couldn't stand the cold and refused to go farther. Not having much in the way of clothes that fair enough, if that was how they felt about it. They turned back and my father went on alone."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Some of the porters, who returned to their village, have been interviewed. They made no bones about it. My father paid them off. He was in good health when they last saw him, preparing to go on to the top. I'm sure now that something must have happened to

  him. He may have fallen sick, or had an accident. Anyway, I decided to go and look for him. I couldn't just sit at home doing nothing. So I bought an old Puss Moth and came out. I understand that Ruwenzori covers an area sixty-five miles by thirty, so there didn't seem much point in wandering about on foot."'

  "We have done quite a bit of flying over the lower slopes Ruwenzori," answered Biggles. "We didn't go over the top, of course, having no reason to. But we've made several-flights round the lower part. We haven't seen anything looking like a white man."

  "I made a crash landing at six thousand feet and had to walk down," put in Ginger with a wan smile.

  "Oh well. Thanks very much. If you do see anything you might let me know. I shall be about."

  "Watch the weather," advised Biggles. "The rainy season may break at any time. We've had one storm."

  "I'll be careful," promised the pilot cheerfully.

  "Come over at about four and have a cup of tea with us?" invited Biggles.

  "Thanks a lot," acknowledged Allan. "I'll be along. I'll go and give my machine a look over, although I had no trouble on the way out. See you later." He went off.

  "We might .ask him to keep an eye open for the Elephant, while he's cruising around," suggested Algy, as they strolled to the bungalow.

  "I'll tell him to keep clear, if he does see him, too." stated Biggles.

  Curiously, perhaps, it did not occur to any of them that Allan would make a reconnaissance the same day. They assumed, perhaps; that after his long run out from England he would have at least one day's rest before pressing on with his quest. It was with some surprise, therefore that, shortly after lunch, they heard the Puss Moth take off, and going to the door saw the machine heading west.

  "He's not wasting any time," observed- Algy.

  Biggles frowned. "Had I thought he was likely to do a show today I'd have warned him to keep plenty of altitude," he said. "I've already had a bullet through a wing."

  "Not much chance of anyone doing any damage with a single shot," put in Ginger, casually.

  "That odd chance sometimes comes off," remarked Biggles seriously. "I don't believe in taking unnecessary risks, however remote. I remember, years ago, when, Sir Alan Cobham was flying down the Tigris, a single bullet from an Arab on the ground killed Elliot, his navigator stone dead. The machine was flying at four thousand feet at the time, speaking from memory. Micky Mannock, the top ace of the first war, was also killed by a single bullet from the ground. So it can happen."

  Nothing more was said on the subject.

  Lunch over, Biggles and Ginger went out in the Proctor to reconnoitre the country between Lakes Edward and Albert. In the air, Biggles averred, there was always a possibility of picking up a clue. They would learn nothing at the airfield. However, they failed to find anything, and a little after four they returned for tea.

  As they taxied in, Ginger remarked that he couldn't see the Puss Moth.

  "Probably put it under cover for the night," surmised Biggles.

  But when they got to the bungalow and were informed by Algy and Bertie that the Moth had not returned, Biggles looked concerned. "Unless it's on the ground somewhere it must be getting short of petrol," he said.

  "Allan was to be here at four o'clock for tea," reminded Algy. "I should have thought he'd be here by now."

  "We'll give him a bit longer," said Biggles.

  Half an hour passed. Biggles got up. "That lad's on the carpet somewhere," he declared. "We'd better go and look for him. Algy, take Bertie with you in the Mosquito and cover the ground south of Ruwenzori—the sides of the mountain, I mean. I'll take Ginger in the Proctor and work to the north. Keep in touch and let me know if you see him."

  The two machines took off, but soon parted company, the Mosquito bearing southward and the Proctor edging north. Biggles flew the Proctor, watching the sky, while Ginger made a methodical search of the ground. They failed to find what they were looking for. Biggles quartered the ground for an hour, and then, with the sun nearly down to the horizon, turned for home. "Tell Algy to pack up," he said. "It'll be dark presently."

  Ginger continued to watch the ground, and his perseverance was rewarded. "There he is!" he cried.

  "Where?"

  Ginger pointed to where the Puss Moth stood, on even keel, well out on the open plain some distance to the north of their line of flight on the outward journey. The reflection of the setting sun on the wing revealed its position; otherwise it might easily have been missed.

  "Give Algy the okay," ordered Biggles. "Tell him to go straight home."

  He stood towards the grounded machine, losing he height, and was soon circling over it. There was no sign of the pilot anywhere.

  "He managed to get down," observed Biggles. "I can’t see anything wrong. Must have had engine trouble. Don’t tell me the silly fellow is trying to walk home."

  "I can't think he'd do that," returned Ginger. "He’d know we, or someone, would come out to look for when he didn't show up."

  "True enough," agreed Biggles, continuing to circle. "Funny business. Where could he have gone? From the direction his nose is pointing he was on his way home when he went down." Presently Biggles continued in a different tone of voice. "Is it my imagination or does that look like someone sitting in the cockpit? Watch." With his wheels skimming the ground he cruised past the Moth's nose.

  "Yes—it does—look like somebody," said Ginger, conscious suddenly of a dryness in the mouth.

  "I'm going down," said Biggles briefly.

  He put the Proctor on the ground and taxied on to Moth. There was still no movement. They both jumped down, and without speaking hurried forward. Biggles opened the cabin door and stood rigid. Ginger, too, stopped. Neither spoke.

  Allan was sitting in his seat. His safety belt was fastened. But one glance at the waxen face told Ginger the worst. "He's dead," he breathed.

  Biggles did not answer. His eyes roved the cockpit. He stepped back and looked quickly round the landscape.

  "Snake-bite," suggested Ginger, in a whisper.

  "No. He wouldn't be sitting like that if a snake had bitten him."

  Biggles's face was pale and grim as he returned to the cockpit. Reaching forward, h
e touched something on the ground. The hand that he withdrew, and showed to Ginger, was red. He investigated further. "Bullet. Came at an angle through the bottom of the fuselage," he announced, in a brittle voice.

  "The Elephant!

  "Wouldn't be anybody else."

  "We should have warned him."

  "No use talking about that now. We weren't to know at he was going to do. What brutal luck! He must have been cruising very low over the bamboos. Naturally, after what has happened, the Elephant would think it was us. He'd shoot at any machine in range. A thousand to one chance came off, and it was Allan's bad luck to stop one."

  "It didn’t pull him down right away."

  "No. He turned for home. This is as far as he got. Queer how a fellow, mortally wounded, will so often last long enough to get his wheels on the ground—and make a good landing, at that. I've seen it done more than once."

  Ginger shook his head. He couldn't trust himself to speak. He felt stunned. It seemed impossible that Allan, full of life so short a while before, was dead.

  "We'll get him home," said Biggles quietly. "You go on in the Proctor and tell them I'm coming. I'll fly the Puss. There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with it but I'd better have a look round."

  They found a bullet-hole in the wing, and another in the tail plane, but neither was likely to affect the machine.

  "My guess, for what it is worth, is this," said Biggles. He was flying low, and saw something—some of the Elephant's men in the open perhaps. He went right down for close look and the whole bunch let drive at him. He wouldn't be expecting anything like that, of course. Well, it’s another notch on the Elephant's tally. We'll cut a notch or two, I hope, before we finish. All right. Get cracking. I'll handle this. Tell the Station Manager what’s on the way and ask him to have an ambulance standing by."

  "Right," said Ginger, and turned away, feeling that in him a new resolve had been born. He couldn't bring the dead man back to life; but he could, and hoped, fervently that he would make the murderer pay.

  It was twilight when he landed. Algy and Bertie were waiting.

  "What's happened?" asked Algy quickly, looking at Ginger's face.

  "Allan's had it," answered Ginger simply. "Shot from the ground. Biggles is bringing him in, in the Puss."

  Algy stared. "Dead! Shot from the ground? That means—the Elephant— ?"

  "Biggles thinks so. Let's go and tell the Station Manager."

  Bruce Allan was buried the next day, the funeral being attended by everyone on the airfield. Biggles made a statement to the police, which was corroborated by Ginger. The Puss Moth was put in a hangar to await instructions about its disposal. There the matter ended, officially. But there was no laughing in the bungalow that evening.

  It may be said here that the mystery of Dr. Allan, F.R.H.S. was never solved. He never returned to civilisation, and a search party sent out later failed to discover a single clue. So Africa added two more to its long line of tragedies.

  CHAPTER 9 WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

  IT was a grim and subdued party that assembled on the day following the funeral of the young pilot who, in seeking his father, had lost his own life. Nerves were on edge, with the result that little was said until, breakfast over, Biggles produced a map and opened it on the table.

  "What's that?" asked Ginger.

  "What does it look like?"

  "A map."

  "Good. As a matter of fact it's Bruce Allan's map," explained Biggles. "I found it on the floor of his machine. I thought it was of no use to anyone except us so I kept it."

  "You think it might help us in this Elephant business?" enquired Algy.

  "It might. Allan was apparently a methodical chap and had given his job some thought. He must have decided that it was no use blundering about any how, so he divided the area into sections, each one numbered. I imagined he intended to do one section a day. See what I mean?" Biggles pointed at the map and the others leaned forward to look.

  Radiating from Kampala, six lines had been drawn in the direction of the Ruwenzori massif. They were numbered one to six, and in each case the compass bearing had been noted.

  "It's reasonable to suppose that he would start with number one," went on Biggles. "In fact, I'm pretty sure he did. It's borne out by the position of the Puss, where he put it down on the way home. What I mean is, he must have been hit while he was flying along the line marked number one, probably where it crosses the bamboo belt. That tells us where the Elephant was at that particular time. It doesn't mean that he's there now of course. He would keep moving; but knowing roughly the speed he travels we can reckon that he is now between sixty and eighty miles north of the line marked one on the map. We can't rely on that, though, for this reason. When we first contacted him he was well to the rear of the stolen cattle. But he was catching up with them. Witness the fact that Ginger heard a cow moo, and found the skin of a calf. By this time, I think, he must have caught up with the herd, and the whole gang, and the cattle, are moving together. In that case, naturally, progress would not be so fast as when the Elephant was travelling without any encumbrances."

  "Okay," said Ginger eagerly. "We know pretty well where the ruffian is. What are we going to do about it? That's what I want to know."

  "And that's what I want to know," returned Biggles. "What can we do, while he's in those infernal bamboos?"

  The trouble is, we don't know how far the secret track goes," put in Algy.

  "I'd say that track goes on to the northern limit of the bamboos, and that's another hundred miles," returned Biggles.

  But it would be a fantastic job, making a track that length, argued Algy.

  "Not at all. Bamboo, this thin sort, isn't-hard. A score of men walking in line would work through it nearly as fast as they could walk. I can see now that it was this track that made the Elephant's long distance raids possible. Obviously, he wouldn't get far if he had to stay in the open."

  "Couldn't we set fire to the beastly stuff and burn the rascals out?" suggested Bertie.

  "It wouldn't burn," Ginger told him. "It's too green and lush, and wet in the bottom."

  "Why not tackle the track on foot, and chase him out of it?" said Algy.

  "Have a heart," protested Biggles. "I don't mind taking chances provided they're reasonable, but to tackle that bunch in thick cover would be asking for trouble. We're not tackling one man, or even two or three. The gang is pretty big, now. We know that because we've seen some of them."

  "How about cutting in somewhere ahead of his line of march and making an open area where we could see him," suggested Ginger.

  "That would mean transporting labour to the place," Biggles pointed out. "While we were doing that he'd be well on his way."

  "Let's get some bombs, and lay a stick or two along the track," offered Bertie. "That'd give the blighters something to think about, yes, by Jove."

  "And blow a lot of helpless cattle to pieces at the same time," expostulated Biggles.

  "Botheration!" exclaimed Bertie. "My ideas are never any use. What about doing a sort of commando raid by night? We might catch the Elephant alive. If we could bump him off the gang would fall to pieces."

  Biggles shook his head. "I can't say that the idea of prowling about in those overgrown bulrushes, in the dark, appeals to me."

  "Then what's the use of finding him if we can't do anything about it?" cried Ginger. "Does it mean that we can't do anything until he comes out of the green stuff?"

  "I'm afraid so," said Biggles evenly. "That hidden track is the snag. How could we have anticipated such a thing? But we do at least know it's there."

  "And a lot of use that is to us," grumbled Algy.

  Biggles frowned. "All right—all right. It's no use letting it get us all hot and bothered. There's no future in that. We'll think of something presently."

  "All the time that black devil is at large he's liable to go on killing people," said Algy, morosely.

  "D'you suppose I don't realise that?" answered Big
gles, in an exasperated voice.

  "What about consulting old Mishu?" suggested Ginger. "He should be an expert at this sort of game."

  "That's the first sensible suggestion that's been made," declared Biggles. "Let's run up to Latonga to hear what he has to say about it."

  "I couldn't find him the last time I went," reminded Ginger.

  "He may be back by now," replied Biggles. "We needn't take both machines. The Mosquito will do. I suppose everyone wants to come?"

  "I'm bored stiff drooling about here," muttered Algy.

  "Same as you, old boy, absolutely," agreed Bertie.

  "All right. Then we might as well get along," said Biggles. "Put some food on board, one of you. It isn't likely that we shall be back for lunch. Put a couple of rifles in, too, in case they're needed. You never know what you're going to run into in Africa."

  The blazing orb of the sun was nearly overhead when the Mosquito touched its wheels on the baked earth the Latonga airstrip. Not a soul was in sight.

  "Mishu isn't here, or he'd be out to meet us," remarked Biggles, as he taxied right up to the rest-house.

  They got out, went into the Government building, and surveyed the ground around it, but to no purpose. "Not a sign," said Biggles. "Moreover, it looks as if he hadn't been here for a day or two," he went on in a puzzle voice. "What can have happened to him? I'm afraid something must have happened or he wouldn't stay away knowing that we were likely to look him up. There's, no message—nothing. Very odd."

  "I wonder if they know anything about him in the village?" said Ginger. "There's a native kraal somewhere. I haven't seen it, but it's over there somewhere, in that dip —about a mile, according to Simmonds." He pointed.