37 Biggles Gets His Men

by Captain W E Johns

  Von Stalhein was speaking, in a casual, inconsequential voice. "So my old friend Bigglesworth is here too, with Mayne? I was half expecting him, but he may be surprised to find me here. He's a great fellow for dropping in at unlikely places. I should be delighted to meet him again.

  I've been looking forward for some time to another little chat."

  Biggles felt for his automatic and quietly opened the door. "Good evening, von Stalhein,"

  he said politely. "You know, I've been looking forward to the same thing. Please sit still.

  Carry on. Don't let me disturb the party."

  Without turning Biggles closed the door behind him, pulled out a chair and sat down.

  GINGER GOES ALONE

  GINGER made his way back to the prisoners' quarters in a state bordering on dismay. He had got his orders, and he had not questioned them, but to have such a responsibility thrust upon him without the slightest warnlng set his brain racing at such a speed that he found it difficult to bring it under sufficient control to form a clear-cut plan of action. A dozen thoughts intruded at the same time, overlapping, jostling each other and allowing none to receive the attention is demanded—the sentries. . . the keys. . . the windows were barred .. . the prisoners had no shoes—and so on. Each presented a problem not easy to solve. He could not get Biggles out of his mind, either. How Biggles was going to delay von Stalhein long enough for the escape to be effected, was beyond him. Yet he had a suspicion that it was by such lightning decisions as this, by snatching at passing opportunities, that he so often out-manceuvred his opponents. One thing, however, was clear. Biggles must have thought the situation to be desperate or he would not have taken such appalling risks. Success and failure now hung in the balance. One slip, however small, would be

  enough to turn the scales against them, when not only the scientists, but the whole expedition, would be lost.

  Striking futile blows against the ever-tormenting mosquitoes he leaned for a moment against the trunk of a tree, eyes questing ceaselessly for signs of danger as he strove to recover his composure, to think clearly and decide on the best course to take. One factor, one difficulty, superseded all others. Footgear for the prisoners. To get the prisoners away without shoes on their feet would be hopeless. They would never survive the long march back to base. Their feet would be cut to ribbons by the rough ground and the harsh grasses before they had gone a mile. To get into the room where the shoes were kept without making a noise could only be accomplished by the use of the key. There could be no question of breaking open the door. Yet it seemed that the only way to get the keys was by tackling the sentries in whose custody they were—a project which, without raising a general alarm, seemed impossible. Whichever way the problem was tackled, as far as he could see the object could not be achieved without noise. He might keep the sentries quiet by threats, but only while he was with them. The moment he left them to release the prisoners they would certainly make enough noise to raise the entire camp . . .

  unless. . .

  The idea that took shape in his head did not arrive as a flash of inspiration. It began as a vague hope which, as he turned it over in his mind, crystallised slowly into a definite plan needing only nerve to carry it through. Nerve and bluff. Bluff—which he had once heard Biggles describe as man's best friend in a tight corner. But to put a big bluff over needed nerve, or no nerves at all—he was not sure which.

  At first he thought that considering the amount of drinking that was going on in the camp there was a chance that the sentries might be drunk. But this was no more than a hope. The thing would be a lot easier if they were drunk. If they were sober, could he by any means induce them to get drunk? With his mind running on these lines it was natural that he should recall the fellow lying in the long grass, in a drunken stupor, with a case of vodka beside him, two bottles of which he had sampled to his undoing. If only the sentries could find the liquor it was a safe bet that they, too, would be unable to resist the temptation to sample it; having sampled it they would go on drinking while any remained, or until they were in the same state as the man who had fallen by the wayside.

  How could he bring the two things together—the vodka and the sentries? Obviously, he would have to take the liquor to the sentries, or the sentries to the liquor.

  At first he recoiled from the scheme as being too fantastic for serious contemplation; but thinking it over he perceived that the risks involved would be no greater than those that would arise if he tried to get the keys by any other ruse. After all, he pondered, he looked like a Korean. The sentries would take him for one, and they would not question him because they would assume him to be minus his tongue, and consequently unable to answer. It seemed a reasonable supposition that the men, who were probably bored with their job anyway, would be more interested in the vodka than the man who carried it. It was a gamble which, if it came off, might enable him not only to get the shoes, but save a long wait while the window bars were being removed.

  Ginger realised that the longer he regarded the plan the more difficult would it appear, so, slightly breathless from excitement, he made his way to the patch of grass which the Mongolian had selected for his private orgy. Obviously, the first thing was to ascertain if he was still there. He was, snoring stertorously. What was even more important, the area within view revealed nothing to cause immediate alarm, so he hoisted the case on his shoulder, and without any attempt at concealment marched briskly towards the guardhouse.

  In the execution of his plan things did not go quite as he intended, and for a minute or two he was afraid that he had overreached himself. The trouble began when he almost walked into a sentry—the one, apparently, whose turn it was to patrol the wire. The encounter could not be avoided. They were too close for that. As they met, the sentry said something. Ginger, of course, had no idea of what the man actually said, but he supposed it to be a challenge. In the light of what happened next it was more likely, as Ginger then realised, that the man had simply asked if the bottles in the case were full. That he did not expect an answer, at least in so many words, was made evident by the way he reached for the case to satisfy himself on the point.

  With scant ceremony he relieved Ginger of his load, and knocking the neck off a bottle against the cartridge chamber of his rifle with a practised hand, he took a good swig, smacked his lips and drank again.

  Now this did not suit Ginger at all, for he was afraid that the man might keep the lot for his own use. It was not enough to have one sentry drunk. He wanted them all drunk, or his plan would fail. Wherefore he made noises of protest and tried to get the case back.

  For his pains he got his face smacked, and a stream of vituperation. This caused him to release his hold on the case, which fell to the ground with a clank of glass. This familiar sound was something the remaining sentries understood, for they must have heard it, and the argument, the guard hut being no great distance' away. Anyhow, they were soon on the scene, and the result was never in doubt. They all had a swig, and one of the newcomers lost no time in knocking off another bottle. Ginger again made noises of protest, as he considered would be natural in the circumstances; but this time he got a blow that sent him staggering.

  Secretly elated by his success he abandoned the case, and moaning plaintively, to the derisive jeers of the sentries he ran away—taking care to make for the direction of the guard hut. A thought that flashed through his mind was, no wonder von Stalhein had complained about the be- haviour of these undisciplined ruffians. However, it suited him well enough that they saw nothing unusual in his retreat, or in the direction of it.

  Reaching the guard hut door, which had been left open, he looked back along the wire and saw the sentries coming, two of them carrying the case between them. Even as he watched them they put the case down in order to pass round another bottle. This made their intention plain, and it was with no small satisfaction that Ginger foresaw that it would not be long before most of the bottles were empty. He was particularly gratified by the su
ccess, so far, of his plan, because he had followed Biggles' precept of exploit-ing the enemy's weakness to his disadvantage. He had, morever, utilised materials which the enemy himself had

  provided.

  He looked into the hut, a bare room furnished only with a rough bench and lighted by a single electric light bulb. A bunch of keys hung on a nail just inside the door. In a moment they were in his hand, although he realised that in their removal lay his greatest risk of discovery. The sentries were not drunk—yet. Should they miss the keys they might guess what had happened. At all events, they would certainly smell a rat, as the saying goes. But there was no

  alternative. The keys were the most vital factor in the deadly game he was playing. The sentries were obviously returning to the hut, and once they were inside it would not be possible to get near the keys until they had drunk themselves unconscious; but that would take some time, more time than he could afford to waste, bearing in mind the situation in which Biggles had placed himself. Therefore he could only pray that the interest of the Mongolians would remain concentrated on their unexpected find the

  exclusion of all else.

  There was this about it, he thought swiftly, as he unlocked the gate that gave access to the prison enclosure, and closed it behind him: if after a few drinks the men did miss the keys they would hesitate to start a general alarm immediately for fear of bringing the wrath of their leaders on their heads for the drunken folly of allowing the keys to be

  taken.

  With his heart pounding and his breath coming fast from excitement, crouching low he sped across the enclosure to the nearest point of the hut. Reaching it he did not stop, but went on to the corner, from where he made a final reconnaissance of the guard room, some twenty yards away. The sentries were just going in. They did not close the door behind them, as he hoped they would. For a few seconds he lingered, waiting for the shout that would announce the loss of the keys, for it was now that the discovery was most likely to be made. He could hear the sentries laughing and talking, hear the chink of glass as they took the bottles out of the case; but the sound he feared did not come. The tension passed and he relaxed, breathing more freely.

  Well content with the way things were going he started to move towards the door of the prisoners' quarters with the intention of opening it forthwith; but half-way he changed his mind, deciding to approach it from the far end, which, being farther from the guard hut, would reduce the chances of his being seen by the sentries should they for any reason come out again. This move, moreover, would take him past the window on the bars of which Vale would still be working. He would, he thought, be able to stop him, confirm that all was well, and warn him that he was on his way to unlock the door. This, he saw, was a necessary precaution, as to suddenly walk in would be to invite being knocked on the head in the dark by the men he had come to rescue, who would naturally suppose him to be one of the sentries. He would unlock the shoe pantry, which he would also have to pass on the way, to save time later on.

  Reaching this, he unlocked it, and with eyes and ears alert for danger crept on towards the window on which Vale was working—or should be working. Actually, at the moment he was not working; of that Ginger was sure, or from where he stood he would be able to hear the file biting into the iron. Was it possible, he wondered, that Vale had finished the job already? No, it was not possible, he decided. Then why had he stopped work? Had something gone wrong? Had the prisoners been moved? Or was Vale merely taking a rest from his labours? This last surmise seemed the most probable solution. Perplexed, and worried by doubts, Ginger waited for the filing to recommence.

  He waited for perhaps five minutes. Not a sound came. He couldn't understand it. Surely, he thought, considering the circumstances Vale would not waste so much time unless there was a very good reason. If all was well he would go on working even though his fingers were worn to the bone.

  Keeping flat against the wall he crept on until he was almost under the window, and then listened again. Not a sound came from inside. This, too, struck him as extraordinary.

  Surely the men, with the prospect of escape before them, would be talking, or at least whispering, among themselves? Why weren't they? Ginger's doubts turned to fears.

  Something had gone wrong. He was certain of it now. He became aware of danger. He did not know what it was, or where, but it was there, close to him. He was sure of it; he sensed it, although for this he could find no logical explanation. It may have been the flickering of an age-old instinct, the instinct that wild animals have retained but men have almost lost, reawakened by nerves stretched to the limit. At any rate, he was conscious of it, and indecision took him in its grip. He looked around, eyes straining to probe the darkness, but still he could hear nothing, see nothing, to account for the dew of cold sweat that had formed on his forehead.

  Another silent step took him under the window, close against the wall. Still nothing happened. Slowly his right hand went up, inch by inch, groping for the bottom bar—or rather, to ascertain if it was still there, for by now Vale should have removed it. It was there. And, moreover, there was not a mark on it. Withdrawing his hand he caught his breath when he realised what this meant. Vale hadn't even started work. Why? There could be only one answer to that. He had been prevented. By whom? How? When?

  These were questions not so easily answered.

  Ginger sank down, bewildered, fearful, trying to work the thing out. He felt sure that no alarm had been given, for if it had the sentries would have known about it, in which case they would hardly be behaving as they were behaving now. For the same reason he could not believe that any of the senior members of the gang had gone into the hut since the routine inspection. The keys had been where they were always kept, in the guard hut, so presumably the door of the prisoners' quarters was still locked. If an extra guard had been put inside why should the door be locked and the keys taken away? If a man had been put inside to watch the prisoners surely the light would have been left on? The place was in darkness. How could the prisoners be watched in the dark? No, decided Ginger. That was not the answer. It didn't make sense, as Biggles would say. If anything unusual was going on, if suspicions of an attempted escape had been aroused, the guards would be on the alert instead of getting drunk. He moistened his lips and struck at the mosquitoes impatiently.

  One thing at least became clear to him. He would not solve the mystery by sitting where he was. Time was passing, and Biggles might be having difficulty in holding von Stalhein. He considered giving the V-signal, and did in fact purse his lips to whistle; but he abandoned the idea because it seemed pointless. If Vale was there he would be at the window, of that there was no doubt whatever—unless, of course, he was being kept away from it by force. If someone was there to keep him away, reasoned Ginger, then the V-signal would merely betray his presence and his position to that person. In the end he decided that there was only one way of finding out exactly what had happened, or what was happening, in the silent building, and that was by going in. Towards the door, therefore, he made his way, moving swiftly now that his mind was made up. Action is always a relief after inaction.

  Reaching the corner of the building, from which the guard hut again came into view, he looked across at it. Conditions there, he was relieved to note, were practically the same.

  The only difference was, the door was now shut. He hoped it would remain so. The voices of the sentries were raised high, as if in argument, which was also to the good, for it suggested that they were still drinking. Staring at the closed door the thought occurred to him that it was in his power to keep the men inside, for a time, anyway; and even a short time, in view of what he was going to do, might be invaluable. If he could lock the door without making a noise the sentries would not know that they had been locked in until one of them tried to get out. And in view of the din which they themselves were making it seemed unlikely that they would hear the lock turn even if it did make a slight noise. It was, he thought, a chance worth taking, and he re
solved to snatch it.

  He looked around. Not a soul was in sight. Bending low he ran to the gate, opened it and went on to the door of the hut. Holding the keys tight to prevent them from jangling he found the right one, inserted it and turned it. The click that it made brought his heart into his mouth, as is said; but to his unspeakable relief the noise within continued without pause. He backed away for a few yards, and after closing the gate ran to the door of the prison hut. On the threshold he paused again for a second to survey the scene, but seeing nothing to worry him, with great caution he tried the door. As he expected, it was locked.

  Again finding the right key he slipped it in and very slowly turned it. It moved easily, as he thought it would, the lock being in constant use. Putting the keys in his pocket he held his breath, turned the handle and opened the door an inch. He allowed the handle to return to its original position and then stood still, listening. Not a sound came from inside. He felt for his automatic, and with it in his left hand opened the door another inch.

  Nothing happened. The silence within was that of a sepulchre. The only sound he could hear was the pounding of his heart. Sweat, partly the result of the humid heat and partly due to the intense strain on his nerves, trickled down his nose. He drew a deep breath and again reached for the door. He pushed it. It creaked slightly as it moved. It came to rest.

  The profound silence remained unbroken.

  HOT WORK IN COLD BLOOD

  QUITE suddenly Ginger resolved that this intolerable suspense must come to an end. It was playing havoc with his nerves. Taking a firmer grip on his automatic, making no more noise than a cloud passing over the face of the moon, he stepped inside, took a swift pace to the left and crouched low, waiting for something to happen. Still not a sound broke the trance-like calm. Nothing moved, he thought, or he must have heard it. But the very absence of sound charged the air with a tense expectancy.