37 Biggles Gets His Men

by Captain W E Johns

  How to break it, for a moment or two he did not know. Then he remembered that the hut, like the rest, was fitted with electric light. He recalled, too, that an electric light switch is usually to be found just inside a door, on the side that swings open, to allow easy access to it. The idea of switching on the light horrified him, but he could think of nothing else to do. He would at least know the worst. He had to see. This staring into a blank wall of

  darkness was not to be endured any longer. His left hand went out, groping for the switch. His questing fingers found it. They closed over the button. Edging away until he was at arm's length he held his breath, depressed the switch and jumped sideways.

  Almost simultaneously with the click came the flash and crash of a firearm, and a bullet smashed into the woodwork just below the switch. In a split second he had fired back at a man, an elderly man, who stood within three paces of him, a man who he realised must have been there all the time, unless he, too, had been creeping towards the switch.

  Ginger, dazed by the sudden light and the roar of the explosion, was not conscious of firing, much less of taking aim. Moving under the impulse of self-preservation his automatic had seemed to jerk up and go off. Sparks leapt between him and the man. The man hardly moved. He seemed to be making a tremendous effort to raise again the revolver he was holding. It went off, to rip a long splinter out of the floor. Then he seemed to crumple at the legs. The revolver fell with a hollow thud. Coughing, the man slumped across it and lay still.

  For several seconds Ginger could only stare with eyes round with horror, feeling sure that he had killed one of the men he had come to rescue. Then they went up, and he took in the scene at a glance. Only one thing interested him. In the background, paralysed it seemed by what had happened, stood a group of men—five of them, all bearded. They stared at him. He stared back.

  With an effort he found his voice. "Which one of you is Vale?" he asked shakily.

  One of the men stepped forward. "I'm Vale."

  Ginger pointed at the man on the floor. "Who's this?" "We thought he was one of us, but he was a traitor. His

  name was Luntz."

  Ginger drew a deep breath. "Thank God," he said fervently. Then the full realisation of where he was and what he was doing swept over him. "Come on," he said tersely. "No time for talking now. Those shots will set things buzzing. Round to the pantry and get into your shoes. The door's unlocked. Look lively."

  There was a swift move towards the door.

  "What about the sentries?" asked Vale.

  "They're locked in their hut," answered Ginger, thankful now that he had taken this precaution. "I'll take care of them if they get out. Get cracking."

  The prisoners ran out.

  Ginger went out last, switching off the light and closing the door behind him. He did not trouble to lock it. That the shots had been heard by the sentries was evident, for from within their hut came a clamour. One was beating on the door with what sounded like a rifle-butt. It did no good, for the hut was built of stout timber.

  Ginger, with his nerves now under control, walked on to the angle of the prison hut, from where he could still watch the guardroom and at the same time be near his men.

  Naturally, he was in a fever of impatience, for time now was everything. Minutes passed.

  The uproar inside the guardroom continued, but as no one else had appeared on the scene he began to hope that the shots, muffled as they would be by the thick wooden walls of the building, had passed unnoticed. Still, he fidgeted in his anxiety to be away. The scientists seemed to be a long time finding their shoes and getting them on, although he made allowance for the fact that there was bound to be some confusion in the darkness.

  He was still waiting, keeping watch, when three men appeared running along the outside of the wire, obviously bound for the guard hut. At first he decided that they must have heard the shots, but then, remembering what von Stalhein had said about doubling all guards, he thought that these might be the new men who, hearing the noise in the hut, were coming along at a run to see what was happening. They would not be able to get in, but even so those inside would soon tell them how they were fixed, and about the shots that had been fired. The newcomers would assume that the door of the prison hut was locked, with the keys in the guardroom; but that would not prevent them from coming in the enclosure to make sure. In any case, he dare wait no longer, so turning to where some of his men were standing, apparently ready to move off, he asked them if they were all set to travel.

  Vale answered. "We're waiting for Major Cardwell," he reported.

  "Who's he?"

  "The American."

  "What's the matter—can't he find his shoes?"

  "Yes, he's got them on," replied Vale. "He's gone over to the workshop for something."

  "For what?" demanded Ginger angrily.

  "I don't know—he didn't say."

  Ginger swallowed hard, trying to control his impatience at this delay. "He must be crazy,

  " he muttered. "He's risking the whole show. If he isn't here in ten seconds I'm going without him. A new bunch of guards has just arrived."

  He ran back to the corner and peeped round; and he was not surprised to see the three new guards running across the enclosure towards the door of the prison hut—much too close to be comfortable. Without stopping they went inside. Again acting on the spur of the moment he dashed along, and just as the light was switched on reached the door. He caught a fleeting glimpse of the three Mongolians standing just inside regarding with flat, bovine faces, the man who had been shot. They saw him, too, but he moved first. He slammed the door, locked it, and leapt aside just as a bullet crashed through the woodwork. Flinging aside the now useless keys he tore back to the end of the hut just as Major Cardwell reappeared.

  "Come on," he snapped. "You've kept everyone waiting:,

  "Sorry, son," replied the officer blandly.

  "You will be if we're not soon out of this," retorted Ginger grimly, and taking the lead ran for the gap in the fence which Biggles had made on the occasion of their earlier visit.

  He went on to the nearest trees for cover.

  Now, haste to leave the camp did not mean that Ginger could leave it at any point. In order to get his bearings, in order to find the trail that led to the lignite workings, he would have to leave by the way he came in; otherwise, as he realised well enough, he would be hopelessly lost in the wilderness of marshes. The slave compound was, therefore, his first landmark. This would give him his direction, and towards it he now led the party. Knowing that guards would be on duty at the gate he kept well clear of it; but prompted by another idea, in the hope of causing as much mischief and confusion as possible, he paused long enough to cut a broad gap in the wire, which would, at least, he thought, give the wretched Koreans a chance to get clear if they were so minded.

  Knowing the country, they would have a fair chance of getting away. As a matter of detail, a number of them, roused possibly by the shots, were standing about. With an astonishment that can only be surmised they watched him cut the wire.

  It took him some minutes to find the rough track that led to the lignite bed—or rather, to confirm that he was heading in that direction. Having satisfied himself that this was so he hurried on. In the gloom he could dimly see figures moving about, but for the most part they seemed to be as busy as he was, making for the area he had just left, attracted, no doubt, by the commotion now going on there.

  Once clear of the camp he broke into a trot, a speed that he-maintained for some distance; indeed, until some of his party, who could hardly be expected to be fit after what they had endured, began to .straggle. He steadied the pace to a walk to allow them to catch up. It struck him as odd,

  that after all that had happened, he had still only caught a brief glimpse of the faces of his companions. The only one that he could recognise was Vale.

  All that they needed now, he mused, as he trudged on, was to find Biggles waiting for them beside the path. Not that
he seriously expected this. It would not have occurred to Biggles that he, Ginger, could have succeeded in his task in less than an hour, which was roughly the time that had elapsed since they had parted company. It was far more likely that Biggles would still be holding up von Stalhein, supposing Vale to be busy sawing through his prison bars. Ginger hated the idea of leaving Biggles in the enemy camp; but his orders were clear, so there was nothing he could do about it.

  After about three miles had been covered, and he could hear no sounds of pursuit, he called a halt to give the party a breather. He himself was deadly tired. The pause would, moreover, give Biggles a chance to overtake them. His greatest fear was that Biggles, before starting for home, would reconnoitre the prison, quarters to make sure that the scientists were away. Still, he reasoned, with what was going on in the camp it should not take him long to do that.

  He took the opportunity of introducing himself to the rest of the party and then gave them an idea of the general situation. The news that a plane was waiting at no great distance to take them home, should, he felt, be a tonic to help them over the rest of the march. As a matter of fact, justifiably, it must be admitted, he was feeling rather pleased with himself for the way he had managed to effect the escape of the prisoners in so short a time, by employing methods which were up to Biggles' own standards.

  He turned to Vale. "By the way, who was that man I shot?" he inquired. "I'm still not quite clear as to who he was or why he was there. I couldn't understand why you weren't working with the file."

  "His name was said to be Luntz," answered Vale. Luntz. Now that he was able to think the name rang a bell in Ginger's memory. Luntz was the man named by von Stalhein at the general meeting; but he could not remember in what connection.

  "Luntz was a spy," explained Vale. "We didn't know it. He was put in with us as if he was a prisoner like the rest of us. That's what he told us. He said he was a Pole; a research chemist by profession. He had been kidnapped in Warsaw. We believed him, having no reason to doubt his story. It's an old trick, and when I realised it I could have kicked myself for not suspecting something of the sort. He was simply a stooge, to report everything we said and did. No doubt it was through him that poor Gorton was caught whilst trying to escape, and so lost his life. You need have no qualms about what you did.

  Given the opportunity I would have shot the skunk myself. He had to reveal himself when I told everyone that you and your friends were here to get us away. I was just about to start work on the bottom bar when, with everyone agog with excitement, Luntz calmly covered me with a revolver and took the file away from me. He then stunned everyone by declaring who he really was. Even so, he was in rather an awkward position, because to give colour to his story he had lived with us, and was locked in with us every night. He couldn't get out any more than we could, so had you not come back he would have had to wait until the morning, when the door would have been unlocked in the usual way. No one else had a weapon of any sort, so there was nothing we could do. We were searched every night. So was Luntz, but the guards, of course, were in the know, and they left him his revolver."

  "I wonder he didn't fire a shot, or kick up a row, to bring the guards in," murmured Ginger.

  "I wondered that, too, but apparently he had a better idea—or thought he had. He knew you were coming back for us, because I had said so; so what he did was drive us into a corner and then take up a position at the window to shoot you the moment you appeared.

  Had he kicked up a row to bring the guards along you would have heard it, too, and kept clear. But that's only surmise. As a matter of fact his plan wouldn't have succeeded because I. too, was listening; and it was my intention, as soon as I heard you coming, to shout a warning. As it happened I didn't hear a sound. Did you come to the window?"

  "I did," replied Ginger. "But by the time I got to it I had an uncomfortable feeling that something was wrong because I couldn't hear your file going. That was why I didn't show myself. I'd already got the key of the hut so I decided to come in through the door to find out what was happening. Lucky thing I did."

  Vale resumed. "Luntz heard the door open. So did I, if it comes to that, but of course, I had no idea who it was.' It didn't occur to me that you might have got the key, so I waited for the light to come on. Luntz must have done the same. He wouldn't dare shoot until he knew who he was shooting at in case it turned out to be one of his friends making a surprise visit—as has happened on more than one occasion. Luntz was pretty quick on the trigger when you switched on, but it happened that you weren't where he expected to see you, and you got your shot in before he could shoot again. That's about all. You know the rest."

  "I see," said Ginger thoughtfully: "Well, I suppose we'd better keep going. I was hoping Bigglesworth would overtake us. He's still in the camp somewhere. We were cutting things a bit fine at the finish." He turned to the American officer who had caused the delay at the crucial moment. "By the way," he went on, "I'm sorry I spoke sharply to you, but what on earth induced you to waste time going to the workshop? You nearly gave me a nervous breakdown. I'd had a pretty hectic night, one way and another."

  The American smiled. "I thought I'd leave the rats a parting gift to remember us by—to teach them to think twice in future before manhandling an American citizen."

  "Gift?" echoed Ginger. "What sort of gift?"

  "Oh, just a little squib."

  Ginger frowned. "Squib? What are you talking about? Please speak plainly because I'm in a hurry. I'm also very tired."

  When the American answered his tone was serious. "There was stuff in that shed that must have been stolen from United States workshops—plans and specifications of some of our latest jobs. When I saw them I decided that it was my duty to destroy them at the first opportunity, even if it meant blotting myself out at the same time. I've been working on the idea. You see, I'm a high-explosive specialist, as well as an atomic engineer—

  which is why they dragged me in, no doubt. To-night was the chance I've been waiting for, so I took it."

  Ginger spoke slowly. "Do you mean—you put a bomb—in that hut?"

  "And how, sonny."

  Ginger's legs went weak, for he could imagine what sort of a bomb an atomic expert would make. "When is this bomb due to go off?" he asked in a strained voice.

  "It isn't timed. It's wired to the electric circuit. The first guy to switch on the light in that workshop will never know what happened to him. Neither will anyone else near that enclosure. Why, what's wrong? Don't you like the idea?"

  Ginger bit his lip. "I'd like it well enough, as a means of destroying the enemy's work, were it not for one thing," he answered wearily.

  "What's that?"

  "My chief is still in that camp. If I know him, he's quite likely to go to the prison enclosure to make sure that we got away before he leaves the camp himself."

  There was a brief silence.

  "Well now, I guess that's just too bad," said the American.

  "There's no need to guess," muttered Ginger bitterly, sick at this new anxiety that had been thrust upon him. "It's worse than that."

  "I wasn't to know," said the American contritely.

  "Of course you weren't," agreed Ginger readily. "But that doesn't help matters. No doubt you acted for the best, but you might have told me what you were going to do, instead of—"

  He got not further. From the direction of the camp a weird blue flame leapt up, it seemed, to heaven itself, flooding the world with a ghastly glare that turned the faces of the escaped prisoners to chalk-white masks. As the glow faded the thunder of the explosion rolled across the sullen landscape.

  "I guess that's it," said the American quietly.

  !JIGGLES PLAYS FOR TIME

  WHEN Biggles made his dramatic entry into von Stalhein's room there was a silence that lasted for several seconds. Von Stalhein did not move. Imperturbable, and as immacu-late as if he had been in the Wilhelmstrasse, from the cane chair in which he sat, a little to one side of a writing table
, he regarded Biggles through eyes that were coldly hostile and gave the lie to the sardonic smile that twisted the corners of his thin-lipped mouth. A spiral of pale blue cigarette smoke coiled towards the ceiling from the cigarette held in its usual long holder. There was no indication of shock that must have resulted from Biggles' entrance. As for Petroff sky, he merely stared owlishly as if his befuddled faculties were unable to cope with the situation.

  Von Stalhein spoke first. His voice was pitched low, but it was as sour as vinegar. Said he: "You know, Bigglesworth, you'll do this sort of thing once too often."

  Biggles nodded slightly. "I think it's quite likely," he agreed. "But this, I hope, will not be the occasion." Actually, he had nothing to say, the object of his intrusion being merely to kill time, to keep von Stalhein in his room and prevent him from questioning the Russian.

  At this juncture Petroffsky apparently recognised him, for he let out a howl of greeting. "

  Have a drink," he invited thickly, reaching for the bottle that stood on the table.

  "You'd be well advised to sit still and keep quiet," Biggles told him curtly.

  The Cossack, looking abashed, sank back, blinking as he strove to grasp the purport of the words. "Wha's matter?" he demanded. "Thought we were all good friends together."

  "You never made a bigger mistake," returned Biggles grimly. "Don't talk. Put a curb on your tongue and keep it still before these people take hold of it and pull it out."

  "But me

  " spluttered Petroffsky, looking outraged.

  "I'm a tiger hunter "

  "I know, but tiger hunting is child's play compared with the game you're playing now.

  Sober up, man, and try to get this into your head. When this gentleman has finished with you what's left will be food for foxes. If you want to leave this place alive you'd better pull yourself together and get out while the going's good." Biggles turned sharply to von Stalhein who had edged a little nearer to his desk. "All right, that's enough of that," he snapped.