37 Biggles Gets His Men

by Captain W E Johns

  "Your nerve isn't what it used to be," sneered von Stalhein. "I was merely trying to reach a cigarette from the box on my desk."

  "Go ahead," invited Biggles.

  Smiling cynically, von Stalhein took a cigarette and fitted it carefully into his holder. "

  Did you want to speak to me about something?" he inquired.

  "Not particularly," Biggles told him frankly.

  "In that case, as I have nothing to say to you, why not terminate an interview, which, as far as I'm concerned, is becoming tiresome."

  "I can well believe it," replied Biggles evenly. "I'll decide when I've had enough of your company."

  "And that's all you have to say?"

  "All except that I see you're at your old games again." The German blew a smoke ring. "

  And so, apparently, are you."

  "It looks as if I shall have to be while people like you are on the loose," Biggles told him.

  "But let us not waste time discussing what we are doing. We both know. On this occasion I've nothing against you, personally. As far as I'm concerned you can stay here until you fall apart from malaria; or if the mosquitoes don't like the taste of you, until your precious associates decide that you've failed in your job, when, having no further use for you no doubt they'll dispose of you in their own fashion. That's your affair."

  "Purely as a matter of detail, what's yours?"

  "You should know. I'm going to remove from this unhealthy dump certain people who were brought here by force."

  Von Stalhein exhaled slowly. "You may find that difficult."

  "Most things I'm asked to do are difficult otherwise it's unlikely that I should be asked to do them," replied Biggles coldly.

  "Aren't you getting rather tired of being given the runaround by a bunch of inefficient politicians?" sneered von Stalhein.

  "They're not so inefficient that they can't keep people like you on the trot."

  "Did you come here to tell me that?"

  "No. I just drifted in to make sure that you don't hinder me from doing what I came here to do. To a lesser extent I aim to get this harmless hermit out of your camp with a tongue still in his mouth."

  "You won't do that by sitting here."

  "That," said Biggles smoothly, "remains to be seen."

  "My batman is in the kitchen."

  "I know it. Pray hard that he stays there, because if we're interrupted I may have to pull the trigger of this gun, which might easily be pointing in your direction."

  "Why don't you pull it now?" scoffed von Stalhein. "Were I in your position I wouldn't hesitate."

  "I can believe that," murmured Biggles. "Maybe that's why I don't. Call it vanity if you like, but I try to be different from people like you."

  Petroffsky, who from his expression had been trying to collect his faculties, intervened. "

  Gentlemen—gentlemen," he protested. "If this is a quarrel let it be settled in an honourable way. I will see fair play. How about a little drink?"

  "Help yourself," invited Biggles. "It's likely to be your last. How much have you told this man?"

  "Not a word," declared Petroff sky. "By St. Mark, not a word. I came here looking for my old friend Mayne. You said he was with you."

  "He was," answered Biggles, "but he isn't here now." "What shall I do?"

  "Go home and stay there."

  The Russian looked pained. "What have I done?" he cried wonderingly.

  "You've blundered into something from which you may not find it easy to get out,"

  Biggles told him. "These are the men who flogged your Koreans and cut off your vodka supply. They'll be flogging you before you know where you are."

  Petroffsky's eyes opened wide. "I fear no man!" he cried. "I am Alexis Petroffsky, Colonel of the Imperial Guard, the greatest killer of tigers "

  "I know—I know," broke in Biggles impatiently. "You've told us that before. Pull yourself together and go home while you have the chance. I shan't be here much longer."

  Von Stalhein spoke again. "Who is this man Mayne he keeps talking about?" he inquired.

  "The name is new to me."

  "I didn't come here to answer questions," replied Biggles. He smiled faintly. "But I'll answer that one if you'll answer one for me."

  "Try it."

  "Who's the big noise behind this racket?"

  "I've often wondered that myself."

  "Are you telling me you don't know?"

  "I am. It's the top secret here."

  "Then what's your angle?"

  "Money. Besides, it's something to do until the next war starts. That goes for both of us, I imagine?"

  Biggles shook his head sadly. "So you're still hoping to find yourself in a victory march? Forget it. You never will."

  "Why not?"

  "Because people like you will always be on the losing side, and if you haven't the wit to see why, it would be useless for me to tell you."

  Von Stalhein's lips curled. "Are you trying to reform me with this righteous philosophy?"

  "It isn't philosophy, it's a matter of common sense. But let it pass. I couldn't care less,"

  said Biggles curtly.

  Von Stalhein looked at his watch. "How much longer do I have to endure this?"

  "Until the misguided Cossack has sobered up enough to start for home."

  "I shall stay here," declared Petroffsky, who, as is so often the case with people recovering from the effects of alcohol, was getting aggressive.

  "Please yourself," replied Biggles without emotion. "Remember, though, this is the crowd that flogged your Korean vodka carriers. When I go they'll flog you, too. I know I'

  ve said that before, but this is the last time I shall warn you."

  "Flog me?" Petroff sky looked shocked.

  "Yes, you," answered Biggles, wondering how Zinger was getting on. For all this talk, from which he had little to gain, was merely to kill time, to give Ginger as long as possible to do his work and get clear. He had reckoned that this might take two hours, so he was prepared to remain where he was for some time yet, should nothing occur to prevent it.

  Von Stalhein moved, quite casually, a little nearer to his writing table.

  Biggles looked at him. "Listen, von Stalhein," he said quietly. "If you're trying to get to the gun which I suspect you keep in a drawer of that table, give up. I don't want to have to shoot you, but I shan't hesitate to do so if it becomes the alternative to you shooting me." He turned to Petroff sky. "Are you going home or are you going to stay here? Make up your mind. You came here bawling for Mayne. He isn't here, so try looking somewhere else. Your job is killing tigers. Trundle along and bag a brace for your old friend Mayne, just to show him that you can still do it."

  "Yes!" cried the Cossack. "Yes, by St. Peter! That's right. I'm the greatest slayer of tigers

  "

  "Everyone knows it," asserted Biggles. "Go ahead and slay some more before you lose your reputation."

  The Russian rose unsteadily to his feet and reached for the vodka bottle.

  "Come—come, Colonel," murmured Biggles reproachfully. "Surely you're not going to abuse your host's hospitality?"

  Petroffsky straightened himself. "As if I would do such a thing!" he cried haughtily. He walked stiffly to the door, turned and bowed low. "Good night, gentlemen," he said, and went out.

  Without taking his eyes from von Stalhein Biggles lit a cigarette.

  The German considered him stonily. "I'm beginning to find your company irksome," he complained icily.

  "I can well believe it," acknowledged Biggles calmly, "but I'm afraid you'll have to suffer it for a little while longer. You'll appreciate that if I could choose my company you wouldn't be in it," he added.

  Thereafter for some minutes they sat in silence, Biggles smoking as if nothing unusual was happening, von Stalhein slightly pale from vexation, his lips pressed together in a straight line. The camp seemed to have settled down, which suited Biggles well enough.

  But presently came sounds which
suggested that the situation in von Stalhein's room was drawing to its conclusion. First, muffled as if by distance, came two shots in quick succession followed by a third.

  The muscles of von Stalhein's face relaxed in a sour smile. "Your Russian friend didn't get far," he conjectured.

  Biggles thought there might be something in this. What he was more afraid of was that the shots had been fired on Ginger's account, for from the speed of the first two he felt sure that two weapons had been involved; and the Russian had no weapon; his rifle, which apparently he had forgotten, was leaning against the wall in the corner behind von Stalhein. At any rate, thought Biggles swiftly, Ginger would still be in the camp, for the simple reason that Vale could not yet have cut through the barred window. It looked, therefore, as if Ginger had been discovered. He could think of no other reason for the shots. However, his face remained expressionless.

  But now, from some way off came a banging and bumping that puzzled him not a little.

  He thought he could hear shouting, too. These noises soon mounted to what sounded unpleasantly like a hue and cry, but as no amount of conjecture would be likely to reveal the cause, Biggles could only sit still and await the explanation which, he was sure, would not long be withheld.

  It arrived even sooner than he expected. From outside there came a rush of footsteps, and into the room, in a whirlwind of agitation, burst a pale-faced little man of middle age, dressed in dark civilian clothes, whose nationality might have been anything although he was almost certainly a European. Ignoring Biggles he leaned towards von Stalhein, and speaking in German, rapped out: "The prisoners have escaped! The hut is empty. Luntz is shot—dying." Then, appearing to notice Biggles for the first time he added sharply: "

  Who is this?"

  Biggles was already moving. He backed to the wall near the door. His pistol covered the newcomer but his eyes flashed frequently to von Stalhein. Speaking in the same language he said, in a hard voice: "Stand where you are and keep your hands where I can see them.

  "

  Expressions of surprise and consternation followed each other across the face of the new man. He looked from Biggles to von Stalhein, back to Biggles and again to von Stalhein.

  "What is this?" he asked, wonderingly.

  "I'll leave you to tell him, von Stalhein," put in Biggles crisply, moving to the door. He had already noted that the key was on the inside. With his left hand he took it out and put it in the outside. "Don't be in a hurry to follow me or you may meet a piece of metal coming the other way," he warned, and with that he slipped out, closed the door and turned the key. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a whiteaproned, moon-faced Mongol staring at him from the kitchen door, a tea tray held in both hands; but paying no attention to him he went out into the darkness.

  He had but a vague idea of what he was going to do, being chiefly concerned until this juncture with getting clearof von Stalhein. All he knew was that the prisoners had escaped and that a man named Luntz had been shot. How Ginger had managed to get the prisoners out in so short a time—for he was quite sure that Ginger must have had a hand in it—he could not imagine. Not that it mattered how it had been done. The fact that they were away was all that concerned him now. He wondered how far they had got. Were they still somewhere in the camp?

  That there had been shooting practically proved that Ginger was with them, for the scientists would not be likely to possess a weapon between them. Just when they had gone he had, of course, no means of knowing. The alarm had obviously been given.

  Lights were on all over the place, and in the downcast rays he could see men moving about, Mongols chiefly, most of them hurrying in the direction of the prison hut enclosure. Their big brutal leader was with them, screaming orders. He also noticed a number of Koreans running about like frightened sheep; but these for the most part were making for the outskirts of the camp. One thing with another, it was not easy to determine exactly what was happening.

  What Biggles really wanted to know was whether or not Ginger was still within the precincts of the camp. Deciding that there was only one way to find out he hurried on towards the centre of the excitement, feeling that with so many Koreans running about loose no particular attention would be paid to him. In the general uproar he would, he thought, be able to retire from the scene should that course become advisable.

  Nevertheless, what he was doing was attended by a certain amount of danger, for an occasional shot was now being fired by the Mongolians at the Koreans, who were now streaming away from the camp in ever-increasing numbers. It was evident that the slaves had managed

  somehow to get out of their compound and were making the most of the opportunity to get away.

  While from one angle this was an advantage, in that it added to the general confusion, it raised this difficulty: Ginger himself was dressed as a Korean, so recognition would only be possible from close quarters. However, Biggles resolved to make a quick reconnaissance of the area round the prison hut, and if from this he could satisfy himself that the prisoners had got clean away, he, too, would leave the camp.

  With this object in view, keeping as far as possible in the background, he worked his way towards the prison hut. Perceiving that, as most of the Mongolians were also converging on it it would not be prudent to approach from the front, he made his way to the wire in the rear and followed it along until he reached the gap which he himself had made. He now had the hut between him and the crowd that had assembled either in the front or inside the building—he was not sure which; so without running any great risks he dashed across to the window at which he had spoken to Vale. But before he got half-way, as the light was on inside, he saw something that amazed him—the silhouettes of the iron bars, which were obviously still intact. Stepping back a pace or two he saw that the bars of all the windows were still in place. How, then, had the prisoners got out? There could only be one answer to that. They had gone through the door. How this had been achieved he could not think—not that he wasted time trying. He glanced across at the big hut which Vale had said was the workshop. It was conveniently close so he dashed across to the back of it with the intention of making his way round the far end to the front, thinking that from there he would get a good view of the front of the prison hut, which might yield important information. Whether it did or not, he would then carry straight on and get out of the camp, having made a complete circle round the centre of it. If he saw nothing of Ginger it would be fairly safe to conclude that he had got clear.

  He reached his objective without trouble, and looking round the end of the workshop saw a considerable number of people collected in the enclosure near the door of the prison hut. They were in two groups. There were Mongolians, dominated by their leader, who was apparently waiting for orders from a smaller number of Europeans who stood, apparently holding a conference, near at hand. Of Ginger or the scientists there was no sign, and as this was all Biggles wanted to know he began to back away, having no further reason to stay. Reaching the wire he paused for a moment to watch two men, two of the Europeans, who had detached themselves from the main party and were walking quickly towards the workshop. He wondered what they were going to do. As they went in through the door he turned away towards the nearest trees; but before he had taken a dozen paces the world seemed to explode around him.

  For several seconds, or it may have been minutes, he was conscious of the blinding flash only. Nothing more. With the roar filling his ears like a clap of thunder he was hurled by the blast for some distance before colliding violently with the ground. And there he lay, dazed, with the breath knocked out of his body, striving to get his brain under control.

  His first really conscious impression was a terrifying one. He thought he had been blinded. He could see nothing beyond a blur of intense blue that spun before his eyes.

  Nor, after the clatter of falling debris had died away, could he hear a sound. Over the camp—indeed, over the whole world—hung a deathly calm, as if all movement had been suspended. This reaction
to the explosion, a common one, did not last long. When true consciousness slowly returned he found himself sitting up. Things around him began to take shape. His brain began to function normally and he realised that there had been a tremendous explosion; but even so, he was by no means certain of where it had occurred, or where he was. The scene had changed. When somewhat unsteadily, he stood up, he understood why. All the electric lights had gone out, as was only to be expected; but some slight illumination came from a patch of grass that had caught fire. The workshop had disappeared entirely. The prison hut was a flattened heap of timber.

  The guard hut was leaning at a drunken angle. Some men were crawling out of it. Others were lying about. A few were sitting. One or two were standing, or backing away from the spot as if afraid that the explosion might be repeated.

  It was now fairly evident that the explosion had occurred in the workshop, but how it had happened, or who had caused it he had, of course, no means of knowing. He could only hope that Ginger had not been inside—that he had not been responsible for it. Anyway, there seemed to be no point in remaining where he was so he started to move away with the intention of getting out of the camp while those in it were still under the spell of the disaster. Suddenly he became aware that something was missing. He had lost something; and it was several seconds before he could discover what it was. His pistol. He recalled that he had been carrying it in his hand when the explosion had occurred. It was not in his hand now, so he could only conclude that it had been wrenched out of his hand by the blast or else he had dropped it when he had fallen. He spent a minute looking for it—or rather, groping about in the grass hoping to come upon it. But in this he was unsuccessful, and being disinclined to waste any more time decided that he would have to go without it.

  Unfortunately, at this juncture, a number of Mongols who had been standing at a distance began moving towards him. Naturally, he altered his direction to avoid them. But when one of them shouted he knew that he had been noticed. All he could do was walk on, pretending that he had not heard. Ming, the Mongolian leader, now appeared on the scene, and he, too, shouted. Biggles, seeing that the situation was becoming serious, started to run, thinking that if he could reach some nearby trees he would be able to slip away. In attempting to do this he collided with a tangle of barbed wire fencing that had evidently been blown out of the ground by the explosion. He tripped and fell. Before he could extricate himself rough hands were laid on him and he was hauled to his feet to a barrage of abuse. For a moment or two he was afraid that he was going to be severely manhandled, for the men were in an ugly mood; and not having a weapon of any sort there was little he could do to prevent it. But by this time the affair had attracted the attention of a small party of Europeans who had just arrived, and they came nearer as if to ascertain what was going on. Biggles recognised von Stalhein before he himself was recognised, and tried to hide his face. But he was too late.