by W E Johns
'What's the axe for?'
'For you to beat Biggles's door in with, of course.'
'I see.'
'Then you stand by the back door and wait for the people to run out. They'll run out, you can bet on that. When they run out you run in.'
'But wait a minute, what's going to make them run out?'
'Don't you worry about that, that's my job. I've always wanted to light a good bonfire and this is my chance. That's all there is to it. You watch the door; when they run out, in you go and scoot up to the second floor. When you get there yell for Biggles. He'll answer you and then you'll know which room he's in. Then all you have to do is to bash in the door with the axe and make for the car.'
'Pretty good,' admitted Algy admiringly, 'when did you think of all this?'
'Think of it! I didn't have to think; it just came sort of natural.'
Algy grinned. 'Good enough,' he said, 'let's cut those cudgels.'
In a few minutes they were on their way to the house. It was pitch dark, but Ginger seemed to have the eyes of a cat, and Algy followed him blindly, scratching his hands and face more than once on the brambles of the hedge.
'Don't make such a noise,' whispered Ginger, 'you remind me of an elephant in a jungle.'
'Where did you see an elephant in a jungle, anyway?'
'On the films. Quietly now. Here we are, that's the door you've got to watch; it's the back door and the one they'll come out of. Here's the tool house; wait a minute while I fetch the axe.' He was back in a moment and thrust the weapon into Algy's hand.
'Suppose they come out of the front door?' asked Algy.
'They won't. Now you keep under cover or they may spot you in the glare. Watch the fireworks – so long.' With the cudgel in his right hand and the tin of petrol in the other he vanished into the darkness. As silently as a ghost he made his way through the maze of outhouses until he came to the one he sought; it had once been a stable and the floor was still littered with straw; several trusses of hay were piled in the corner.
He unscrewed the lid of the petrol can easily, for he had given it a start before he left the car, and poured the spirit over the hay. He had stood the tin down on the floor, and was feeling in his pocket for the matches, when a slight sound made him turn. A long, low shadow was creeping towards him, making a deep growling sound as it advanced.
He felt the hair slowly rise on his scalp, and a prickling sensation ran down his spine. Then, as the sinister shadow drew level with the doorway, he saw that it was a huge black Alsatian, that was evidently kept in the stable. He caught his breath sharply, gripped his cudgel with both hands and waited; there was nothing else he could do, for the brute was between him and the door. The dog stopped, and for what seemed an eternity the two faced each other.
'Get out of here,' snapped Ginger.
Then the beast sprang. As the shadow left the floor Ginger leapt sideways, and brought the cudgel down with all his force; he aimed at its head, but struck an even more vulnerable spot, its muzzle. The click of the heavy piece of wood as it smashed on to the bone, made him feel sick, but he had no choice; the wolfish animal would tear him to pieces if it could. With a dreadful noise that was half a howl of pain and half a roar of rage it spun round as it landed on the floor and attacked again, but now keeping a watchful eye on the stick that Ginger whirled in front of him like a flail. Had the dog been a bulldog there could only have been one ending to such an encounter, but the Alsatian lacks the deadly dogged ferocity of its smaller brother. It charged again however, and Ginger was forced to step back; as he did so he trod on a thick object and something struck him a sharp blow on the back of the head. He knew what it was under his foot by the way it 'gave' – the stable broom. He had stepped on the bristles and the stick had flown up and hit him. He could not have wished for a more fortunate circumstance, for a broom with stiff bristles is the best defence in the world against an angry dog, a fact of which he was well aware. He dropped his cudgel and grabbed the broom. The Alsatian, seeing the cudgel fall, snatched at the opportunity and sprang, but the stiff wire-like bristles leapt out to meet him, and caught him fairly across the eyes. With a frightful howl it turned tail and dashed out of the doorway, followed by the broom. Ginger snatched up his cudgel with a trembling hand, for the experience had been an unnerving one, and took out his matches. He leapt like a deer away from the conflagration that seemed to spring towards the match as he struck it, and dashed out of the doorway looking to right and left for the dog; but it had disappeared.
He had barely reached the shelter of a clump of laurels when the back door was flung open and a man emerged.
'I'm sure I heard that dog bark,' he was saying to somebody inside, and then, raising his voice, 'Zulu! Here! Zulu! Here—' His call broke off abruptly as he saw the fire leaping skyward from the stables. 'Look out!' he yelled, 'get some water, the place's on fire.' He was joined by two other men and all three of them rushed into the open, each shouting instructions to the others. 'Get the hose, get the hose!' cried one. 'It's in the tool shed; buckets are no use.'
Ginger, from his place of concealment, saw Algy dart across the lurid glow into the back door; a sound of hammering came from inside the house even above the noise of the devouring flames.
'That fellow upstairs is trying to get out!' shouted one of the men, tugging at a length of garden hose, which was in a hopeless tangle.
'Let him!' screamed one of the others. 'He can't get out; if the house catches fire it'll save us a lot of trouble.' He ran across the courtyard, uncurling the hose as he ran, and cursing like a madman as he tried to straighten it out, came to a stop not a yard from the place where Ginger knelt, watching. By the merest chance he happened to look up just as Algy ran out of the house with Biggles limping beside him. 'Look out!' he yelled, and whipped out an automatic. The range was point blank, and in the glare of the now leaping flames, it was as light as day; to miss such a target as Biggles and Algy presented was almost impossible, for Biggles was unable to move very fast, and they still had seven or eight yards to go before they could reach the cover of the nearest out-buildings.
The man – it was the one who Biggles knew so well – raised his weapon and took deliberate aim.
Ginger sprang to his feet, and taking the end of the cudgel in both hands, brought it round with a terrific swipe straight across the man's shins. Under the force of the blow, the wood, a piece of tough ash, flew to splinters. The man let out a piercing shriek of anguish; the automatic flew out of his grasp and he crashed to the ground, clutching at his injured legs and moaning dreadfully.
At his first yell of agony the other two men had looked toward him, and seeing what was happening added their shouts to the din. Ginger leapt into the open, snatched up the automatic and pointed it towards them. It was no time to utter warnings, he decided, and began pumping out lead as fast as he could pull the trigger. Five rounds he fired before the two men, who had fled before his fusillade, disappeared round a corner of the house. Where his bullets went Ginger did not know, nor did he stop to find out; he dropped the weapon into his pocket and dashed off in the direction taken by Biggles and Algy. Rounding the end of the outbuildings he saw that they were about fifty yards away, Biggles hobbling as fast as he could towards the road with Algy helping him.
A shot rang out from somewhere behind, and Ginger faced round, feeling in his pocket for the automatic. One of the men was close behind him, but he dashed back as Ginger's gun blazed in his face. A piece of brick flew out of the wall not a foot from his head.
'Stay back there!' yelled Ginger, 'or I'll drill you like – like a. . . now what the dickens do they drill people like?' he growled. 'Colander – that's it.' Then, raising his voice, 'I'll drill you guys into a colander –two colanders,' he bellowed. Then, to himself, as he retreated down the drive, 'That doesn't sound right to me; I'll have to look that up in a book.'
'Keep going,' he called to Biggles and Algy, who had turned round to wait for him when they saw him coming. 'Get to
the car.'
A bullet whistled over his head, but it was the last one of the action.
'You be careful what you are doing with that gun, my lad,' Biggles told him seriously, as Algy started up the car, and they climbed in. 'You had better give it to me before you hurt yourself; where did you get it?'
'Spoils of war,' replied Ginger, 'I shall need it, too, from what I can see of it, if I am going to see much of you two.'
'Where are we going,' asked Algy from the wheel.
'Anywhere,' replied Biggles. 'Let's get away from here for a start; then we'll make for the nearest town. Where is the machine?'
'Cramlington.'
'Where are we now?'
'About an hour's run from Newcastle.'
'Then make for Newcastle. We'll get rooms there for the night and then tomorrow decide what we are going to do; we shall have a lot to talk about.'
'What I should like to know is, how the dickens did you get up here?' asked Algy, as they sped along the road.
'I'll tell you all about it presently,' replied Biggles. 'What I want is some food, a bath and a general overhaul.'
Chapter 6
Council Of War
Two days later they sat basking in the autumn sun-shine at a quiet spot on the aerodrome at Cramlington. Nothing of interest or importance had occurred since the rescue, for which Biggles' sincere thanks had brought a flush of pleasure to Ginger's face. They had compared notes and decided that in the circumstances their obvious and proper course was to report the whole matter to the authorities and leave them to finish the affair with the more efficient resources at their disposal.
Biggles had accordingly drafted out a detailed report, describing the position of the hidden flood-lights, and despatched it to the Intelligence branch of the Air Ministry. Having thus washed their hands of the affair, as they thought, they had discussed Ginger's future, with the result that they had decided to take him back to London with them and endeavour to secure his entry into the Royal Air Force as an aircraft apprentice, failing which they would use their influence to get him a place in one of the many aircraft manufacturing firms they knew, with a view to subsequently obtaining his ticket as a ground engineer. Biggles had also agreed, in return for his part in the rescue, to have him taught to fly at a school – a proposal mat met with Ginger's entire approval. They were in no immediate hurry to return, so they spent their time between Newcastle and the aerodrome, waiting for Biggles's ankle, which was rapidly mending, to become quite sound again.
Algy had given Ginger several flights in the Vandal and had shown him how to work the controls; on one occasion, to his intense joy, Ginger had even been allowed to hold the joystick for a few minutes while they were in the air.
'It was my lucky day when I fell in with you and no mistake,' he said with an emphasis that made them laugh. Indeed, the lad's strange, but inoffensive air of familiarity and self assurance, combined with his occasional lapses into American film jargon, caused them endless amusement.
'Don't be too sure of that,' Biggles told him seriously, 'we never know quite what is going to happen next – Hullo, this fellow's looking for us I fancy.'
A steward had appeared round a corner of the club-house and was pointing them out to two smartly-dressed men, who walked quickly towards them.
'Major Bigglesworth?' asked one as they came up.
'That is my name,' replied Biggles. 'Forgive me for not getting up, but I've had a little trouble with one of my ankles.'
'Certainly. I am Squadron Leader Taglen, of the Air Ministry, and this is Colonel Barlow of the Special Intelligence. You sent in a report recently.'
'I did.'
'Why did you do that?'
'Why?' Biggles opened his eyes wide. 'Because I thought you would be glad to have the information.'
'Was it intended to be a joke?'
Biggles frowned. 'What do you mean?' he asked tersely. 'It was anything but a joke for us I can assure you.'
Taglen looked at him queerly. 'I cannot think of any other reason why you should send us off on such a wild goose chase. We know your record, of course. You have been an officer, a responsible officer holding a Command. What made you do this, Bigglesworth?'
Biggles stared at him in amazement. 'What the dickens are you driving at?' he replied curtly. 'Are you suggesting that I'm a liar? You can soon satisfy yourself of the truth of the matter by inspecting the places I named in my report. I told you exactly where you would find the switches controlling the floodlight.'
'I know; we've been there.'
'Then why do you take this attitude?'
Taglen looked at Colonel Barlow with an odd expression, men back at Biggles. 'Are you really serious?' he asked.
'Dash it all, man, do you think I'd be likely to invent such a yarn?'
'We thought not, but there is little to substantiate it.'
'But the floodlights?'
'There are no floodlights there – nothing at all.'
Biggles sprang to his feet, his injured ankle forgot-ten. 'Good God!' he cried, suddenly understanding. 'But you saw the mark on the wall?'
"There is no mark.'
'But the switch under the floor?'
'If there is a switch we were unable to find it.'
Biggles threw up his hands. 'I might have guessed it,' he muttered bitterly. 'But what about that house, though, where I was held prisoner?' he added quickly.
'There is no such house.'
'You mean you couldn't find it?'
'We found where there had been a house.'
'Don't talk in riddles, man, what do you mean?'
'The house has been burnt down; there is only a charred skeleton left.'
Biggles looked at Ginger with a grim smile. You either made a bigger bonfire than you intended, my lad – or else they have deliberately burnt the place down to cover up their tracks. Well, Taglen, I am sorry,' he went on, turning to the others, 'but I can only give you my word that everything I told you in that report was true, and to my mind the subsequent actions of these people, the swift and efficient way in which they have removed all traces, goes to show how serious the matter is.'
'Personally, I believe you,' Taglen told him, 'but whether the higher authority will take the same view or not I cannot say. But one thing is certain: there is nothing left for us to work on, not a single clue. If you hear any more about the affair, or pick up the thread again, perhaps you will be good enough to let me know. You can always get in touch with me at the Ministry.'
'I will.'
'That's all there is to be said then; we might as well be getting back. Good morning, Bigglesworth.'
'Well what do you know about that?' asked Biggles, after the two officials had departed. 'By James, these people waste no time; they knew we should have to report the matter as soon as I got away, and acted accordingly. They're smart and no mistake. Well, come on.'
'Where are you going?' asked Algy.
'Norfolk. Before I do anything else I am going to satisfy myself that what these fellows told us is true. I don't doubt it for an instant, mind you, but – well, I'd just like to have a look around. What are you going to do?' The last remark was addressed to Ginger, who had whipped a flying cap and pair of goggles from his pocket – two presents from Algy.
Ginger's face fell. 'Aren't I coming with you?' he cried despairingly. His disappointment was so genuine that Biggles' heart softened.
'But this is all very fine, my lad,' he said, 'what is your father going to say if anything happens to you? This may turn out to be no joyride you know.'
'Oh there's no need to worry about that,' replied Ginger quickly, 'I wrote a postcard from Newcastle to say I'd got a job, flying.'
'And what did he say to that? Was he pleased?'
'Well – er—' Ginger looked sheepish. 'Not exactly pleased. He said—' He took a dirty envelope from his pocket.
'Just what did he say – come on, let's have the truth.'
'Well, if you must know, he said that if I broke
my blinking neck it would be my own fault.'
'And he'll be quite right. Very well, you can come, but you do what you're told – understand?'
Ginger nodded. 'OK, chief,' he said brightly.
They reached the creek on the Norfolk coast about the middle of the afternoon, and after a brief survey of the landscape from the air, landed in exactly the same place as when they had been forced down by the storm. Seen in the clear light of day, its utter solitude was even more depressing than before, for the only signs of life were the wheeling seagulls. They taxied to the beach and walked quickly up to the hut, where a quick examination revealed that what Taglen had told them was true in every detail. Not a sign or mark of any sort remained; the place might have been unvisited since it was abandoned at the end of the War; even the candle had gone, and the mark on the wall had been carefully erased. They dug into the sandy floor, but all they uncovered was more sand.
'Well, that's that,' observed Biggles. 'I don't think it's any use going back to the place on the Northumberland coast, because if they have made such a thorough clean up here, they will certainly have done the same thing there. It looks as if we've come to a dead end.'
'Not quite,' said Algy slowly, 'I've still a card up my sleeve.'
'What's that?' asked Biggles sharply.
'You remember the night you left me here, and I crept up to the hut to see what I could find out?'
'Perfectly well.'
'I risked a peep through the window, and this is what I saw. The head chap – you know, the one with the black beard—'
Biggles nodded.
'He had got a map held up against the wall,' went on Algy. 'I couldn't see very much, but I just had time to spot one or two things. The first was that there were several marks – six or seven I should think – on the east coast of England. We know about two of them; one was the place on which we are now standing, and the other was in Northumberland. If you remember, the sign on the wall had a number over it – a figure eight, in Roman numerals, wasn't it? Well, I should say this place was number eight; there are still six others that we haven't located. I noticed that one seemed to be somewhere in Essex, but I was too far away to see the exact spot. The important thing is though, that from each one of these places, a line had been drawn, in the way they mark shipping routes on a map, to a spot in Europe, which, I imagine, is the headquarters of the whole thing. It looked to me as if a course had been plotted on the map to each one of the places over here.'
