Biggles In Africa

by W E Johns

  ‘Plenty big enough for me,’ the aerodrome manager assured him. ‘Another big room here.’ He opened a communicating door and showed them an adjoining room which, in a primitive sort of way, was furnished as a bedroom.

  ‘These are all the rooms you have, aren’t they?’ asked Biggles, making a quick mental calculation of the overall dimensions of the place.

  ‘All except the kitchen. Kitchen’s over there.’ Sarda pointed to a small door on the opposite side of the living room.

  Biggles strolled over and opened it. As Sarda had said, the room into which it led was a small kitchen. But there was no one in it.

  ‘Well, well,’ he said smiling, ‘you’re better off than we are in the rest-house. What we really came down for was to ask you if you’d care to have two or three tins of preserved fruit; we’ve got quite a large stock.’

  ‘Thanks,’ answered Sarda with alacrity.

  ‘Come across and collect them when you have time,’ Biggles told him, and with a cheerful wave of farewell, led the way back to their quarters. Inside the rest-house Algy gave full rein to his astonishment. ‘Well, I’m dashed,’ he muttered. ‘If that doesn’t beat the band. I’d have bet my life some one was in there.’

  ‘It’s time you knew that betting is called a mug’s game,’ smiled Biggles.

  ‘I had a good look round and there wasn’t an inch of space unaccounted for,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Sarda is the only man in that house.’

  ‘In which case he must have been talking to himself.’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  Algy started. ‘You mean that he was talking to somebody?’

  Biggles nodded.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ah I That’s what we’ve got to find out.’

  ‘But where has the other fellow gone?’

  ‘He was never there.’

  ‘Are you trying to be funny?’

  ‘Far from it. Mr. Sarda was speaking to somebody, but the person with whom he was conversing might be anywhere in Africa.’

  ‘You mean—!’

  ‘He was talking on the telephone.’

  ‘Great heavens! I never thought of that. But I didn’t see a telephone.’

  ‘Neither did I, but I saw the wire.’

  ‘Here he comes now,’ put in Ginger quickly.

  Biggles made one of those quick decisions that had been responsible for much of his success in the past. ‘Look, Ginger,’ he said tersely, ‘slip across to the hangar. As soon as you see Sarda come in here, nip down to the bungalow, find the telephone receiver by following the lead-in wire, and, if you can, pick it up and see if you can get on to anybody without giving yourself away. Jump to it; we might find it difficult to keep Sarda here for very long.’

  Ginger went out as Sarda came in, and Biggles selected from the stores the tins of preserved fruit that he had promised him.

  ‘Ah! Here you are,’ he said. Then, as a thought struck him, he added, ‘Have a drink?’

  An unpleasant smile spread over Sarda’s face. ‘Yaas,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t let you have much,’ apologized Biggles, ‘because we don’t carry liquor in the ordinary sense of the word—just a bottle of brandy for medicinal purposes in case of accident; still, I don’t suppose it will taste any the worse for that. Where the dickens did you put that bottle, Algy?’ he went on, making a long business of finding it, and then polishing a glass carefully before pouring a small measure of the spirit into it. Anything to gain time.

  ‘Did you find a new landing-ground this morning, huh?’ asked the half-caste, sipping with relish the brandy that Algy had passed over to him.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘No ; I’m afraid it’s going to be a big job,’ he replied. ‘I think it would be a better proposition if a little more money was spent on this place, which would mean better business for you, eh?’

  Sarda looked doubtful.

  ‘Insula wouldn’t be a very popular place, of course, if you are going to allow mambas and things to crawl about people’s machines,’ went on Biggles good humouredly, with the object of putting to rest in Sarda’s mind any idea that they suspected him of being concerned with the snake incident.

  The half-caste laughed boisterously. ‘You bet,’ he said ambiguously, putting down the now empty glass. ‘You flying again to-day, huh?’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Yes, we shall make another flight presently,’ he answered. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ginger bolt out of the bungalow and run towards the hangar, so he knew there was no point in delaying Sarda any longer. ‘Well, well, we’ll be seeing you sometimes,’ he smiled.

  The aerodrome manager picked up the tins that Biggles had given him. ‘Yaas,’ he said again, noncommittally, and with a nod of thanks left them.

  ‘That fellow’s “yaas” gets monotonous,’ muttered Algy after he had gone.

  ‘It does rather, but no doubt his English vocabulary is a bit limited. But unless I’m mistaken, it will be when he starts saying “no” that the fun will begin. But here comes Ginger. My goodness, the lad’s pale. He’s discovered something, judging by the look on his face.’

  Ginger burst into the rest-house, but stopped short just inside the door, staring at the others.

  ‘Well?’ asked Biggles shortly. ‘Have you got cramp in your tongue?’

  Ginger nodded. ‘I have had,’ he answered grimly. ‘I found that ‘phone: it’s in a little box in the kitchen. I took it out, put it to my ear, and wound up the thing like a self-starter. After a minute a voice said “Hello”, but it sounded a long way away. I said “Hello”. Then a voice said, “You’re English? For God’s sake help me”. I said “Who are you ?” Then he told me his name.’ Ginger stopped, unconsciously dramatic.

  Biggles eyed him coldly. ‘Keep going,’ he said. ‘What was the name ?’

  Ginger tossed his hat on to the table. ‘Harry Marton,’ he said simply.

  CHAPTER IV

  SINISTER DEVELOPMENTS

  THERE was a profound silence which lasted for some seconds after Ginger had made his momentous announcement.

  Biggles was the first to speak. ‘Well, well,’ he said in a quiet voice, while a curious smile spread slowly over his face. It did not express humour so much as comical surprise. “This is a development that I did not expect,’ he added whimsically.

  Algy merely continued to stare at Ginger as if he could not believe his ears. ‘Well, it’s something to know young Marton is still alive,’ he observed presently in a tense voice.

  Biggles hoisted himself on to a corner of the table and rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘What’s going on here, I wonder?’ he murmured. ‘This has sort of taken the wind out of my sails with a vengeance. We shall have to readjust our ideas, that’s certain. What earthly reason could any one have for kidnapping a perfectly harmless lad like Harry Marton? If any one can tell me the answer to that I should be very glad.’

  ‘Maybe somebody wanted his machine,’ suggested Ginger.

  Biggles looked at him thoughtfully. ‘There’s something in that,’ he said seriously. ‘But why not get rid of him altogether instead of leaving him alive, perhaps to bear witness one day against the thief, or thieves? He is certain to get away if ever he gets a chance.’

  ‘I think we may assume that the people who are holding him are not likely to give him a chance,’ ventured Algy grimly. ‘I should say myself that he had either seen something, or heard something, that he shouldn’t have seen or heard, and that’s why they’ve collared him.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Well, it’s not much use sitting here guessing; we’d better start and do something about it.’

  ‘Are you going to let old man Marton know that the boy’s alive?’ inquired Algy.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ replied Biggles, drumming on the table with his fingers. ‘We don’t know what’s behind this, and if a spy lets the people we are up against know what we know now, we may be the means of causing the boy’s death. It would be a gha
stly thing to raise the old man’s hopes only to dash them down again. I think we’d better keep our knowledge to ourselves for the present. Obviously the first thing we’ve got to do is to find out the direction in which that telephone of Sarda’s leads, in order to get an idea of where the other end of it is. When we know that I fancy our troubles will begin in earnest.’

  ‘Why take the risk? Why not let the authorities know the truth so that they can handle the affair? They’ve a better chance of clearing things up than we have.’

  ‘And a better chance of putting the tin hat on the whole thing. One of the troubles of a service is that it can’t move without people knowing. It would be fatal to let the world know that Harry Marton is alive, and we should have to reveal that fact before the authorities would help us. After that anything might happen, but Marton would disappear for ever and we should just look a trio of fools.’

  ‘Well, what’s our first move to be ?’ asked Ginger impatiently.

  Biggles did not answer for a minute or two. ‘I think the first thing should be to get on friendly terms with Sarda and allay any suspicions that we may have aroused in his mind. I only hope that Marton hasn’t given the game away at his end of the line. It’s a pity we don’t know the direction of it or we could do a bit of exploring from up topsides. We don’t know that yet, but I hope we shall soon find out. Meanwhile, I think it might be a good plan to pretend to leave the place for a time, in which case Sarda might make a move that would tell us something. I say “pretend” because I should remain concealed in the hangar to watch what happened after the machine was out of the way. You can take her off and cruise around, keeping out of earshot. You might spot something, but I don’t think you will, because the other end of that telephone must be a long way away or it wouldn’t be necessary to have a telephone at all. Come on, let’s be going.’

  Within a quarter of an hour the Dragon’s engines were ticking over just in front of the hangar, a position from which only the front part of it was visible from the bungalow. Then, all wearing flying kit, they made a business of getting aboard; but when the machine took off Biggles was sitting on an empty oil drum at the back of the hangar.

  Within five minutes of the machine leaving the ground Sarda emerged from the bungalow and walked towards the hangar in a manner that left no doubt but that he had a definite object in view. Biggles saw him coming and looked around quickly for a place of concealment. There was none, but a pile of old sacking lying in a corner—kept, so Sarda had told them, for covering engines when the wind was raising a dust—offered possibilities. Holding his breath, for the pile looked a likely home for crawling things of all sorts, Biggles lay down beside the sacks and pulled them over him. Almost at once he heard the soft pad of Sarda’s footsteps. There was silence for a moment; then he heard them receding. After a cautious peep to make sure that the coast was clear, he lost no time in evacuating his undesirable nest, and shaking himself violently to dislodge the ants that were already indicating their disapproval at being disturbed, he dashed across to the flimsy wall and peered through a crack just in time to see Sarda go back into the bungalow. He waited, fully expecting to see him come out again, but that evidently was not the half-breed’s intention.

  Then began an interminable wait which caused Biggles to wish fervently that he had decided on some other plan, for what with the heat, which was almost unendurable, and the flies, which kept up a vicious and continuous attack on all exposed parts of his person, he was driven nearly to distraction. Torn between discarding his clothes on account of the heat, and muffling himself up in his flying kit as protection against the insects, he could only pace up and down, stopping every few seconds to glance at the bungalow. Leave the hangar he dare not for fear Sarda should see him, in which case the half-breed’s suspicions would certainly be increased rather than allayed.

  An hour and a half passed in this way, and just as Biggles had reached the point when he felt that whatever the cost might be he must rush out into the open or go mad, he heard a sound that set his blood tingling and caused his troubles to recede to insignificance. It was the sound of an aero engine, a single engine, ever increasing in volume, and before he had time to conjecture who the stranger might be a black-painted Puss Moth had swept low over the hangar and landed in the middle of the aerodrome. Swinging round almost in its own length, it then taxied tail up in the direction of the rest-house, towards which Sarda was now walking briskly.

  From his hiding-place Biggles saw the door of the cabin open, and a short, stockily built man step out on to the baked earth; he beckoned impatiently to the half-caste, who broke into a run and joined him near the door of the rest-house, where a swift altercation took place. It was only of short duration, but from it Biggles learned two things. The first was that the new-comer was a foreigner; and the second, that he was either Sarda’s employer or superior officer. That he was not English was revealed clearly by the way he waved his hands when talking; and that Sarda was his employee was made obvious by the half-caste’s servile manner. Indeed, his servility was not far short of abject fear. So much Biggles was able to surmise within a minute of time. That the stranger did not intend staying long was also suggested by the fact that he left his machine out in the broiling sun with the engine ticking over; so Biggles was disagreeably surprised when, instead of getting back into his machine at the end of the conversation, the Puss Moth pilot strode into the rest-house, closely followed by Sarda.

  Biggles bit his lip, for this was something he had not foreseen. In the rest-house were their belongings—papers and miscellaneous kit that were too bulky to be carried about in their pockets—and the last thing he wanted was their inspection by the lessees of Insula aerodrome. Even although it meant disclosing himself, he knew he must prevent that, for amongst his papers were letters from Mr. Marton.

  Swiftly, and without any attempt at concealment, he walked towards the rest-house. As he approached it the voices of the occupants, speaking in broken English, reached him clearly, and he slowed down to listen. ‘Here it is,’ the new-corner was saying. ‘Do what I tell you and we shall have no more trouble. Nuzzing could be more simple.’

  ‘But—’ began Sarda, but the stranger interrupted him. ‘Say no more,’ he said shortly. ‘Leave all ze rest to us; we make ze finish.’

  Then fell a silence that Biggles could not understand, so he walked quickly to the open door and looked in. One glance was enough. The pilot, clad only in a thin sweater, shorts, shoes and stockings, was opening Biggles’s log-book, which he had just taken from the kit-bag that lay open at his feet. Sarda, with a white envelope in his hand, was watching him closely. Neither of them saw Biggles standing in the doorway, and the announcement of his arrival was dramatic.

  ‘Can I help you ?’ he said quietly.

  At the words, both Sarda and the stranger leapt round as if a gun had been fired. Sarda’s hand flew to his shirt and the stranger’s went to his hip pocket. In that position they remained, while Biggles eyed them coldly. ‘I said, can I help you?’ he repeated.

  A queer expression crossed the stranger’s face, while Sarda simply stared at him as if waiting for a lead. Presently it came.

  ‘Ha! Why zere you are,’ cried the pilot effusively, removing his hand from his pocket. ‘Zis fool ‘ere’—he indicated Sarda— ‘told me you were in ze air.’

  ‘I changed my mind,’ answered Biggles calmly. ‘Have you finished with my log-book? If so, I’ll put it back.’

  The other smiled apologetically. ‘I vas just interest to know who come to zis part of ze world,’ he explained with an expressive shrug of his shoulders.

  ‘Well, I can tell you all about it,’ replied Biggles suavely. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a drink. My name is Bigglesworth.’

  ‘Mine is... Leroux—Leon Leroux.’

  Biggles knew from the momentary hesitation that the man was lying, but he did not let him see it. ‘What are you doing in this part of the world, anyway?’ he asked coolly.

  ‘Oh, I fly
for Stampoulos et Cie, of Cairo. They have tobacco plantations near.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over zare.’ The other waved his hand vaguely.

  ‘You’re French, aren’t you ?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Prefer to fly a British machine, though, eh?’

  ‘My firm buy ze aeroplane, not me,’ answered the Frenchman quickly.

  ‘That’s a mistake,’ smiled Biggles. ‘I wouldn’t work for a firm who didn’t allow me to choose my equipment. But that’s neither here nor there. If you leave your machine out in the sun much longer the dope will be blistered off it.’

  The other walked towards the door. ‘Yes,’ he said, and then hesitated. ‘You are ver’ interested in zis aerodrome, is it not?’ he inquired, eyeing Biggles shrewdly.

  ‘More or less. We’ve been asked to have a look round,’ answered Biggles casually.

  ‘It is a bad place. Ze fever—’

  `Yes, I know,’ interrupted Biggles smiling. ‘I’ve heard all about it from Sarda. Still, we shan’t be here long,’ he added.

  `No, you will not be here long,’ agreed the other slowly, in an expressionless voice, as he walked towards his machine.

  Biggles followed him out, wondering what he was really thinking, for the formal conversation had meant nothing, and he was well aware of it. His eyes ran quickly over the machine as Leroux got into his seat. Then he stepped back out of the slipstream as the engine roared, and waved his hand as the machine raced across the barren earth and into the air.

  He turned to find Sarda watching him narrowly. ‘I suppose Mr. Leroux often comes here?’ he observed, hoping to lead him into conversation.

  But Sarda was not to be drawn. ‘He my boss,’ he said in a surly voice, and turning on his heel, walked quickly towards the bungalow.

  Biggles retired to the rest-house and sat down to contemplate the situation. He was still sitting there deep in thought when, twenty minutes later, the Dragon landed and the others joined him.