by W E Johns
‘Well, have you discovered anything?’ he asked.
Algy shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he answered laconically. ‘Have you?’
‘Yes,’ replied Biggles.
Algy started, and Ginger’s eyes whipped round to his chief. ‘What is it?’ they both asked together.
‘While you’ve been away a machine has landed here, a Puss Moth belonging to the Stampoulos Company—the people we’re up against. The pilot, with whom I had a short conversation, told me his name was Leroux, but unless I am mistaken, he is Jean Lazarre, who lost his job with the Aeropostale people a few years ago for being drunk on duty. I’ve never seen him in the flesh, but I remember seeing his photo in the French paper L’Aile, when he was reckoned to be one of the best civil pilots in France. What happened to him afterwards I never heard, but he is here now, doing the sort of job one would expect a man of his sort to be on.’
‘Anything else ?’ asked Algy.
Biggles lit a cigarette and put his heel on the match. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘As I told you, Leroux—we’d better call him that for the time being—is flying a Puss. It is painted black, but here and there where the paint has peeled off one can see another colour underneath; and that colour is—’
‘Red,’ muttered Ginger succinctly.
Biggles smiled. ‘For one of such tender years your perspicacity approaches the abnormal,’ he observed approvingly.
There was silence for a few moments. ‘And what now?’ asked Algy, opening a bottle of soda water.
‘As you rightly remark, what now ?’ murmured Biggles. ‘Things are moving fast—almost too fast. We shall skid if we aren’t careful. I caught Leroux in here going through my log-book. He has given something to Sarda, something to do with us, I believe, but I don’t know what it is. Leroux suspects that we are what we really are, that’s certain, but how much he actually knows about us is more than I can say. I fancy Sarda told him over the telephone that the machine had gone off, so he took the opportunity of slipping over to have a word with him and give him some instructions. We’ve got to watch out.’
‘Which way did Leroux go when he took off?’
‘Due east.’
‘Which means that his head-quarters are somewhere in that direction.’
‘You may be right, but I fancy it is more likely to mean that the plantation—or whatever it is—lies to the west. That is, unless Leroux is a bigger fool than I take him to be. Even before he took off I made a mental note that he would choose a line of flight other than the one he is most concerned with.’
‘What can we do to confirm it ?’
‘Nothing at present, but as soon as it is dark I propose to find out the direction in which our objective lies.’
‘How ?’
‘By seeing which way the telephone wire goes. That’s bound to go straight to it, because when it was set up there was surely no need to lay a false trail. So unless any one has a better plan, what I suggest is this. As soon as it is dark I am going down to the back of the bungalow to find out where the telephone lead emerges, and then follow it for a distance—that is, assuming it is an overhead wire, as I expect it will be. You’d better come with me, Algy, to keep cave. Ginger will have to stay in the hangar while we’re away to guard the machine. With Sarda prowling about I don’t think it would be wise to leave it even for a moment. We don’t want to get in it tomorrow and then find that a longeron has been sawn through, or a turnbuckle unscrewed.’
‘No, you’re right there,’ declared Algy emphatically.
‘Good! Then if that’s settled a bite of lunch won’t do us any harm.’
The remainder of the day passed slowly, though rather than waste time they employed themselves by refuelling the machine and giving it a top overhaul. But the heat and the flies were trying, and they were all glad when the sun sank behind the distant hills and darkness fell. There was no moon, but one by one the stars came out and glowed against a background of sky that was like purple velvet.
‘Well, I think it’s dark enough to be moving,’ announced Biggles, when he was satisfied that it was safe to act. ‘You know what you are to do, Ginger? Whatever happens, don’t leave the machine. If Sarda starts monkeying around, stop him; we shan’t be far away—not out of earshot, anyway.’
‘Good enough, Chief,’ answered Ginger firmly. ‘Can I take one of the rifles?’
‘You may, but be careful what you’re up to. Don’t shoot me or Algy if we happen to walk in unexpectedly.’
‘I’ll try not to,’ promised Ginger, smiling. ‘I don’t mind Sarda, but the idea of things creeping about gives me the pins and needles down the back.’
‘Never mind the pins and needles: you look after that machine,’ Biggles told him as, with Algy by his side, he set off on a detour that would bring them to the rear of the bungalow, from the window of which a shaft of yellow light told them that Sarda was at home.
Neither of them was accustomed to night work in a country where wild beasts roamed at large; it called for an entirely different form of mental strength from flying, and more than once they stopped and strained their eyes in the gloom when a slight sound suggested that they were not alone in the coppice. They saw nothing, however, but it took them a good deal longer to reach their objective than they had allowed for. Further, the business of finding the telephone lead in the darkness—for with the windows of the bungalow blind-less, they dare not risk striking a match—was more difficult than they expected. In the end they found it, but by that time Biggles’s watch told him that they had been away for nearly two hours.
‘We shall have to move faster than this or we shall be out all night,’ he breathed as, feeling along the wire with his hand, he followed it to an insulator on a tree some ten or twelve yards away from the house.
Thereafter there was no great difficulty in following the wire, but it was slow work. Once they nearly stampeded as a dark form sprang up just in front of them and dashed away into the darkness.
‘We ought to have brought rifles with us,’ growled Algy as he stood staring wildly in the direction in which the beast had disappeared. ‘Automatics are about as much use as pea-shooters in this sort of place. What do you suppose that was?’
‘I haven’t the remotest idea,’ answered Biggles irritably. ‘It might have been anything except an elephant, and it wasn’t big enough for that. Where’s that confounded wire?’
It took them some minutes to find it again, but shortly afterwards it emerged from the coppice into the open plain where, supported at intervals by bamboo poles sunk into the ground, it went in a straight line for as far as they could see. The direction, as Biggles pointed out with a nudge at Algy, was due west.
They followed it for a little way, but the direction remained constant, and at last Biggles stopped. ‘I don’t think there is any point in following it farther,’ he said. ‘If we fly on a compass course due west, sooner or later we shall find what we’re looking for.’
‘Could we see the wire from the air, do you think, if we flew low?’ asked Algy.
‘I doubt it,’ replied Biggles. ‘That is, not unless we flew very low, which might be a bit risky in this sort of country. In the early morning, while the sun is at an angle, we might sec the shadows of the poles on the ground, but in the middle of the day, with the sun slap overhead, there wouldn’t be any shadows. Anyway, I don’t think we need worry about that. If we fly west, and fly high, we shall be able to see at least fifty or sixty miles in all directions in this atmosphere, and—hark!’
Both Biggles and Algy sprang round as the silence was broken suddenly by an unmistakable noise. It was the soft, rhythmic purr of aero engines ticking over.
‘Great heaven! That’s the Dragon,’ gasped Algy.
‘I didn’t think it was a buffalo,’ rasped Biggles. ‘What does that young fool think he’s up to, I wonder?’
Even then it did not occur to either of them that the machine was preparing to take off.
‘He’ll fetch Sarda out to see what�
�s going on, the young ass,’ began Algy. He got no farther, but clutched Biggles’s arm as, with a deafening roar, the engines broke into full song. For a moment or two the noise receded, then it increased again to earsplitting force as it swept towards them. Staring up, they could just make out the dark silhouette of the machine as it raced low across the sky on a westerly course.
As the sound faded away Biggles pulled his paralysed faculties together. ‘Come on,’ he cried; and regardless of Sarda, wild beasts, or anything else, he sprinted for dear life towards the hangar.
Ducking under branches and jumping over obstacles, Algy followed until, panting and dishevelled, they dashed into the empty shed.
‘Ginger,’ cried Biggles sharply.
There was no reply.
With trembling fingers Biggles struck a match and looked around the floor, afraid of what he might find. His eyes fell on a rifle lying in the dust; it was one of their own, and he glanced at Algy with a peculiar expression on his face. Then, as the match went out, he drew a deep breath. ‘Well,’ he said, in a hopeless sort of voice, ‘that’s that. I can’t say I blame myself or any one else; it’s hard for any one to make allowances for this sort of thing. We’d better go down to the rest-house and talk it over.’
In the gaping doorway of the hangar they met Sarda, lantern in hand.
‘What is happening here ?’ he asked with studied politeness. ‘Did I hear an aeroplane—huh?’
‘Oh, no; it was just the breeze sighing through the trees,’ sneered Biggles sarcastically. ‘Come on, Algy.’
Without another word they set off towards the rest-house.
CHAPTER V
ALONE WITH A LION
GINGER had been by no means happy when he left the others to take up his position of guard over the Dragon. He was not exactly afraid, but the idea of remaining alone, in the dark, in a building that would not have kept out a determined sheep, in the heart of lion-infested country, gave him—to use his own expression—pins and needles down the back. Nevertheless, it did not occur to him to quibble at his allotted task.
On reaching the hangar his first act was to go into the machine and unlock the armament chest with the key he had obtained from Biggles. From it he selected an Express rifle and a clip of ammunition. Then he relocked the chest, put the key in his pocket, loaded the weapon, and with it resting across his knees, took up a position on an oil-drum at the rear of the building from which it was possible to command a view of the whole machine, the dark bulk of which he could just distinguish in the gloom.
For a time all was silent, but the minutes passed slowly. Once a lion roared in the far distance, and the sound did nothing to make him feel happier. Later, strange noises began to occur; soft rustlings and unexplainable whispering sounds. What caused these he did not know, but as they were obviously animal and not human, he did not investigate. Once, too, he distinctly heard the faint swish of wings over his head, and looking up fearfully, with eyes now accustomed to the darkness, he could just make out the form of a huge bat that circled the hangar thrice before disappearing as mysteriously as it had arrived.
In such circumstances he had not the slightest fear of going to sleep, but in this he was mistaken, for as the night wore on, although he certainly did not sleep, he was by no means wide awake when a fresh sound brought every nerve in his body with a rush to the alert. Somewhere, not far away, a dry twig had snapped. Obviously, only a weight could have caused the twig to break, and he was well aware of it, although at the moment just what shape the weight in question took he had no means of knowing. He was not kept long in suspense. There came a soft footfall, a muttered word, and then a harsh, crackling noise. A wide slit of star-studded sky appeared, and he knew that one of the rush-plaited doors of the hangar had been opened. No longer was he in any doubt as to the character of the visitors. Animals might break twigs, but they did not open doors.
Leaving his seat, he crept stealthily as far back in the hangar as possible, both in order to prevent his face being seen and in the hope that he might see something of the visitors who, until then, had been just outside his field of view on account of the machine. He saw them at once. It was too dark for faces to be recognized, but by his outstanding physique he could see that one was Sarda; the other was a short, stoutish man whom he had never seen before.
Quietly and deliberately they opened the hangar doors wide, and then stood talking in whispers just inside.
Now Ginger was in what is commonly called a quandary. Should he challenge them, at the same time calling aloud for Biggles, or should he wait to see what they proposed to do? That was the problem with which he was faced. As he reasoned it out, he decided that if the men were on legitimate business, which admittedly seemed unlikely, his presence in the hangar and his actions would make it clear to them that something in the nature of a trap had been set. In any case, if he shouted for help, and the others came to his assistance, what could they say? What could they do? No doubt the intruders would soon find a feasible excuse for being there—anyway, Sarda, who, after all, as aerodrome manager had even more right there than he, Ginger, had. So he decided that the only thing he could do was to let them commit themselves by some act of sabotage, if such was their intention, before he disclosed his presence.
It was quite a sensible course to adopt, but he was utterly unprepared for what was to follow. Not when Sarda turned and walked away towards the bungalow did he suspect it; nor even when the stranger opened the door of the machine and got inside. When he heard the whirr of the self-starter the explanation struck him like a blow, but by that time the engines had come to life and the propellers were filling the hangar with a dust-laden whirlwind.
Now, only those who have stood immediately behind the revolving propellers of an aeroplane on a dusty aerodrome have any idea of just what the effect can be. Ginger was literally blinded—temporarily, of course. To open his eyes was a physical impossibility, so he could only grope his way to the machine. His questing hands found the tail, and worked their way along the fuselage until they came to the door. It was shut. By the time he got it open the machine was moving forward, slowly, but with swiftly increasing speed, and as the full desperation of the situation struck him he acted in a sort of frenzy of consternation. He dropped the rifle, for it only impeded him, and flung himself through the doorway. He was round in an instant, and although he was still unable to see, he managed to close the door behind him. Then he sank down and put his hands over his eyes, for the pain in them was intense.
It was two or three minutes before he could see reasonably well, and by that time the machine was in the air, banking steeply as the pilot turned. ‘I suppose I ought to be thankful that I’m inside,’ he thought, as he rose to his feet and blinked forwards towards the cockpit, where he could just see the vague outline of the pilot, clearly unaware of his presence, silhouetted against the glow of the luminous instrument board. Feeling in his pocket he took out his automatic. Then, with a sudden feeling of helplessness, he sat down again, for he perceived that although he held all the advantages of surprise attack—perhaps the most vital element in fighting of any sort—he was by no means master of the situation. To attempt to hold up Leroux —for such he assumed the pilot to be—at the point of a gun must be a palpable bluff, and the Frenchman, when confronted, could hardly fail to realize it. It would he no use telling him to go back and land. However much he, Ginger, might threaten, the man could ignore him with impunity, knowing perfectly well that he dare not use his weapon even if he was capable of shooting an unarmed man at point-blank range, for during the interval that must inevitably elapse while he was removing the body in order to get to the controls, the machine would fall out of control and crash. Added to this, there was always the risk of the body falling across the joystick and jamming it.
The more Ginger thought about it the more awkward the situation appeared. He had enough common sense to see that by revealing himself he automatically reduced by a considerable margin his chance of success in
any plan he might formulate. So in the end he did nothing, but resolved to preserve his advantage of surprise until the machine was on the ground, when it could be employed with telling effect.
He had barely reached this decision when, to his astonishment, the roar of the engines died away and the nose of the machine tilted down, the pilot obviously making preparations to land. He could see him peering down while he held the Dragon in a steady spiral glide.
In something like a panic, he looked about for a hiding-place, for the dark interior of the cabin was not the ideal place to start proceedings. The luggage compartment in the rear was clearly indicated, and into it he bundled just as the wheels touched the ground in a landing that was by no means smooth. For a minute or two he remained where he was, hardly daring to breathe, ears strained for any sound that might indicate the pilot’s movements. At first, after the machine had finished its run, he could hear him moving about, but then there was silence. Slowly, an inch at a time, with his automatic held at the ready, he opened the door. There was no sign of the pilot. With finger crooked round the trigger, he opened the door wider, but was still unable to see Leroux. With no sound in his ear but the beating of his heart, he crept out. The machine was empty. A short rush took him to the cockpit, but there was no one in it. Then the open cabin door told its own story. Leroux had left the machine.
Ginger must be forgiven for hesitating, for the situation was both unusual and nerve-testing. But he did not wait long. His first inclination was to get into the now vacated seat, push the throttle open and take off, and he strained his eyes through the windscreen to see what sort of country lay in front of him; but it was too dark to make out the details beyond the fact that the ground was covered with long, coarse grass with an isolated tree here and there. Whether he was facing an open runway, or whether the nose of the machine was pointing to the near edge of the landing-ground and the obstacles that would undoubtedly occur there, he could not tell, and anxious as he was to get away, he knew that to attempt to take off in such circumstances would be an act of madness. Where was Leroux? What on earth was he doing?
