Biggles and the Plot That Failed

by W E Johns

  In the end he fell back on compromise. He would go just a little way farther on. This he did. Again he stopped, looking, listening. He was actually turning back when, for the first time out of the silence there came a sound; one which at first puzzled him. Then he recognized it, for he had heard it before. It was the grunting, guttural noise made by camel drivers urging their beasts. They were coming towards him; and presently, as he stood there, he heard a few odd words of conversation.

  What was going on — at this hour of night? Was Adrian associated with it? Anxious as he was to return, he thought he should find out. It could be important.

  Moving quickly he took up a position behind a rock to watch. A minute or two one way or the other could make no difference. Or so he thought. A glance at the sky showed the cloud and the moon now very close. He realized of course that when they met it would be dark; but not how dark. All he hoped was that the moonlight would last long enough for him to see the approaching party. It did. Just.

  Another minute or two of feet padding in soft sand and from behind a mass of rock appeared the advance guard. It consisted of three men. One of them was Adrian, easily recognizable by his lean figure and his voice. Ginger could hardly believe his eyes. It was not so much that he was there as his behaviour. He was striding along with his two companions chatting as if they were on the best of terms. They went on and disappeared round the next buttress of rock. The camels, with three tall dark figures in charge of them, followed. They, too, disappeared from sight.

  Where they went Ginger did not know. He did not see them again. The sounds of their movements faded to silence. And there was no question of following, for at that moment the light went out. That is, the cloud overran the moon. The effect was as if all light had been switched off; and for the first time Ginger realized what darkness could really mean. The cloud rolled on, engulfing the remaining stars.

  He forgot about the caravan. He forgot about everything except the urgent necessity of getting back to the canyon before the storm broke; and this, he perceived with a twinge of alarm, was not going to be easy. He could not, literally, see his hand from a distance of inches. Which meant he couldn’t see anything. To make matters worse, if that were possible, a blaze of lightning temporarily blinded him. With it came a clap of thunder that sounded like the end of the world, the more so when there came the crash of falling rock as if something had struck a near-by hill. Or rocks may have been dislodged by vibration. Ginger didn’t know and he didn’t care; he was getting really scared.

  With his hands held out in front of him to prevent collision with obstructions, he groped his way towards what, judging from memory, he thought was the open desert. That would be the safest way. He would have firm ground under his feet. To try to find a passage through the hills in these conditions would be asking for trouble. With a hand shielding his eyes, he waited for the next flash of lightning, and when it came, accompanied by another deafening clap of thunder, he moved on quickly, keeping clear of the rocks he had glimpsed, in the direction of the canyon.

  Then, without further warning, as if the last flash had burst the overloaded cloud, the storm broke.

  It broke so suddenly, and with such violence, that it was as if the entire cloud had collapsed on the earth. Ginger gasped as a deluge of icy cold water nearly smothered him. He was utterly bewildered. He had expected sand; a sand-storm. Anything but this. Rain; in the middle of the worst desert on earth. He was shocked. It was not ordinary rain. He had never felt or seen anything like it, and he had known tropical monsoon weather. The noise dazed him. Dressed only in shorts and shirt he was of course drenched in an instant. Water poured off him. Feeling he was being drowned on his feet, he staggered to the nearest rock, and there he crouched, chattering with cold, his hands over his face to make breathing possible. All he could think was, how right Biggles had been, and what a fool he had been.

  He did not even consider moving. He could see nothing, hear nothing except thunder, the clatter of falling rocks and the steady roar of the rain. Even the lightning, diffused by the volume of water in the air, was a hideous white glare that revealed nothing. Ginger was, in fact, quite dazed by the suddenness of it, although there had been ample warning; but he couldn’t have imagined anything like this. Vaguely he wondered what Biggles and Bertie were doing. He was sure they must have been taken by surprise, too. Biggles had sensed a storm, but nothing had been said about rain.

  There was this about it, he pondered, as with his head between his knees and his hands over his face, he squatted hunched up against the rock. There was no wind. The water came down not in drops but in straight ramrods, as the saying is. With wind behind it the weight might well batter a man to death. That it could be so cold amazed him. How this could happen he did not know. One thing was certain: while the storm lasted it would be impossible to move, and folly to try.

  After he had become more or less accustomed to these fantastic conditions, his thoughts returned to Adrian. What had happened? What could have happened? What was he doing with the man he had once threatened to shoot on sight? At all events, Ginger could only assume that one of the men with whom he had been walking was Sekunder. Where were they going? For what purpose? The uncomfortable thought struck him that they might have been on the way, under Adrian’s guidance, to do some mischief to the aircraft. But he did not entertain the idea; it was too preposterous. Yet why were they moving through the night like a party of raiders? Was it possible that Adrian had changed his mind, believing he had been mistaken in Sekunder’s character? No. He was too level-headed to be fooled a second time.

  Ginger gave it up. There was nothing he could do about it, anyway. It was some consolation to know that Sekunder would not be able to do anything, either, while the storm persisted. The rain would answer the water problem for him, if he had been in short supply.

  Ginger, incredulously, became aware that water was running over his feet. Water, more precious than diamonds in the waterless areas of the great desert: yet here he was, sitting in a river. It was not to be believed, and he could have laughed at the irony of it. Then, with a start of anxiety, he remembered what Biggles had said about the floor of the canyon. It had once been the bed of a river. Was it possible that in such a flood as this it could carry enough water to put the aircraft in danger? He realized well enough what was happening. The rocks could not absorb the water; it would be pouring off them like water off a slate roof; and the dust-dry sand would not in a few minutes be able to deal with such an immense volume of liquid. The water would be soaked up eventually, of course, but for the time being it could only run about, gathering in pools in the low places. If the ground became waterlogged the machine might not be able to take off. So Ginger, helpless, unable to move, tortured himself with doubts and fears.

  How long it was before the freak storm began to recede he did not know. He lost count of time. He could not see the face of his watch. Wet, dejected and thoroughly miserable, he could only sit and wait for the cloud to unload its surplus water or pass on its way.

  The break came at last, as it was bound to. The thunder and lightning were now in the distance. Then, quite suddenly, the downpour subsided to a drizzle. Presently a broadening patch of wan grey light in the sky showed the position of the moon. The drizzle became a clammy mist. All noise stopped. Then the cloud parted as if a great curtain had been drawn to reveal such a spectacle as Ginger would not have believed possible. The depression, on the hard floor of which the machine had landed, had become a sea; a wide expanse of tranquil water, of strange beauty, in which the moon and the reappearing stars were faithfully reflected. Ginger stared at it, fascinated, telling himself it wasn’t true. The picture was more of a dream, a vision, than reality.

  The moon, a beautiful sight, wore a halo, with a filmy veil of mist still drawn across its face. The visibility it provided was not as good as Ginger could have wished, but there was now sufficient light for him to see his immediate surroundings, the new-born lake on the one side and a dim, g
hostly background of hills on the other. The rocks smoked with a strange unreality.

  He rose stiffly to his feet, thankful he was at last able to do something and still marvelling at the phenomena he had witnessed; a cloud-burst where, if reports were true, rain might not fall in a hundred years. He knew it could happen, but he did not expect to be present when it did. It explained some of the features of the empty land.

  As he set off along the fringe of the lake, sometimes splashing through shallow water — water which, he noticed, was already receding — he remembered that the caravan was somewhere in front of him, between him and the canyon. It must have stopped; but where? Beyond that he had no interest in it, his one concern being to get back to Biggles to report what he had seen. He could now see the face of his watch. The time was 3.30 a.m. So he had been out all night, he reflected. And what a night.

  Walking through a world that was once more silent except for the occasional murmur of running water, he was passing near the spot where he judged the tomb to be — he couldn’t see it for reason of intervening rocks — when his footsteps were arrested by the sound of voices, sometimes raised high as if in argument. So that’s where they are, he thought. He was tempted to investigate, but in his urgency to get to the canyon decided against it. It was more than likely, now the rain had stopped, that Biggles or Bertie would make a search for him, and he thought it better there should be no collision with Sekunder until the circumstances were known. So he hurried on.

  The moon was now low in the heavens, but it provided as much light as he needed to find his way — while he was in the open, anyway; and it was with relief that he found and turned into the opening through which the Merlin had entered the canyon. The ground underfoot was a series of puddles joined by rivulets of running water, which did not surprise him, and he went on until halted by a peremptory: ‘Who’s that?’

  He recognized Biggles’ voice. ‘It’s me,’ he answered quickly.

  ‘Good. I was just starting out to look for you,’ said Biggles, joining him. As they walked on together he went on: ‘Why did you go so far? I told you not to risk getting caught in the storm.’

  ‘I know you did, but how could anyone have imagined a storm like that? Is the machine all right?’

  ‘Yes, although at one time for a few minutes it looked as if we were going to be washed out. We were in a river, with the water up to the tops of the undercarriage wheels. But never mind about that. How did you get on? Any signs of Adrian?’

  ‘I saw him.’

  ‘You did!’

  ‘Too true I did.’

  ‘Then why isn’t he with you? Where is he?’

  ‘With the enemy.’

  Biggles pulled up short. ‘Say that again!’

  ‘He’s with Sekunder; or, at any rate, with the caravan lot.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Biggles sounded incredulous.

  ‘Quite sure. I saw him.’

  ‘What were they doing?’

  ‘The whole caravan was moving this way. That was just before the storm broke. I think it got as far as the tomb. I heard voices there as I passed it on my way back here. There seemed to be a bit of a row going on.’

  ‘You didn’t try to see what was happening?’

  ‘No. I thought it better to get back to you to let you know Adrian has come to no harm — not so far, anyhow.’

  ‘Quite right.’

  ‘Let’s go on. I could nibble a biscuit and drink a cup of something hot. I’m perished. The rain felt as if it had come in from the North Pole.’

  They came to the machine to find Bertie scraping wet sand clear of the undercarriage wheels. ‘Ah! So there you are,’ he greeted cheerfully. ‘You should have taken an umbrella.’

  ‘Don’t expect me to crack my sides a’laughing,’ rejoined Ginger. ‘How about a cuppa?’

  ‘The kettle’s on the hob, old boy,’ Bertie told him. ‘As you may have noticed, we’re not short of water.’

  ‘I noticed it all right,’ returned Ginger.

  A minute or two later, with a cup of tea in his hand, seated on a rock, he was telling Biggles the story of his nocturnal adventure. ‘Maybe you can work out what sort of game Adrian’s playing,’ he concluded morosely. ‘All this talk about shooting Sekunder on sight was a lot of poppycock. It looks to me as if he’s changed sides.’

  ‘Nonsense. Why should he?’

  ‘Possibly because Sekunder has brought some means of opening up the tomb. That’s really all he cares about. He told us so. That’s why he stayed on here instead of going home as soon as he had the chance.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ answered Biggles. ‘He’s not a fool, although how he’s managed to hook up with Sekunder’s party I wouldn’t try to guess. We shall know in good time. As soon as it’s light we’ll walk along and find out. If he prefers Sekunder’s company to ours that’s all right with me. I wish him joy. Tomorrow I’m heading for home. We’re practically out of food, and I’m not stuffing my inside with dirty dates for Adrian or anyone else.’

  ‘I hope we shall be able to get off,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Any reason why we shouldn’t?’

  ‘Have you seen the hard ground outside, where we landed?’

  ‘No, but I imagine it’s wet, and possibly sticky.’

  ‘It’s more than that,’ informed Ginger grimly. ‘It’s under water.’

  ‘The devil it is! Ah well, that can’t last long. Meanwhile, as things are quiet, we’d better see about putting in some blanket drill.’1

  * * *

  1 Blanket drill. Old service slang for sleep.

  CHAPTER 13

  BIGGLES SPEAKS HIS MIND

  IT SO happened that Biggles did not have to go far to see Sekunder.

  The next morning, as soon as it was daylight, while Bertie was preparing breakfast — such as it was — Ginger went off up the canyon to look at the depression and check how far the water had subsided. The purpose behind this, of course, was to ascertain if the Merlin would be able to get off the ground should this become necessary, as it might.

  There was little change in the canyon itself; the flood-water had cut some new channels and piled up fresh ridges of sand; that was all. Nothing to prevent the aircraft getting out. Reaching the gap that opened out to the desert, he was not a little surprised to see no water at all. Nothing but bare sand. He knew the thirsty ground and the sun between them would quickly dispose of the water, but he did not expect to find it all gone so soon. It had left a curious formation of ripple-sand, like a seaside beach after the recession of the tide. He tested it and to his satisfaction found it firm and hard packed. This being all he really wanted to know, he turned back to the canyon, and in doing this he threw a casual glance in the direction of the tomb, thinking there was just a chance he might see Adrian coming.

  He saw a man, some distance away, coming towards him; but it was not Adrian.

  He did not wait for him, but hurrying back down the canyon said to Biggles: ‘I think we’re about to have a visitor.’

  ‘Adrian?’

  ‘No. But someone is coming this way outside the hills. I don’t know who it is, but it certainly isn’t Adrian because he’s dressed like an Arab.’

  ‘Hm. How about the lake?’

  ‘It’s gone. The ground is fairly hard already.’

  ‘That’s one good thing, anyway. If the man coming this way isn’t Adrian I can only suppose it must be Sekunder, or whoever is in charge of the caravan. It will be interesting to hear what he has to say.’

  With cups of tea in their hands they waited. A man appeared. He came forward a little way and then stopped as if something, perhaps the aircraft, had surprised him. As he came on again, and drew near, it could be observed that he was a slim, small, almost effeminate type, clean shaven, with a pale coffee-coloured face that could have been described as good-looking. He wore an Arab burnous over khaki shirt and shorts with rope-soled sandals on his feet. A native kaffiyeh covered his head, the loose ends hanging down over the back
of his neck. Without any more hesitation he came right up to the aircraft and with what Ginger thought was an ingratiating smile — since there was no reason for it — inquired: ‘Which of you gentlemen is Bigglesworth?’ His English was faultless.

  Biggles answered: ‘I’m Bigglesworth. Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Sekunder.’

  ‘Who told you my name?’

  ‘Adrian Mander. He’s a friend of mine. I understand he’s been with you.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s with me. That’s why I’ve come here. He asked me to bring you a message.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘He says there’s no need for you to wait for him; you might as well go home and tell his father that he’s quite happy where he is. He’ll stay to see the end of the business that brought us here and then return home with me.’

  Biggles did not answer.

  Sekunder looked at him as if he expected one. ‘What’s the matter?’ he inquired. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Plenty,’ returned Biggles shortly.

  Sekunder’s eyes, as dark as black buttons, opened a little wider. ‘Don’t you believe what I’ve told you?’

  ‘Not a word of it.’

  Sekunder’s expression changed abruptly. He scowled. ‘Are you suggesting I’m a liar?’

  ‘If you want a straight answer, yes.’

  ‘That’s the thanks I get for coming all this way to see you.’

  ‘You weren’t thinking of my welfare when you decided to come here.’