Biggles and the Dark Intruder

by W E Johns

  His eyes wandered round. They came to rest on something he had not previously noticed; a hole that appeared to be the entrance to a cave, or more likely, the mine. Originally it had been shored up with timber, but some of this had collapsed, leaving an irregularly shaped opening. He worked it out that this must have been a passage through which waste material had been carried to produce the mounds above.

  Still unsteady on his feet he walked over to it and tried to peer inside; but it was pitch dark and he could see nothing. A curious smell reached his nostrils to make him sniff; an unnatural smell considering where he was. It reminded him of an unventilated room with people in it. He even thought he could detect the unmistakable aroma of coffee. This was ridiculous, he told himself, wondering if he was really fully conscious. How could anyone be inside? Thinking it over it occurred to him that the source of the smell might be some distance away. Somewhere there might be another shaft creating a draught. Was this part of an old ventilation system? It could be. He was not a miner, but he seemed to recollect reading that in the early days of mining this sort of thing was constructed to prevent the air in the mine from becoming foul.

  At this juncture it did not occur to him to investigate. He was in no state to start exploring. He was in enough trouble without making matters worse. He had no means of illumination except his petrol lighter, and as that might give out he decided it would be folly to take unnecessary risks.

  Feeling his strength returning he turned his attention to a more practical project; that of getting out of the place and back on to the moor. What would happen when he got there he did not know; and he didn’t particularly care. The thing was to get out and find the road — and Biggles, who would, he was sure, be somewhere on it. He looked up at the sky. Was it merely overcast or was it getting dark? He found that hard to believe. Was it possible that he had been lying there unconscious all day? It did not seem possible; but presently he had to face the fact that it was evening, and the light was fading.

  It was not until he made his first attempt to climb out of the hole that he realized, not without a pang of anxiety, that this was going to be more difficult than he had supposed. And he had chosen what he thought looked the easiest place. He got nowhere near the top. Still feeling sick and giddy he looked for somewhere else. But it was all the same. Loose, friable shale and gravel that crumbled under his hands, offering no hold. It poured down on his head in a little avalanche when he reached up at it, blinding him and filling his mouth with dust.

  He made several attempts in different places. Always with the same result. Failure. He had a final go, using his cudgel as a prop. He managed to reach the fringe of heather that hung over the rim, but it came away in his hands and he fell heavily, narrowly missing the rock at the bottom. As it was he was severely shaken, with the breath knocked out of him. It was no use, he told himself lugubriously. If he went on like this he would end up by doing himself another mischief. He would have to think of something else; and soon, if he was to get out before dark; it was already twilight.

  Again he sat on the rock to recover from his shaking and give further thought to his problem. There must be some way out, he told himself in a sort of desperation. He looked again at the cave, or old mine, whatever it might be. It could be the answer, but the thought of going in, not having the remotest idea of where it would end, and without a proper light, appalled him. The whole thing might collapse and bury him for ever. He had risked death many times, but that would not be a nice way to die.

  Looking up at the rim of the hole, so near and yet so far away, a thought struck him. If he could set fire to the heather on top it would be seen over a wide area. If Biggles was on the road it was almost certain that he would see it, in which case he could be expected to investigate. It seemed a crazy thing to do, to set fire to the moor, but he didn’t care about that as long as it achieved its purpose. Even if Biggles did not come, someone was bound to see the fire and report it. That might bring the police along, or the fire brigade. He didn’t care who came, so long as it was someone; otherwise it looked as if he might be stuck in the hole until some wandering hiker found his bones.

  The question was, how to set fire to the heather? He knew from walking through it that it was dry and would only need a spark to set it going. This did not seem difficult. In fact, it should be easy, he decided. There was plenty of heather lying about, stuff that he had pulled out in his original fall and later in his attempts to get out. This could be tied in a bunch. All he had to do then was to light it with his lighter and throw it over the top. That should do the trick, he thought confidently.

  Another thought struck him, one that gave zest to his project. If the plane had not been and gone this might be the night for it to come. With the moor on fire it would not be able to land. Even if the actual fire did not reach the landing ground the smoke would deter any sane pilot from attempting a landing.

  Enthusiastic now that at last he had something to do, he collected a good bunch of heather and tied it in a tight ball with his necktie, leaving a long loose end for handling it, and for the swing that would be necessary to get it over the rim of the hole. This was the work of only a few minutes. He tried a short practice swing to confirm that his firebrand would not come to pieces in flight. It held together. He collected it, and took out his lighter in readiness for the experiment.

  A slight sound behind him made him turn, to see a most extraordinary spectacle. It was the end of a ladder. It was emerging from the cave, obviously being carried by someone. He stared incredulously, not without good cause. A man appeared. He was carrying the ladder on his shoulder. The light was not very good but he was able to recognize the shepherd he had seen when he and Biggles had inspected the supposed landing strip.

  A ladder! At that moment it was a more welcome sight then a bag of gold. It seemed too good to be true. The appearance of the man from the cave explained the smell he had noticed. He didn’t bother to wonder what the man was doing in the cave. There was only one reason why he should want a ladder; obviously, for the same reason as he himself needed one. To get out of the pit. But would he be allowed to use the ladder? Perhaps not. Not if the man saw him. So he kept perfectly still, hoping the man would not notice him before he had erected the ladder and gone over the top. It was not unreasonable to suppose he would leave it in position against his return.

  For a minute it looked as if this might happen. The ladder, one of the aluminium extending sort, took a little while to adjust. It was put up resting against the side of the pit, reaching nearly to the top. This done, the man looked around. For what purpose was not clear. But he looked, and inevitably saw Bertie sitting on his rock. It was his turn to look astonished. He then asked the question that might have been expected. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘What does it look like?’ Bertie answered with a trace of sarcasm. ‘I fell into this damned hole, cracked my skull and haven’t been able to get out. Am I glad to see you with a ladder!’

  The man advanced slowly, for the moment saying nothing. He appeared to be at a loss for words, as was understandable. But it was soon evident that he was not to be taken in by Bertie’s casual manner.

  ‘What were you doing when you fell in?’ he asked suspiciously.

  ‘Taking a walk on the moor. What else would I be doing?’

  ‘What were you looking for?’

  ‘The road. It was misty and I lost my way. I’d like to get along if you don’t mind. My friends will be looking for me.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Waiting on the road, I imagine. Which is the nearest way to it?’

  ‘They’re not on the moor?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’ The instant the words had passed his lips Bertie realized he had made a mistake.

  The man confirmed it. ‘In that case I’m afraid they’ll have to go on waiting for you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re not using this ladder.’

  ‘Why not?’

&n
bsp; The man did not answer. He walked back towards the ladder.

  ‘But look here, I say...’ Bertie started to follow, but when the man took a revolver from his pocket and pointed it at him he stopped.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ growled the man, and walked on.

  Bertie said: ‘All right, if that’s how you want it, you disagreeable fellow.’ He flicked on the lighter and held it under his fireball. As soon as it was well alight he hurled it over the rim of the pit. A brisk crackle told him it was doing what he had intended.

  The man must have heard it, or seen the flicker of the flames, for he spun round. ‘What are you doing?’ he demanded angrily.

  ‘I’ve done it, old cock,’ answered Bertie, calmly. ‘You won’t lend me your ladder so I’m letting my friends know where I am.’

  For a moment he thought the man was going to shoot him; from the way he pointed the revolver he must have contemplated it. But he thought better of it, perhaps because the sound of the shot would be heard. ‘Do you want to set the whole place on fire, you fool?’ he shouted furiously.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Bertie. ‘That’s the idea. You’ve got it.’

  The man drew a deep breath, and after a pause, with many a backward glance strode quickly to the ladder. He withdrew the extension, put it on his shoulder and hurried to the cave. At the entrance he stopped only long enough to shout, holding up the revolver: ‘You try to follow me and you’ll get this.’ He went on into the cave.

  Bertie was no coward but he had more sense than to follow a man with a gun into a place where he would be at a hopeless disadvantage. The man would see him against the light and no doubt carry out his threat. Inside the cave the report of a shot would be muffled.

  So he sat on his rock trying to work out what this strange occurrence might mean. What had been the man’s purpose? What did he intend to do now?

  He coughed as a wave of smoke rolled down into the pit and the pungent reek of burning heather bit into lungs. More was coming down. There was nothing could do to stop it.

  He hadn’t thought of this.

  CHAPTER 14

  TOUGH GOING FOR GINGER

  WHEN Ginger left Biggles for his walk across the moor, had anyone asked him exactly what he was going to do he would not have been able to answer. He had a vague idea of getting as close as possible to the old mine, and by using his eyes and ears learn if there was any activity. He felt that the nearby landing ground was the centre of things, and therefore most likely to yield results. Not that he expected to find Bertie there. In his heart he agreed with Biggles. That was too much to hope for. But he thought there was just a chance, however remote, that he might overhear a conversation that would give him a clue as to what had become of him, or better still, where he was. So he carried on across the moor with hope, but without much confidence, that he was not wasting his time.

  Twilight had given way to darkness, but it was not a bad sort of night. There was no wind, merely an occasional slight breeze, this being of the sort known as variable. There was no threat of rain. The sky, judging from a sprinkling of early stars, was clear. He would have called conditions for night flying fairly good. What he would do should the intruding plane come in while he was out on the moor, he didn’t know. He hadn’t thought as far ahead as that. If it came it would probably be later, after he had returned to the road to meet Biggles. If he found nothing of interest, that would be fairly soon. That was his intention. He had no wish to spend more time alone on the moor than was necessary for his purpose.

  He stopped several times to look around, bending low to get the configuration of the horizon against the sky, for the ground was strange to him. He had never seen this part of the moor. He was, he reckoned, roughly a mile east of the abandoned mine that was really his objective. As he had said, he thought it more prudent to take this roundabout course rather than walk to it directly across the open heather, when he might be seen by anyone on the watch for strangers.

  For some time he could see the road, or rather, the lights of traffic on it; but when the ground began to fall away he was denied this advantage, his view being blocked by the higher ground that intervened. This did not worry him much because he knew, or thought he knew, the general direction. He was also aware that nothing is easier than to lose one’s sense of direction on a wide expanse of open ground without a landmark. If he was afraid of anything it was a sudden fog, a not uncommon occurrence on any moor. It was not until later that he became a little uneasy.

  Thinking he had gone far enough out to bring him in behind the mine he began to swing towards the left. It was soon after this, peering through the gloom, that he made out an undulating skyline, as if there was a range of low hills in front of him. He had never noticed them from the road; but he thought nothing of it because he was now looking at the moor from an entirely new angle.

  Coming to the first hill, it occurred to him that instead of going round it, as he could have done, if he went over it he would get a wide view from the top; so he continued straight on up the slope. It was not much of a climb, anyhow. On the summit he paused to survey his surroundings. There was little to be seen; no life, no movement. All he learned was that there were other similar hills close by. Whether this was a natural or artificial formation he didn’t bother to speculate. He was only concerned with what he was doing, and with keeping his sense of direction.

  For as far as he could see the moor lay grim and silent, open to the winds of heaven. Not a light showed anywhere. He appeared to have the world to himself. It looked anything but inviting. However, that was how all moors looked after dark, he ruminated, as he started down the far side of the slope to continue on his way. A few seconds later he was brought to an abrupt halt by the last sound he expected to hear at that particular spot. Human voices. He was astonished. He was also a little alarmed, realizing he was in no position to take on a gang single-handed should they come in collision. As men do not normally talk to themselves there were at least two men not far away. There might be more, and he could not imagine they were anything but enemies.

  Again came the murmur of voices. The trouble was, he could not decide the spot, or even the direction, from which they were coming. There was nothing remarkable about this. Any sound coming out of the darkness in conditions such as those in which Ginger found himself are always difficult to locate. They seem to have a ventriloquial effect, as anyone who has ever tried to mark down a corncrake at night will have discovered. The bird is never at the spot where its call is heard.

  Ginger stood motionless, listening intently. At this moment, far from trying to see the men who were speaking, he was more anxious to keep clear of them. Again came the voices, muffled, but one raised as if in anger or argument. He stared but could see nothing. Where were these men? What could they be doing, out on the moor without a light? They sounded close; or, at all events, not far away; but just too far for him to catch the words. He should, he thought, be able to see them. To go on would be to risk walking into them.

  His nerves tingled when there came a shout.

  This was followed by an even more startling event. Out of the ground — or so it appeared — not far in front of him a blazing brand shot into the air. It fell in the heather. Flames leapt up. There came another shout. Then silence; a silence broken only by the crisp crackle of burning heather as the flames began to spread.

  Ginger stood as if spellbound. What did all this mean? Not surprisingly he could make nothing of it. There was no more talking but certain curious sounds suggested a struggle. Loose rock or shale clattered as it fell. What should he do? Get away from the place while the going was good? That seemed the most sensible course. But curiosity held him rigid. He had set out to look for signs of activity but he was not prepared for anything like this. Creeping flames were now throwing a lurid light on the scene but there was still no sign of the men. What had become of them? He stared at the point where the fire had started. He could see it clearly. Beyond was a dark area, apparently something that had
prevented the fire from spreading in that direction. What was it? Water? No, that would have reflected the light of the fire. What had become of the men he had heard talking? Had they been there he must have seen them. It was all very strange: incomprehensible.

  Sheer curiosity determined Ginger to take a chance and investigate. He had been hoping for something to happen, he brooded. Well, he had found something. Why run away? He had a pistol in his pocket. He took it out. His mind made up, he went on down the hillock, and making a detour to bypass the slowly advancing line of fire he crept on until he was in a position to see what was beyond it. What he saw was a hole in the ground; a gaping pit. He could not see into it but he could hear someone coughing. Creeping forward to the edge he looked down and saw a face looking up. A man with a bandage round his head was leaning on a stick.

  Ginger did not recognize him. He watched the man, using his stick, make a run at the side of the pit as if trying to get out. He slid back. He fell. He rose and looked up. He must have seen Ginger’s face looking down at him for he called: ‘Hello, there! I say, can you get me out of this?’

  That, of course, did it. Ginger recognized Bertie’s voice. The shock made his brain reel. ‘It’s me. Ginger,’ he managed to get out.

  ‘Jolly good. Never more pleased to see you, dear boy,’ came back Bertie. ‘You don’t happen to have a rope on you?’

  ‘No. Can’t you get out?’

  ‘Have a heart! Would I be here choking to death if I could? Do something about it. Buck up. That nasty shepherd fellow isn’t far away and he’s got a gun.’

  Ginger tried to think. It wasn’t easy. It was all very well to say get me out, but how was it to be done? ‘What can I do?’ he asked desperately.

  ‘Make a rope with your shirt, trousers, anything.’

  Ginger threw off his jacket and took off his shirt. With his penknife he cut it and tore it up. The sleeves made two strips, the body two more. These he knotted together, all the time wondering if the material would take Bertie’s weight. This done, lying on the brink of the crater he lowered the linen line. It was too short. Bertie couldn’t reach it.