by W E Johns
‘You’ll have to chuck me your shirt to make it long enough,’ panted Ginger, coughing in a waft of smoke.
‘Here it comes,’ Bertie took off his jacket, ripped off his shirt, rolled it round a stone and tossed it up. While he waited he put on his jacket.
Ginger repeated the operation he had performed on his own shirt and tied the two together. After testing it for strength he lowered one end.
By using his stick as a support Bertie was just able to reach it. He hung on, and thrusting his feet against the wall began to climb. Ginger hauled. At the last moment, just as Bertie was within reach of the top, the shirts began to tear. Ginger seized him by the collar of his jacket and dragged him bodily over the brink. Panting, they collapsed in a heap.
‘Thanks, laddie,’ gasped Bertie, as they untangled themselves. ‘I’d been in that beastly hole long enough.’
Ginger looked at him. ‘What have you done to your head?’
‘I tried breaking a rock with it but it didn’t work. The rock was harder than my skull.’
‘Are you all right otherwise?’
‘I think so.’
‘Can you walk? We’ve some way to go.’
‘I’ll have a shot at it. Where are we going?’
‘To the road. Biggles will be there.’
‘How far is it?’
‘A mile, at least.’
‘Give me a minute to get my breath and I’ll be okay,’ Bertie said.
While they rested Ginger said: ‘How long have you been in that hole?’
‘Since early yesterday morning.’
‘Good lor! How did it happen?’
‘I fell in, like a silly ass, not looking where I was putting my feet.’
‘Whom did I hear you talking to?’
‘That phoney shepherd. He found me there; popped out of a hole like a ruddy rabbit. He had a ladder but he wouldn’t lend it to me to get out. He had a gun, so I couldn’t argue.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He went back down his burrow, which I fancy is a bolt-hole, to ask, I imagine, what should be done with me.’
‘What were you doing when you fell in?’
‘Tracking Trethallan and Lewis. They left the house together on foot and took a short cut to the moor, where I lost them. Lewis has a suitcase full of money with him. I saw them sharing it out. Trethallan left his in the house. I saw where he put it. On the left-hand side of the fireplace there’s a dog’s head carved on the panelling. It pulls out. There’s a drawer behind it.’
‘Where are Trethallan and Lewis now?’
‘I don’t know for sure but I think they were making for the old mine. I believe it has a link with this one.’
‘If that’s where they’ve gone it looks as if the plane may come over tonight,’ Ginger said.
‘That’s what I was thinking. But I say, look at the jolly old fire I started.’
‘I’ve been watching it. If you feel up to it, it’s time we were moving. If the fire spreads much more it’ll cut us off from the road. We shall have to go round it as it is.’
The fire was in fact creeping towards the road on a widening front, throwing up clouds of smoke. Ginger set off at a brisk pace.
Bertie was soon lagging behind. ‘Take it easy,’ he complained. ‘The old head spins a bit and I’m still a bit groggy on my pins. I can’t go at that ding-bat pace you’re setting.’
Ginger waited impatiently, and it was soon evident that Bertie had understated his condition. He struggled on, but he was obviously making heavy weather of it. To make matters worse the fire prevented a straight walk to the road and they had to make a wide ‘dogs-leg’ to get round the end of it. They then began to feel the effects of the smoke.
The end came when at last Bertie sank down. ‘It’s no use, laddie, I can’t make it,’ he panted. ‘Sorry, but I’m done. You’d better go on alone.’
Ginger realized that Bertie had made light of his injury. He was all in, and the violent exertion was doing him no good. On the cinema or television screen it is common to see a man who has been clubbed unconscious with the butt end of a revolver, or some other heavy weapon, rise to his feet within seconds, and resume fighting as if nothing had happened. In real life that does not happen. A man so wounded is usually a bed case in a hospital for at least twenty-four hours, often longer.
Ginger was in a quandary. Bertie was now being sick, and that, he knew, was an almost certain symptom of concussion of the brain. What could he do? He couldn’t leave him there, for should he lose consciousness and the fire turn that way he would be burned to death. He would have to get him to a safe place even if he couldn’t get him to the road — still a quarter of a mile away as near as he could judge. What he did was give him an arm to help him along.
This worked all right for some distance, with Bertie leaning more and more heavily on his shoulder; then he fell and made no attempt to get up. Ginger knelt beside him but could get no response. He saw he had an unconscious man on his hands. He himself was leg-weary from dragging his feet through long heather.
He looked up in desperation. A car with its headlights on was going down the road at high speed. It didn’t looks very far away. He knew it couldn’t be Biggles, whose car would be stationary, probably off the road showing no lights. No matter, if he couldn’t find Biggles someone else might come along to give him a hand. He was afraid Biggles might have left the rendezvous to look at the fire.
Leaving Bertie as he lay he ran towards the road shouting: ‘Help! Biggles! Help!’ at the top of his voice. He didn’t care who heard him. He had only one thought and that was to get Bertie off the moor. The heather tripped him and he often stumbled. Once he fell, but he scrambled on, still shouting, regardless of an increasing pall of smoke as the breeze veered.
He had nearly reached the point of exhaustion when he heard an answering hail. Vague figures took shape in the smoke. He could no longer shout. His mouth was so dry that the sound that left his lips was more like a croak.
A man ran up and caught him by the arm. It was Biggles. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded angrily.
‘Thank God you’ve come,’ gasped Ginger.
‘What’s the trouble?’
‘Bertie. He’s unconscious — back there — in the heather.’
‘How far?’
‘Two hundred, three hundred yards.’
By this time more figures had closed in, some in police uniform. Ginger pointed. ‘He’s over there. You can’t miss him.’
Biggles sent Algy with two police officers to bring him in. ‘How did all this happen?’ he said shortly. ‘You were supposed to keep quiet. Where did you find Bertie?’
Breathlessly Ginger explained. ‘In a pit, an old mine shaft or something of the sort. He was following Trethallan and Lewis to the moor, and in the dark he fell in. He saw them in the house together counting money. Lewis took his share with him in a case. Trethallan put his in a drawer which is opened by pulling on a dog’s head carved in the panelling on the left of the fireplace. That’s what Bertie told me.’
‘Is he badly hurt?’
‘I don’t know. Not too badly I think. He was conscious when I found him. He struck his head on a rock when he fell.’
‘How the devil did you find him?’
‘I heard voices. The shepherd was with him in the pit. He had a ladder to get out. And a gun. After an argument he went off in the hole he came out of. Bertie thinks it’s a bolt-hole from the mine we know.’ Ginger paused for breath.
‘Could you find this pit again?’
‘Yes. That’s where the fire started.’
‘How did it start?’
Ginger explained how Bertie had lit the fire as a signal for help. ‘That’s how I was able to find him.’
Algy and the policemen came back carrying Bertie.
‘Let’s get to the cars,’ Biggles said tersely. ‘The sooner he’s in hospital the better.’
As they hurried to where the cars had been l
eft, speaking to the Inspector, Biggles went on: ‘Does your driver know the way to the hospital?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then he can take him in. It only needs one man. He can come back here afterwards. If we have a gang to deal with, and I think we have, we shall need all the hands we can muster.’
Bertie, still unconscious, was lifted into the back of the police car and it departed on its ten-mile journey.
As the sound of its engine faded another became audible. It was the drone of an aircraft, still distant.
Biggles looked up at the sky for possible navigation lights, but failed to find any. ‘That must be the plane coming now,’ he rapped out. ‘We’ve no time to lose.’
CHAPTER 15
ENTER THE INTRUDER
STILL talking to the Inspector, Biggles went on: ‘The first thing we have to do is settle who is going to take charge of this operation. If we both give orders we may get in a muddle. This is your territory. How do you feel about it? It’s up to you.’
‘You started, so you’d better carry on,’ replied the Inspector, generously.
‘If that’s all right with you. All I want is that plane. You’re welcome to Lewis and anyone else you can catch. Be careful. We know one of ‘em has a gun. We’ll go to what I believe is the landing ground but someone will have to cover that bolt-hole Bertie spoke about. Ginger, you’re the only one who knows where it is. A constable had better go with you. Lie low and wait. Should the Inspector blow his whistle join us. You know where we’ll be. You’re sure you can find the place?’
‘Can’t miss it. That’s where Bertie started the fire so it can only be at the far point of the burnt heather.’
‘Right. Off you go. Hurry. Don’t use your pistol unless you have to for self-defence.’
Ginger, and an officer detailed by the Inspector, moved off, walking quickly.
‘Where do you think the gang will be?’ asked the Inspector.
‘Probably at the old mine, waiting for the plane to land. When they see things have gone wrong, they may go down the mine and try to get clear by using another exit. My man who was hurt believes there is one. But let’s get into position,’ Biggles concluded, starting off in a direct line for the landing strip. He was followed by the Inspector, Algy, and the one remaining constable.
‘You’d better tell us exactly what you want us to do,’ the Inspector said as they marched across the heather.
Biggles answered: ‘We’ll get as close as we can to the landing ground in long heather, then lie down and wait.’
‘And as soon as the plane lands we rush it — is that the idea?’
‘No. Not quite. We shall have to wait for Lewis to show himself when he joins the plane. I don’t want anyone to move till I give the word. You make sure of Lewis. He’s got a load of money on him and may fight to keep it. I’ll take care of the plane and the pilot. You stay with me, Algy. There may be more than one man aboard, a navigator or crew.’
‘What if it takes off again?’ queried the Inspector.
‘Once its wheels are on the ground I’ll see it doesn’t do that,’ returned Biggles, cogently.
‘How do you know where it will stop?’
‘If I’ve got this worked out correctly it’ll come in from the far end of the strip in order to finish its run as near as possible to the old mine workings. That’s where the others should be waiting. When we move it’ll have to be fast, because if I know anything about this sort of exercise the pilot won’t stay on the ground longer than is absolutely necessary. He’ll know that’s where he’s most vulnerable.’
The Inspector cocked an eye to the sky. ‘I can’t hear him.’
‘He’s probably cut his engine. We shall hear him when he gets lower. An aircraft can’t glide without making a certain amount of noise. Look! The landing lights have been switched on. That’s all the proof we need that the plane is coming here.’
The actual lights, two at each end of the strip, could not be seen. They had apparently been set to show directly upwards, with some sort of shield to prevent them from being seen by anyone on the road. It was on the far side that their reflections could be seen on the heather.
‘Won’t the pilot sheer off’ when he sees the moor on fire?’ questioned the Inspector.
‘That remains to be seen. No doubt he’ll wonder what has happened, but unless he gets a warning signal I imagine he’ll carry on. There may not have been enough time to cancel the trip, which must have been organized some time ago, before the pilot left his base. The decision about landing will be up to him. I imagine he’ll take the landing lights being on as an okay signal to come in. The fire is some way off, and there’s no smoke on this part of the moor to interfere with visibility. Talk quietly, now. We’re getting close.’
Biggles, leading, stopped in an area of long heather as near the landing ground as he thought it advisable to go. ‘This’ll do,’ he said. ‘Everyone lie down and keep quiet.’
‘I can’t hear the plane,’ whispered the Inspector.
‘You will,’ answered Biggles confidently. ‘It’s no use looking for lights. He won’t be showing any.’
They waited for what seemed a long while, so long that Biggles began to get anxious.
‘I’d say the pilot doesn’t know what to make of the fire,’ whispered Algy.
Biggles agreed. ‘I suppose we must remember, too, that he had a lot of height to slip off.’
A little later Algy said softly: ‘I can hear him. Here he comes.’
Faintly through the still night air came the whistling hum of a gliding aircraft. At the same time a small moving light, as of a hand torch held low, appeared near the old mine workings, less than a hundred yards away.
Biggles did not move.
Thereafter events happened quickly, one following on the other. The hum of the gliding plane became louder as it drew near. Then, suddenly, it was there; a small, single-engined high-wing monoplane, low over the far end of the runway. All that could be seen of it was, of course, its silhouette against the sky; but there was something about it that made Biggles stare.
‘Great grief!’ exclaimed Algy. ‘It’s fitted with floats. What the devil—’
‘Must be an amphibian,’ muttered Biggles.
‘Looks like a modern improved version of the old German Storch.’
‘Don’t talk. Watch.’
The plane came on, losing speed and height. Its floats — or rather, the wheels that were in them — touched, and it ran on to a good three-point landing which the watching pilots could appreciate. It came slowly to a stop. A touch of throttle brought it round in its own length, facing the direction from which it had come, ready for take-off. There was no wind. A side door was opened and a man stepped down, leaving the engine ticking over with the smooth precision of a well-oiled sewing machine. This made it evident that the pilot did not intend to stay long. He stood still, looking towards the old mine. Was he alone, or was there someone else in the plane? was the question uppermost in Biggles’ mind.
Meanwhile, other things were happening. The landing lights went out, their purpose having been served. Two men, one carrying a suitcase, walked quickly towards the plane.
‘Let them get together,’ Biggles told the Inspector, ‘When we go, you take the two coming now. You can leave the pilot to us.’
The Inspector nodded.
The pair who had come from the mine reached the plane. There was a word or two of crisp conversation. Something changed hands.
‘Now,’ said Biggles, and jumping up ran towards the aircraft.
He did not suppose that a party of four men would not be seen, but half the intervening distance had been covered before a startled exclamation made it clear that that was what actually had happened.
Biggles broke into a sprint as the little group scattered. By the time he had reached the plane the pilot was half inside. He seized him by the legs and dragged him out, struggling. Algy went to Biggles’ assistance and between them they got him on the
ground, still kicking to get free. Algy knelt on him and showed him his gun saying: ‘Keep still or you’ll get hurt. The game’s up.’
‘Hold him,’ ordered Biggles, and taking out his automatic rose to his feet. He fired two shots through the float into the nearside tyre. There was a hiss of escaping air and the machine settled down with a slight list. Satisfied that the aircraft wouldn’t be able to get off with a flat tyre, he returned to Algy to find the pilot now on his feet. Apparently realizing what had happened he no longer struggled. He shrugged as if resigned, but said nothing.
Biggles got into the cockpit and switched off. Coming back he looked towards the mine to see how the others had fared. In dealing with the pilot he had not been able to see what had happened. The constable was coming towards them with a handcuffed prisoner, and carrying a suitcase.
‘Where’s the Inspector?’ asked Biggles sharply.
‘He’s gone after the other man. We got Lewis but the other one got away.’
‘Which way did he go?’
‘Over there.’ The constable pointed to the mine. ‘He’s gone after him.’
‘Are those the Inspector’s handcuffs or yours?’
‘The Inspector’s.’
‘Have you got yours on you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Handcuff these two prisoners together.’
This was done, Lewis cursing viciously. ‘I told him there was something wrong,’ he snarled.
‘Told who? Trethallan?’
‘Go to hell.’
Another constable ran up; the one who had taken Bertie to hospital. ‘I heard shooting,’ he said. ‘Anyone hurt?’
‘No,’ Biggles told him. ‘We’re all right. I’ll leave the two of you to take care of these prisoners while I go to see if the Inspector needs help.’
‘We should be able to do that,’ answered one of the policeman.
‘Right. Come with me, Algy.’ Biggles set off at a run towards the mine buildings, from where now came the frenzied barking of a dog. He had to dodge a small flock of panic-stricken sheep and made for the broken wall.
