Biggles Presses On

by W E Johns

  Mr Ong’s face, normally expressionless, broke into a smile. ‘Very good, Captain,’ he said. ‘I will fetch them. They will not be far away.’

  It occurred to Ginger that had the fugitives been there, waiting, they must have seen the machine land, in which case they might have been expected to show themselves. But as far as he could see, between the palms that fringed the beach and the line of surf that marked the position of the sea, there was not a soul in sight.

  Mr Ong got down. He paced the beach, looking up and down. He whistled. He called. The beach remained deserted.

  ‘Apparently they aren’t here yet,’ said Biggles. ‘We might as well get out and stretch our legs.’

  They joined Ong on the beach. Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘Well, where are they?’ he asked. ‘It’s after twelve.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ replied Ong. ‘I impressed upon them the necessity for punctuality. Something must have detained them.’

  No one answered. Biggles drew heavily on his cigarette, doing his best not to show his irritation at the delay. Twenty minutes dragged by.

  ‘I think you should do something about this,’ Biggles told Ong, heeling the stub of his cigarette into the sand. ‘I have a feeling they aren’t coming or they would have been here by now. And if they aren’t coming we’re wasting our time.’

  ‘I’ll go and find out what has happened,’ said Ong.

  ‘How far is it to the palace?’

  ‘From this spot between two and three miles.’

  ‘Which means you’ll be away for more than an hour.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All right. We’ll wait. What shall I do if they come while you’re away?’

  ‘Go. Don’t wait for me. I did not intend returning with you.’

  ‘Very well. Be as quick as you can.’

  Ong strode off, soon to disappear from sight in the inky shadows of the palms.

  ‘This is a bit of a bore, old boy,’ remarked Bertie.

  Biggles lit another cigarette. ‘It’s annoying, but I can’t say it surprises me. If time-tables go wrong at home, and they do, what are we to expect in the East?’

  ‘What if Ong doesn’t come back?’ asked Algy.

  Biggles shrugged. ‘That’s his worry. We’ve done what he asked us to do.’

  ‘How long are you going to wait?’ inquired Ginger.

  ‘I shan’t stay after daylight, which will be about six o’clock,’ answered Biggles. ‘There’d be no point in it. Someone would spot us and we’d soon have a crowd on the beach. That would make it difficult to get off. Aside from that, this crooked uncle would hear about us being here, and guess why. That would knock the scheme on the head. He’d probably have the beach watched in case we came back. No. We’ve done our part. We can’t do more. If the Sultana doesn’t turn up, she, not us, will have let the party down.’

  ‘Here’s somebody coming now, and in a hurry,’ observed Algy, as a running figure detached itself from the palms.

  ‘Looks like Ong,’ said Ginger.

  ‘If it is he couldn’t have been to the palace,’ said Biggles. ‘I smell trouble.’

  It was Ong.

  ‘We are too late,’ he announced.

  ‘What do you mean?’ rapped out Biggles.

  ‘The worst has happened. Chan and his Communist friends have struck. There are riots, and the town is in an uproar. That accounts for the lights we saw.’

  ‘How did you learn this?’

  ‘I met a man I know, a merchant. He had fled and was hiding in the jungle. He saw me and spoke.’

  ‘Where is the Sultan and his family?’

  ‘They will be in the palace. They wouldn’t dare to come out while the place is in this state.’

  ‘What are the police doing?’

  ‘Nothing. What can they do? They would hesitate to fire on their own people without orders; and the blow was so sudden there was no time to issue orders. That is what I am told.’

  ‘Would the police be loyal to the Sultan if he could issue orders?’

  ‘Without a doubt. At present all is confusion.’

  Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘Do you know a back way into the palace—I mean, a route clear of the crowd?’

  ‘Yes. Through the gardens. The jungle comes close to them.’

  ‘All right. Let’s go and get this sorted out,’ said Biggles, calmly.

  ‘There may be danger.’

  ‘For you or for me?’

  ‘For all of us, if your purpose here is suspected.’

  ‘Mr Ong,’ said Biggles curtly, ‘I haven’t flown all this way to go home with an empty machine. Algy, stay here and take care of things. Ginger, Bertie, you’ll come with me. Lead on, Mr Ong.’

  They set off at a brisk pace, keeping to the beach for as far as possible, but after a while striking off along a well-used path through a jungle where fireflies waltzed in the sticky heat. Sweat poured down Ginger’s face to soak his shirt, for he had not come prepared for a march of this sort.

  ‘Does the Sultan speak English?’ was the only question Biggles put to their guide.

  ‘Perfectly. He went to school in England.’

  ‘Good. Keep going.’

  Soon they were within earshot of trouble which, to Ginger’s relief, consisted mostly of shouting. He heard no shots fired.

  The last part of the walk was the worst, for Ong left the path and plunged into the jungle of bamboo and tree-ferns. After two or three hundred yards of this it was with no small satisfaction that Ginger saw moonlight ahead. A bamboo fence barred their way, but they broke through it without any great difficulty to emerge in what Ong said were the palace gardens, although had it not been for a large building shining whitely in the brilliant moonlight a little way ahead Ginger would not have guessed it.

  ‘What you see is the back of the palace,’ said their guide.

  ‘The front faces on the main street of the town, and that I think is where the people will be.’

  Actually, this was no matter for surmise, as the noise of shouting and the banging of drums made it abundantly clear. Apparently, so far, the insurgents had not invaded the gardens, for no one was seen on the short walk to the palace. There, however, at the entrance to which Ong took them, they were confronted by half a dozen armed men in uniform, police or troops, it was not clear which. They looked at Ong, who was obviously known to them, with surprise and indecision, confirming what had been said about an absence of direct orders. Ong started to say something, presumably offering some sort of explanation; but Biggles cut in.

  ‘Let’s not stand here arguing,’ he told Ong crisply. ‘You know your way about this place. We don’t. Take us to the room where you think the Sultan is most likely to be found.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Ong, who appeared to be somewhat carried off his feet by Biggles’ brusque orders.

  They filed in, the guard making no attempt to stop them.

  Having traversed several corridors they came to a door where two more guards stood on duty.

  ‘That is where the Sultan will be,’ said Ong. He spoke to the guards in their own language. On receiving a reply, turning back to Biggles he said: ‘Prince Chan is with the Sultan. They are not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Who says they are not to be disturbed?’

  ‘Prince Chan.’

  ‘Does he give the orders here?’

  Ong hesitated. ‘Perhaps. I don’t know what has happened.’

  ‘Then it’s time we found out,’ stated Biggles, pushing aside the guards and opening the door.

  For a moment it looked as if the guards might try to stop him entering, but in the end they did nothing, again giving Ginger the impression that they did not know whom to obey.

  The room into which, with Bertie and Ong, he followed Biggles, was a magnificent apartment, spacious and furnished in a somewhat incongruous mixture of Oriental and Western styles, the East predominating. It was lighted by several ornate lamps, both standard and pendant. From a long narrow table that occupied the ce
ntre, on which lay some papers, it was evidently a council chamber. But after a cursory glance Ginger ceased to take any interest in the appointments, his attention switching to the several people who were there.

  They were in two groups, by the table. On the one side stood a man in early middle age who, from the richness of his dress, was clearly the Sultan. A man less finely clad stood at his elbow. Both men looked upset, worried. Behind them, a few paces distant, were a woman and a boy who, Ginger did not doubt, particularly as they were dressed in outdoor clothes, were the Sultana and her son.

  Facing them, in attitudes that might be described as threatening, was a party of five men, four in native dress and the other wearing European clothes. He had the pale complexion and high cheek bones of a Slav. One of the Orientals, who stood slightly in advance of the rest, was a man of about sixty years of age, and from the richness of his attire, which included a jewelled turban, was evidently a person of importance. Ginger judged him, correctly, as it presently transpired, to be the wicked uncle of the play, Prince Chan.

  As might be imagined, on Biggles’ entry all heads had turned to ascertain the nature of the interruption. For a few seconds, while Biggles advanced slowly to the table, no one spoke. Then it was he who broke the silence.

  Looking at the man whom Ginger had judged to be the Sultan he said: ‘Have I the honour of addressing the Sultan of Kulang?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the answer, after a brief hesitation.

  ‘Then I crave your indulgence, sir, if my intrusion turns out to be unwarranted,’ went on Biggles. ‘But I came to Kulang at your request, and as things seem to have gone awry I await your instructions. I am at your disposal.’

  ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ burst out the man Ginger supposed to be the scheming uncle.

  ‘That is a matter between the Sultan and myself,’ answered Biggles calmly.

  ‘Then get out. Can’t you see we are busy? How dare you come in here?’

  Biggles looked at Ong. ‘From whom am I to take orders?’

  The Sultan answered. ‘I give the orders here.’

  ‘That won’t be for much longer,’ came harshly from the other speaker.

  Biggles looked again at Ong. ‘I take it this gentleman is Prince Chan?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you had better ask him what he means by the statement he has just made.’

  ‘I will answer that question,’ said the Sultan. ‘My uncle demands my abdication.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘My inability to rule the country without disorders, such as those now going on outside.’

  ‘Do you wish to abdicate, sir?’

  ‘I have no intention of doing so.’

  ‘We shall see about that,’ declared Chan.

  Biggles ignored him. Speaking to the Sultan he said: ‘Do you wish me to proceed with the plan?’

  ‘Yes. I am sorry there was a hitch. You will by this time have guessed the reason.’

  ‘What plan is this?’ demanded Chan, furiously.

  The Sultan answered. ‘I am sending my son to England.’

  Chan stared. ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘For his education, and, I might add, for his safety.’

  ‘He shall not go,’ swore Chan.

  Biggles stepped in again. ‘If the Sultan wishes him to go he will go.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  ‘I do.’ Biggles spoke quite calmly.

  ‘And if I say he shall not go. What have you to say to that?’

  Biggles’ expression hardened. ‘All I have to say to you is this. It is a lucky thing for you I’m not the Sultan of Kulang, for if I were I’d hang you on the nearest tree for treason. Since his Highness wishes it the boy will go, and I’d advise you to make no attempt to prevent him leaving.’

  Chan looked at Biggles as if he could not believe his ears. It is unlikely that he had ever been so spoken to in his life. He glared, but words failed him. His hand went to his hip.

  ‘We are ready, sir, when you are,’ said Biggles to the Sultan, who beckoned to his family, in so doing turning his back to the man who would usurp him.

  For what followed, Ginger was convinced, the man in European dress was responsible. He must have been in the conspiracy even if it had not actually been inspired by him.

  He said something in a low tone to Chan, who must have perceived that his opportunity to seize the throne was slipping away from him, and for that reason would need little urging to make a last desperate bid for what he wanted. Had what he attempted succeeded it would certainly have left him master of the situation.

  Before anyone could have suspected his intention he had whipped out a dagger and leapt like a tiger at the Sultan who, hearing the movement turned quickly, and in so doing, stumbled. In a flash Chan was over him, arm raised for the fatal thrust.

  A gun crashed, causing the lights to jump. Chan rose slowly to his full height. He swayed to the table, rested a hand on it for a moment and then, like a coat falling from a peg, crumpled to the ground. The dagger fell from his hand to clatter on the marble floor. A shocked silence seemed to fall from the ceiling, towards which rose a reek of cordite smoke.

  This should, and might well have been, the end. But it was not. As Biggles stood looking at the would-be assassin, pistol in hand, as if startled by what he had done, Ginger caught a movement out of the tail of his eye. Turning sharply he saw that the European also had a gun in his hand and was taking deliberate aim at Biggles. There was no time to pull his own gun. All he could do was hurl himself against Biggles, and this he did with such force that they both sprawled against the table. Almost simultaneously two shots rang out, within a split second of each other, one of the bullets striking the floor and screaming across the room. By the time Ginger had recovered the man who had fired it was sinking to the ground, with Bertie, his automatic in his hand, regarding him without emotion.

  Bertie adjusted his monocle and looked at Biggles. ‘I had to do it, old boy, otherwise he would have got you,’ he said apologetically.

  Biggles looked at the Sultan. ‘I’m sorry about all this, Your Highness, but we were left with no alternative if murder was to be prevented.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the Sultan, who looked shaken by the speed of events, not without cause. ‘I always knew Prince Chan was a dangerous man but I did not think he would go as far as that,’ he added, simply. ‘You saved my life and I am deeply grateful.’

  The door guards, who had rushed in at the sound of the shots, stood staring at the scene as if they did not know what to make of it.

  ‘It’s not for me to give you advice, sir,’ Biggles told the Sultan, ‘but in view of what has happened, and what we propose to do, it might be a good thing if these remaining conspirators were put where they can do no further mischief.’

  The Sultan evidently thought so too, for he gave an order and the three men were led out by the guards.

  The man who had been with the Sultan on the arrival of Biggles’ party rose from his knees beside Chan. ‘He is dead,’ he announced.

  ‘That may make things easier for you,’ Biggles told the Sultan. ‘Do you still want your son to go to England? Because if so there is no time to lose. The tide will be coming in.’

  ‘It is too early to say what the end of this will be,’ replied the Sultan. ‘I shall of course stay here,’ he added, ‘but I would rather my family went with you to England. I should then know that they at least were safe.’

  ‘Would you like me to remain with you for a little while, sir, until the trouble has been brought under control? There is still a lot of noise outside. Do you know what the shouting is about?’

  ‘No. It only started just before your arrival, and as you saw, I was unable to leave here.’

  Biggles turned to Ong. ‘Don’t you think it’s time someone found out what the people are shouting about?’

  ‘I will go,’ said Ong, and went out.

  He was back within five minutes. ‘I am told the
rioting started when a rumour spread through the town that the Sultan had abdicated in favour of Prince Chan,’ he reported. ‘That story, without doubt, was given out by Chan’s agents.’

  Biggles turned again to the Sultan. ‘Surely the answer to that is simple. It should only be necessary for you to show yourself to the people to squash the rumour. Apparently it’s you they want.’

  The Sultan appeared to take a fresh interest in the proceedings. He strode to a long window and throwing it open stepped out on to a balcony. Almost at once the shouting began to subside, soon to be replaced with cheers. The Sultan raised a hand and spoke to the crowd. What he said Ginger never knew but it had the effect of raising a storm of cheers.

  When the Sultan came back into the room he was smiling. ‘All is well,’ he said. ‘I shall stay, but until I can deal with the troublemakers I would prefer my family to go with you to England.’

  ‘Then the sooner we move off the better,’ replied Biggles. ‘Already we have been longer than we anticipated and the guard on the plane will be getting anxious. Perhaps Mr Ong will be good enough to show us the way back to the beach.’

  That was all. The Sultan said good-bye to his family and brought them forward to Biggles. ‘I can never thank you enough for what you have done to-night, yet still I don’t know your name.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘It isn’t important, sir.’ He held out a hand to the boy. ‘Come on, Your Highness. We’re going for a long ride.’

  Prince Suba looked up at Biggles with dark serious eyes. ‘I shan’t know what to call you,’ he said.

  ‘You can call me Biggles,’ said Biggles confidentially.

  ‘Biggles,’ repeated the Prince. ‘What a funny name.’

  ‘That’s what I think,’ agreed Biggles, to broad smiles all round. ‘Lead on, please, Mr Ong.’

  That was the end of the affair as far as the palace was concerned. There was no trouble on the return journey to the beach, but there were some anxious moments just before the party reached the rendezvous when they heard the Hastings’ engines start up. The reason became apparent when they stepped from the trees to the open beach. Algy was moving the machine farther from an advancing fine of surf that was the incoming tide. However, there was no immediate danger, although they found a very worried Algy who, with what concern can be imagined, had watched the waves galloping towards him.