by W E Johns
“That’s the machine which I’m sure had something to do with bringing us down,” declared Ginger. “I’m dashed if I know what it is.”
“It’s got an American cut about it,” offered Bertie. Ginger agreed. “Anyway, it isn’t a standard type.”
They watched the machine land and then taxi diagonally to the forest on the far side of the airstrip where it disappeared in the shadows. The engines died. Some figures could be seen moving about. No actual hangar could be seen, for the edge of the forest was very irregular.
“That must be where they keep it,” said Ginger. “With luck we’ll have a look at it presently. There goes the jeep.” The vehicle could be seen bumping along the edge of the forest on the far side of the landing ground.
“What’s the routine now, old boy,” inquired Bertie. “Do we look for Biggles or try to get a dekko inside the mystery kite?”
“As we can’t cross the airstrip in daylight we’d better carry on down the side to see if we can locate the headquarters of this outfit. That’s where Biggles will be, I imagine.”
“It won’t be daylight much longer,” Bertie pointed out. “But I think you’re right. Biggles must come first.”
This settled, they dashed back to the forest and continued on, keeping, of course, inside the trees. And they hadn’t gone far when they saw their departure from the machine had been well timed; for there now appeared, walking towards it, two of the uniformed negroes. Ginger and Bertie crouched while they went past not more than ten yards away. They were talking, but only a few odd words reached Ginger’s ears. Reaching the Hastings they went inside, and as they did not come out again it could be supposed that they intended remaining there.
“We were out just in time,” remarked Bertie, soberly.
“The luck’s on our side so far,” replied Ginger. “Let’s hope it holds. I couldn’t make out what those fellows were talking about but they were speaking English.”
“I know. It’s a rum go, laddie,” opined Bertie.
They went on in light that was beginning to fail with the close of day. They moved even more slowly, aware that every step they took put them into a posi-tion of increasing danger. Somewhere in the now dark heart of the forest a drum began to throb. It was answered by another in the distance. In these conditions they reached the end of the airstrip. The track showed them which way the jeep had gone. Still they pressed on, for as Ginger pointed out, once it was completely dark it would be impossible to move through the forest and it would still be too dangerous to walk in the open.
When lights began to show ahead they knew they were nearing the end of the trail, but it was now too dark to see anything distinctly. Some figures, one of whom carried a torch, looming in the darkness, coming towards them, brought them to a halt. Standing there they watched a barbed wire gate dragged across the end of the track, and light shining on a continuation of the wire told them the truth. The camp, or whatever lay beyond, was enclosed, and they were on the wrong side of the wire. The men who had closed the gate retired the way they had come.
“Now what?” breathed Bertie.
“All we can do is try to follow the wire,” answered Ginger, not very convincingly, for he was doubftul if this would prove possible. But they might, he thought, find a place from where they could get a better idea of what lay inside the wire. Anyway, he could think of nothing else to do.
“We can try it,” agreed Bertie.
Guns in hand, in case they should be discovered, they started.
DARK WORK
THE FIRST STEP taken by Ginger and Bertie was the obvious one. They investigated the fence; and it did not take them long to perceive that without wire cutters there was no hope of getting to the far side of it. With strands stretched taut only a few inches apart it was not less than eight feet high, with loops or festoons of barbed wire along the top to entangle anyone who tried to climb over it. But then, as Ginger pointed out, had the fence not been manproof there would have been no point to it.
“This is no temporary base, that’s certain,” said Ginger in a low voice. “No one would have gone to all this trouble for a short stay.”
“Too true—too true,” agreed Bertie. “This is where a pair of cutters would have come in handy.”
“Who could have expected anything like this?”
“Not me,” admitted Bertie. “I hate the beastly stuff.”
The next discovery was less disheartening. Ginger, at least, had supposed that the jungle would have grown into the fence, making passage along the outside impossible; instead of which there was a path of sorts, the trees and bushes having been cut back to leave a narrow gap.
“I reckon than can only mean one thing,” observed Bertie, looking at it—or what could be seen of it in the darkness. “Sentries stroll round occasionally.”
“In daylight, perhaps. But with wild beasts about not often after dark, I’ll bet. Any beast coming to the fence would follow it, looking for a way round.”
“That’s a cheerful thought,” remarked Bertie.
“It’s a chance we shall have to take,” declared Ginger. “It’s no use standing here. Let’s push along until we reach a place from where we can see what it’s all about.” Moving slowly they set off along the narrow track and soon came in sight of lights. Everything else was vague, but they could make out the dim silhouettes of buildings and once in a while a shadow would cross an area of light. Stopping to watch they saw two men, white men by their clothes, leave a large building and walk slowly to a smaller one. Some distance away an engine was started and continued running.
“I wonder what they need power for,” muttered Ginger.
“Electricity is my guess,” replied Bertie. “They’d need it to charge their batteries if only for wireless. They’re bound to have radio.”
They went on for some time without making any discovery of a sensational nature. In fact, they learned nothing. The wire seemed to go on interminably, although Ginger had a feeling that they were travelling in a big oval, or rectangle. The stars brightened and confirmed it. There was nothing surprising about it as far as Ginger was concerned. From the outset it had been evident that the wire enclosed a camp, so they had only to go on long enough to arrive back at their starting point.
A second fence, running into the compound at right angles, brought them to a halt. “Now what?” muttered Ginger. “Don’t say there are two camps.”
“I vote we stay here until the moon comes up and we can see what we’re doing,” said Bertie. “This blundering about in the dark is no use, no use at all. Next thing we shall bump into somebody—or something.”
“I think you’re right,” agreed Ginger.
By straining his eyes he could just make out the shape of the hut in the second compound, which was, so to speak, a pen within the outside wire. He thought he could see cigarettes glowing, but he wasn’t sure. They might have been fireflies. There were some about. There was a faint murmur of voices, but it was too far off for words to be heard. It was not possible to get nearer.
“I wonder could Biggles be in that lot?” he whispered. “He must be in the camp somewhere.”
“So must the troops,” answered Bertie. “That hut might be their barracks. Let’s not do anything in a hurry, old boy. We’ve got the whole night in front of us.”
They found a heap of brushwood, twigs that had been cut to keep the path open, and sat on it, the intention being to wait for moonrise. But before that happened there occurred events which were to put a very different construction on the situation.
They began when Ginger saw, in the inner compound, a dark form creeping slowly and furtively towards them. It was not in the open, but close against the wire. From time to time it stopped, as if to listen. He squeezed Bertie’s arm to call attention to it. So close to the wire did the figure move that for a time it was impossible to tell for certain on which side it was; but as it drew nearer, and revealed itself to be a man dressed in European fashion, Ginger saw, with considerable relief
, that he was in fact on the inside of the wire. Had it been otherwise he might have collided with them. However, as things were, there was little chance of the man seeing them, for they were well back under overhanging shrubs. For a moment Ginger had a wild hope that the prowler might turn out to be Biggles; but in this he was to be disappointed. The man was too heavily built. He came right on into the corner where the two fences met, within two or three yards of where Ginger and Bertie were now sitting as stiff as statues, and there he stopped, staring down the fence in the direction from which they had come.
Minutes passed. The man did not move. Nor did Ginger. He dare hardly breathe, for fear the man would hear him, so close was he. He could see his face well enough to make him out to be a white man, but nothing more. From his attitude it was plain that he was waiting for someone, for which reason from time to time Ginger switched his eyes to the direction into which the man was staring. He dare not move his body. The next development was the appearance of a second dark figure, striding with a limp along the wire from the opposite direction, obviously the person for whom the first man was waiting. Coming up, without preamble, the newcomer, in a low but curt voice said: “Hollweg.”
“Ja,” replied the man who had waited.
At the sound of the first voice Ginger’s nerves had so vibrated that he hardly heard the reply. Subconsciously the limp had touched a chord in his memory. The voice confirmed a suspicion almost before it was formed. The newcomer was von Stalhein.
Ginger was startled rather than surprised, for as the Air-Commodore had said, these encounters with a man who was almost Biggles’s opposite number, working for the enemy, were inevitable. Now they were literally, as well as figuratively, on each side of the fence. Bertie nudged him gently to let him know that he was keeping pace with the situation.
Von Stalhein went on: “What are they doing?”
“Talking.”
“What about?”
“War flying.”
“Any talk of escape?”
“No.”
“Have you heard Bigglesworth mention any friends of his who might be about?”
“No. But they are suspicious of me now and stop talking when I’m near. Bigglesworth has spent much time talking to the General and the pilot Wragg.”
“Very well. Now go and tell Bigglesworth that I’d like to speak to him here—alone. Don’t let the others hear.”
“Jawohl.” The original man walked off in the direction of the hut, leaving von Stalhein standing by the fence, taking frequent glances in the direction from which he had come as if apprehensive of something.
Ginger’s brain was in a whirl as he strove to put a reasonable construction on the purpose of this clandestine assignation. For that it was clandestine was obvious from von Stalhein’s manner. What on earth did he want with Biggles? It was the first time in Ginger’s recollection that he had expressed a wish to speak to him. The only clear fact in this baffling mystery was that Biggles was there, behind wire, with a pilot and at least one passenger of the lost Hastings.
Ginger hoped that Biggles would not be long, for he was in a cramped position yet dare not move a muscle for fear of cracking one of the twigs on which he sat.
Presently Biggles came. He, too, was on the wrong side of the wire, of course. “Good evening, von Stalhein,” he began. “Hollweg tells me you want to see me. How are you off for cigarettes? With the boys running short mine are almost finished.”
“You probably have enough to last you for the short time you’ll be needing them—unless you’re prepared to behave like the sensible man I know you to be,” answered von Stalhein coldly. “Have you thought over my proposition?”
“No. There was nothing to think about.”
“You know they’re going to shoot you in the morning. I can’t hold them off any longer.”
“So I understand.”
“I hope you appreciate the risks I’m taking in coming here like this.”
“I appreciate that any risks you’re taking are for yourself.”
“If Christophe knew I was here he’d shoot me as well as you.”
“It would at least be in the true tradition of drama for us both to go out together.”
“Christophe’s a fanatic as well as a scoundrel.”
“Why scoundrel? Because he pulled a fast one on you? You’d have double-crossed him given the chance. Don’t bleat because he outsmarted you.”
“Without our help he would never have got the plane.”
“So what? He got it and stuck to it, and now makes your boss pay for what he was hoping to get for nothing. I’d rather he had it than you.”
“There’s no need to go over that again. We’re wasting time,” retorted von Stalhein shortly. “In the morning you’ll be shot. I have here a pair of wire cutters. With them you can get out and save your life. All I ask in return is that you fly us to a spot which I shall name, where a pilot is waiting, and there hand the machine over to me.”
“And promptly be bumped off, or flown to the salt mines in Siberia until my lungs rot. Nothing doing.”
“What about your fellow prisoners? They should have some say in the matter.”
“They agree with me. By the way, does Zorotov know about this proposition?”
“Of course not.”
“I see. You’d leave him here.”
“Certainly. He’s playing his own hand to get the machine from Christophe.”
“I must say you’re a bright lot,” sneered Biggles. “What about Christophe’s pilot? Have you tried him?”
“Dessalines? Yes. He won’t play. I fancy he aims to be the Emperor of Africa.”
“By bumping off Christophe.”
“That, too, would be in accord with tradition. If you know your history, it was the original Christophe who murdered the original Dessalines. The modern Dessalines won’t have forgotten that, you may be sure. He can afford to play a waiting game. But that’s enough. I daren’t wait here any longer. Will you stay here to be shot, or can I hand you these?” Von Stalhein showed a pair of wire cutters.
Biggles didn’t answer at once. He seemed to be doing something to the leg of his trousers. Suddenly he stood erect, and there was a gun in his hand. “Give me those cutters, von Stalhein, or I’ll drop you where you stand,” he said crisply.
“Well—well,” murmured von Stalhein. “So you’ve managed to keep a gun. Christophe will be interested to know that.”
“He’ll also be interested to know the proposition you put up to me,” returned Biggles in a hard voice. “Hand over those cutters.”
“If I knew you less well I might think you’d turned the tables on me,” sneered von Stalhein. “But knowing you as I do I feel safe in calling your bluff. It just isn’t in you to shoot an unarmed man at a range of two yards. I shall give you one last chance. Go and speak to Mander. I’ll return in half an hour for your last word on the matter.” With that he calmly turned his back on Biggles and walked away.
Biggles watched him go. Von Stalhein had called his bluff and it had worked.
The trouble was, thought Ginger, who had watched the battle of wits with almost breathless suspense, von Stalhein knew Biggles too well.
He waited until the dark figure had merged into the gloom, and Biggles was just turning away, then rose stiffly to his feet, making a slight noise.
Biggles spun round. “Who’s that?” he rapped out.
“It’s us—me and Bertie,” answered Ginger.
“Suffering Jupiter! Have you been there all the time?” Biggles’s voice was thin with amazement.
“We have. With von Stalhein on the wrong side of the wire we could do no more than you. What was it all about? I couldn’t quite get the hang of it.”
“Perfectly simple. Iron Curtain agents in America bribed a negro pilot in the U.S. Air Force to pinch a plane designed to carry a secret weapon—the one that cut our engines. This bloke, Dessalines, and a pal named Christophe who was in with him, got away with the plane, but instead
of handing it over went into business on their own account. They’re forcing down planes carrying V.I.P.s and selling state secrets to enemy agents. These agents want the plane, of course, but with all the blacks around here on Christophe’s pay-roll they can’t get to it. Christophe is in touch with them by radio. He reported that I’d arrived here and that was enough to bring Von Stalhein along. He’s still working for the other side. That skunk Zorotov, whom we met in the West Indies, is with him. They trust each other so little that they’re not allowed to work single-handed. I don’t wonder at that. Look at the game von Stalhein’s playing now. He’s prepared to get me out, double-crossing everyone else, if I’ll fly this aircraft away and hand it over to him. He first made the proposition yesterday, after the official interview at which everyone was present. He came tonight for the answer.”
“Are they really going to shoot you in the morning?”
“I think that’s the intention. Christophe, who knows I’m a British agent, was all for shooting me out of hand. So was Zorotov. Von Stalhein got it postponed. For a little while I fooled myself with the belief that he did it merely to save my life. Actually, I was right, but he wasn’t prompted by any nicer feelings. He saw a way, with my help, of getting what he wanted—the aircraft. As you heard, he just had another try. I’ve told him I won’t play, but he’s hoping Mander and the others will persuade me to call it a deal. Where’s Algy, by the way?”
“Gone home to tell the Chief what’s cooking and bring back an Auster. He’s leaving the Halifax at Accra. We may not need the Auster but it can get down where the Halifax couldn’t. We’re due to meet Algy about five miles from here on Friday—possibly Thursday.”
Bertie stepped in. “Never mind about that. The first thing is to get Biggles out of this pen. All we need is wire cutters. Von Stalhein has got a pair. We’ve got to get them off him when he comes back.”
“How are you going to do that while he stays on his own side of the wire?” asked Biggles.
