No Rest For Biggles

by W E Johns

  “There’ll be a nice old row about this when the news gets out,” opined Biggles.

  “We didn’t do it,” protested Ginger.

  “No, but the people responsible will try to put the blame on us—they always do.”

  “I couldn’t care less,” averred Bertie. “They’re all a lot of scallywags.”

  “What’s more to the point,” put in Ginger, “do you think von Stalhein will set this lot to look for us? We aren’t out of the wood yet.”

  “From the way they’re standing there I’d say no,” answered Biggles. “We might be anywhere. He doesn’t know we’re practically immobilized. What hope would he have of finding us in miles of jungle? That’s probably what they’re discussing now. Besides, after what’s happened, to go into the forest would be asking to be bumped off by the blacks. I’d say it’s more likely that von Stalhein will be anxious to remove himself as quickly as possible from the horrible mess he’s made here.”

  “The sooner the better,” muttered Ginger.

  “I wonder where he picked that lot up,” went on Biggles. “By thunder! It’s come to a nice thing when he can collect an armed force on someone else’s territory. Well, we can’t do anything till they go. It looks as if they’re getting ready to go now.”

  “That suits me,” said Ginger warmly. “The sooner we’re out of this the better.”

  “There’s nothing more he can do here, anyway,” remarked Biggles. “Yes. There they go,” he continued, as von Stalhein and his private army began to file into the machine. “In one way I’m a bit disappointed. At the back of my mind I had a wild hope that they’d go to Christophe’s headquarters, leaving the machine unguarded, in which case we might have grabbed it. That would have left them stuck here, and at the same time saved us a lot of leg work.”

  The door of the aircraft was closed. The engines were revved up. The machine taxied to the end of the runway, turned and took off.

  “Good-bye and good riddance,” said Ginger. He looked at Biggles. “Now what’s the drill?”

  “I’m going to meet Algy and bring him here. Bertie’s in no shape for a long march.”

  “Why not let me go? I’ve had some sleep.”

  “I’ll go,” decided Biggles. “You stay here and take care of Bertie. Before I start I’d better have a look at what’s left of the secret plane, to see what sort of job I’ve made of it.”

  Ginger went with him. “How about trying to contact Algy by radio?” he suggested, as they walked along.

  “No. You might sit here fiddling for hours, and then not get him if he happened to be already on the ground.”

  There was no need to go close to the hangar. It was completely burnt out, as were the trees nearest to it. Of the aircraft, only the metal skeleton remained, which was not surprising considering the quantity of petrol and oil involved in the conflagration. The whole area was a black, smouldering mass. Even the earth was smoking.

  “Anybody’s welcome to that,” observed Biggles, turning away. “Hello!” he went on quickly. “Christophe’s moving. He isn’t dead after all.”

  “I wouldn’t go near him,” warned Ginger. “If he’s got a gun he’s likely to shoot you.”

  “We can’t leave the wretched fellow lying there wounded,” protested Biggles. “Have a heart. Poor old Christophe! His empire didn’t get far. Well, he can’t say I didn’t warn him. You go back and take care of Bertie. I shan’t be long.”

  As Biggles walked over to him Christophe raised himself on an elbow. There was no malice on his face. He looked crushed by the blow that had fallen. “So you’re still aroun’,” he greeted.

  “Of course,” answered Biggles. “Are you badly hurt?”

  “I got one in de shoulder and one in de leg,” explained the negro. “I’d a’ got more if I’d stood up. Dem sneaking rats.”

  “I see you changed your mind about your pals,” said Biggles. “You should have known better.”

  “Don’ rub it in, mister. I guess I had it a’comin’,” said Christophe philosophically.

  “You’re an American citizen, aren’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you want to go home or stay here?”

  “Dat’s a hard question. I ain’t done yet.”

  “It looks to me as if you’re very much done.”

  “Where’s Dessalines?”

  “I don’t know. The machine came back without him.”

  “Guess they must ‘ave bumped him off. Dem cheap skates. Mebbe even now dey ain’t so smart as dey tink.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Christophe gave Biggles a knowing look. In fact, he winked. “Dey ain’t so wise,” he said slowly. “I’se still got a card to play.”

  Biggles looked at the man curiously. “Then if you take my advice you’ll play it now.”

  Christophe considered Biggles thoughtfully. “I guess you must be one o’ dese straight guys you hear about but never meet. If I come clean will you take me some place where I can get dese holes in me filled up?”

  “I’d no intention of leaving you for the hyenas, anyway,” Biggles told him curtly. “There’s nothing I can do here, except get you over to some friends of mine who’ll fix you up as best they can while I fetch a plane with some first aid kit. Then I’ll take you to the nearest British hospital.”

  “Dat’s mighty kind o’ you, mister. Now I’ll tell you sommat. You’se a friend o’ General Mander?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is’e got his bag.”

  Biggles stared. “What bag?”

  “His bag o’ papers what dem rats wanted so bad. Dey think they got ‘em. Gimme forty grand for ‘em. But what dey got was de bags of his lieutenants, which I guess don’ mean much. Yeah! I was holding out on ‘em.”

  This was better news than Biggles expected. “Where is the General’s bag?”

  “Under the floor-boards in my office. I’ll show you.” Christophe staggered to his feet.

  “Not now,” decided Biggles. “That will have to wait till I get back. Come on. I’ll help you.”

  Christophe put a hand on Biggles’s shoulder and in slow time they made their way to where Ginger was watching this strange scene in open-eyed amazement.

  “We can’t waste any more time,” Biggles told Ginger. “I’m going to meet Algy. Do what you can for Christophe. He says he’s still got some teeth but I don’t think he’ll bite you. See you later.”

  With a curious expression on his face Biggles set off on his journey.

  CLEANING UP

  BIGGLES WALKED ON.

  In speaking to Christophe he had been prompted by common humanity. He had offered to help him for no other reason. The man had been foolish, he thought; ill-advised rather than wicked, persuaded to commit an act of folly by glib-tongued enemy agents who saw in him a useful tool to serve their ends. Maybe Christophe, who was a simple man but by no means a fool, had always suspected that, pondered Biggles; which was why he had double-crossed them.

  Anyway, the man was now down and out. He could do no further mischief, and Biggles was not prepared to leave him to become the prey of hyenas and vultures which, with their uncanny instinct, would soon be on the scene of bloodshed. For Biggles knew only too well the inevitable fate of a helpless man in the wilder parts of Africa.

  Aside from that, he thought, again with mounting anger, there could be no possible excuse for the murderous attack that had been made on Christophe and his supporters, some of whom may have been, merely ignorant negroes carried away by Christophe’s grandiose scheme for a black empire. Biggles’s expression became grim as he recalled the way they had been shot down without warning, without a chance. Biggles had no reason to regard any of them with affection but his soul revolted at such an act of callous, unscrupulous brutality. But then, that was the way of the people who had ordered the raid. Lives were nothing to them. He was surprised, and disappointed, that von Stalhein, ruthless though he knew him to be, had lent himself to such an enterprise. The vic
tims had done him no injury. Biggles wondered where the attacking force had come from, and where it had gone. Did Christophe know? It was, presumably, still in Africa, in which case it would have to be rooted out. Such a gang could do nothing but harm.

  He pushed on, determined to get as far as possible before the pitiless sun started its daily flaying of the open plain. Which is not to say that he took no precautions against being seen by natives who might still be about, although they would, he thought, and hoped, be more concerned with pillaging the huts in the compound now that Christophe and most of the soldiers were no longer there to keep them under control.

  But his chief concern was for Algy’s return. He was afraid that without medical attention Bertie’s wounds, slight as they were, would, in that climate, soon become septic. They were all in urgent need of food and water, too. To go drinking the dirty water of the river was to invite dysentery. Algy could be relied upon to get back at the earliest possible moment, but anything like a delay for reasons beyond his control, always a factor to be considered in off-the-map aviation, must prove fatal to the whole party.

  He walked on, always watching, moving from cover to cover, now with that mechanical stride that comes to men whose strength is finished but who will not give up. Some vultures began to keep pace with him, flying from tree to tree. Others were dropping out of the blue sky. They knew the signs. A hyena skulked not far away. Another joined it. They, too, were gathering for the feast.

  Biggles was not afraid of them. He knew they would not dare to come within reach while he was on his feet. He was more afraid of hunting dogs which, working in packs, have a worse reputation for savagery. So far he had seen none.

  He struggled on, the sun searing his eyes and drying the perspiration on his skin as fast as it formed. His tongue was like a piece of old leather in his mouth. But always his ears listened for the sound which would bring their only hope of survival. An aircraft. But not a whisper broke the sultry silence. The tortured air quivered in the heat. On all sides stretched the limitless plain of pale brown sun-dried grass. Overhead, the sky of implacable blue, without a cloud. The ant hills began to take on strange forms, like deformed men and animals.

  Knowing that he must be getting close to the rendezvous, which Ginger had described to him, he stared more and more often into the shimmering distances, which seemed to go on endlessly, hoping to see the aircraft standing there; but there was nothing remotely resembling an aircraft. A lioness stood up to look at him.

  At the finish, it was a stick to which still clung a strip of Ginger’s shirt that told him when he had reached the improvised landing ground. He gazed around. No aircraft. Algy wasn’t there. He didn’t really expect to find him there for it was still early for the appointment, so swaying slightly, he made his way to the meagre shade of the scrub and sat down to wait.

  What he feared now was that he would fall asleep, a sleep so deep that not even the noise of an aircraft engine would wake him; for, as he knew, there comes a time when the demands of nature are no longer to be resisted. Wherefore every time he caught himself nodding he would get up and walk a little way. The sun climbed over its zenith and began its long journey back to the horizon. The vultures were coming closer now. A hyena came within a dozen yards, slavering in anticipation. He eyed the beast with cold hostility. Taking out his pistol he fired at it. But his hand was unsteady; the shot missed, but the animal scampered off. But it did not go far. At the report he thought he heard something move in the bushes behind him, but he was too weary to investigate.

  It was, his watch told him, nearly three o’clock when he heard the sound he so eagerly awaited. The vibrant hum of an aircraft. There seemed something strange about it. Getting up, he lifted his eyes to the sky and saw not one aircraft but two. He made them out to be a Hastings and an Auster. What the Hastings was doing there he couldn’t imagine, and as von Stalhein was hardly likely to be flying in consort with Algy he didn’t care.

  He was about to walk into the open to signal his position when a bulky object rather more solid than a bush, a little further along the fringe of the scrub, attracted his attention. He hadn’t noticed it before. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes, and staring, saw that it was a rhinoceros. It was standing quite still, gazing out across the plain, at a distance of not more than a dozen yards. He realized that it must have been close all the time, and perhaps explained the movement he had heard when he had shot at the hyena.

  Now Biggles was not given to swearing, holding it to be a waste of both time and breath; but he mentally called the beast some names that were perhaps not quite fair, since the animal was on its own ground and he was the intruder. It was, he did not doubt, the same rhino that had given Ginger a fright near the same spot. He daren’t move. The creature stood like a rock, its little piggy eyes staring straight in front of it, obviously listening to the unfamiliar sound coming from the air. Fortunately there was not even a suspicion of a breeze or the beast must have winded him.

  The two aircraft came into sight, losing height, the Auster now leading, presumably to show the large machine the way in. They came round, touched down, and ran to a stop about sixty yards away from where Biggles stood. The engines died. From the cockpit of the Auster jumped Algy. Out of the Hastings got Tony Wragg. Then Biggles understood, although he could not imagine what had brought Tony back. He was satisfied to know that the Hastings must have delivered its passengers at some safe aerodrome.

  Algy and Tony looked around, talking; then, apparently satisfied that there was no one there, retired to the shade provided by the big machine obviously intending to wait. Biggles fumed—but he stood still with the rhino so close. He simply dare not move. Indeed, he dare hardly breathe. And so three or four minutes passed. To Biggles it seemed a good deal longer.

  At the finish it was the tick bird that gave him away, one of the feathered friends of the rhino in that they not only eat the insects on his back but serve as sentries. The bird arrived, and was in the act of settling on the beast’s broad back when it saw Biggles; or so it can be supposed, for it let out a startled squawk and flapped into the air. The rhino needed no second warning. With a snort it turned about and plunged into the bushes. Biggles’s relief need not be described. He walked, or rather, staggered, towards the aircraft.

  Algy and Tony, who had sprung to their feet at the noise made by the rhino, saw him at once, and hurried to meet him; and as they drew near Algy’s face expressed his concern at Biggles’s appearance. He broke into a run. “Good heavens, Biggles,” he cried. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s all right, although Bertie’s been hurt,” answered Biggles. “Get me a drink.”

  Algy dashed back to the aircraft, Biggles and Tony following slowly. Said Biggles to Tony : “What are you doing here?”

  Tony explained that he had taken his passengers to Dakar, and there he had run into Algy. On learning what he intended to do he had insisted on coming back with him in case he needed help.

  “That was noble of you,” stated Biggles. “You’d plenty of reasons for keeping clear of this place.”

  Algy came back with a can of water. Biggles drank it slowly, with pauses between gulps. “That’s better,” he declared.

  “What happened?”

  “I can’t go into details now, but von Stalhein attacked Christophe’s outfit in force and mopped the place up. Ginger and Bertie are on the edge of the airstrip waiting for us so let’s get mobile. We might as well have both machines along. I’ll fly with you in the Auster, Algy.”

  In another minute the machines were in the air, and within five had touched down on the airstrip. On the way Biggles gave Algy a brief explanation of the situation. As they glided in he broke off, however, a frown of alarm and anxiety creasing his forehead; for standing just in the open where he had left the others were four or five of Christophe’s troops, men who had survived the attack or had been in the compound when it was launched.

  “Taxi right up to where those men are standing,” Biggles told A
lgy. “From the way they’re behaving I don’t think they’ve any sting left.” A moment later Ginger’s appearance among them confirmed this.

  He came to meet them as they got down. “Good thing you left Christophe with us, with a promise to take him out,” he told Biggles. “Five minutes after you’d gone these troops of his came along and found us. They were all for cutting us up, but Christophe put things right. Some of the forest blacks came along, too, but they cleared off when the troops told ‘em to.”

  “How’s Bertie?”

  “No worse. In fact, I think he’s a little better. Christophe sent one of his men for water.”

  “Good. Get the medicine chest out of the machine, and the grub box.”

  The next two hours were spent getting everybody comfortable. Bertie’s wounds, and those of Christophe, were dressed. Everyone had a long overdue meal, and a wash, and those who needed it, a shave. By the time this business was finished a different atmosphere prevailed, and Biggles announced his intention of pushing along to Dakar, where they could rest, and from where he could get in touch with the Air-Commodore. But there was one more thing to be done. He looked at Christophe. “Now, what about General Mander’s bag?” he inquired.

  Christophe hesitated. “Dere’s some dollars dere with it. Do I get my money? You see,” he explained, “I’se got to pay dese men o’ mine.”

  Biggles shrugged. “I suppose that’s fair enough. If the money’s yours—well, it’s yours as far as I’m concerned. But I can’t take any responsibility for what the United States government might say about that.”

  “Dat’s good enough for me, mister,” returned Christophe, and revealed where the bag, and the money, were to be found. He offered to send with him those of his troops who were still alive as an escort against the natives who were not to be trusted—an offer which Biggles accepted with a smile. The idea of any of these people trusting each other struck him as funny.