by W E Johns
‘He’s got away,’ he rasped. ‘There must be a secret way out of this room—probably a lift. It’s no use looking for it now.’ He turned to the Air Commodore. ‘I’ll leave you to take care of things here, sir. Algy’s in the next room with some things you ought to see. Tug, you stay here with Ginger and give the Air Commodore a hand to clean up the mess. He’ll need some help.’
Biggles made for the stairs.
Chapter 17
The End of the Trail
Biggles went down the stairs three at a time, not a little annoyed at the turn the affair had taken—annoyed with himself, that is, for not having taken more direct action in the room upstairs. He should, he thought, have foreseen the possibility of the move Larapindi had made; for should the chief enemy agent escape, the coup he had planned would have to be accounted a failure. There was a chance that Larapindi might still be somewhere in the building, and if that were so, by posting the rest of the squadron to cover the exits, his escape might be frustrated.
He nearly fell over a body that lay at the foot of the second-floor staircase—presumably the man Tug had shot on his way up. Biggles turned his torch on him, and caught his breath sharply when it revealed a Japanese Air Force tunic. It was not until later, though, that he grasped the full significance of this. At the moment he was simply astonished that an enemy airman should wear uniform in such a place and at such a time. Without giving the matter serious thought, it flashed into his mind that the Japanese might possibly be one of those who had baled out in the combat, and had made his way under cover of dark to the warehouse, knowing that Larapindi would provide him with a hiding-place. The man still clutched in his hand a Japanese general service pattern revolver.
Biggles ran on down to the main hall. The first thing he saw was a man in native dress—the hall porter, he thought—lying on his back on the floor. A knife lay beside him. Taffy Hughes, as pale as death, sat in a chair, one foot in a pool of blood, with Johnny Crisp, on his knees, twisting a tourniquet round his leg.
‘What’s happened here?’ asked Biggles sharply.
Johnny answered: ‘Taffy and I bust the door in when the shooting started. Taffy was first. This guy —’ Johnny indicated the man on the floor ‘— stuck a knife in him.’
‘Look after him,’ ordered Biggles. ‘Have you seen a man go out through this door?’
‘No one has gone out this way,’ replied Johnny.
‘Where are the others?’
‘Outside, I suppose. Only Tug followed us in, and he went on up the stairs.’
Biggles went out into the street. The lorry was there, with Ferocity, alone, in charge.
‘Have you seen a man come out of the building?’ asked Biggles tersely.
‘Not a soul,’ returned Ferocity.
‘Where’s Bertie and Tex?’
‘They went down the side street to grab Larapindi’s car.’
‘Okay. Stand by,’ commanded Biggles. ‘Taffy’s been knifed, but Johnny is with him. If it turns out that Taffy is badly hurt you’ll have to run him to the hospital. If not, wait for the others.’
Biggles ran on down the side street. Larapindi’s car was still there. Tex, gun in hand, was standing beside it. The native driver cowered against the wall with his hands up.
‘Have you seen anybody come out, Tex?’ asked Biggles.
‘Sure,’ answered Tex. ‘A little feller in European clothes shot out of the side door. When we shouted to him to stop he had a crack at us and then bolted towards the river. Bertie went after him.’
Biggles raced on down the street. It ended abruptly at the river, but to the right there was a long wharf, flanking the rear of the warehouse. ‘Bertie! Where are you?’ he shouted.
The answer was two pistol shots in quick succession. The reports came from the far end of the wharf, which was occupied by cranes, conveyors, trollies and similar dock equipment. Biggles ran towards the sound. More shots guided him as he ran. Then came another sound, one that spurred him to a sprint. It was the throbbing hum of a powerful motor-boat. He came upon Bertie taking long distance shots at a long low craft that was tearing the surface off the water as it headed up-stream.
‘The blighter’s got away,’ muttered Bertie. ‘Sorry, old boy.’
‘Was he a little fellow in European clothes, wearing spectacles?’
‘Yes. I lost sight of him in all this clutter. Next thing I saw was the boat.’
‘Are there any more boats?’ asked Biggles.
‘I haven’t seen any. I shouldn’t think there are two like that.’ Bertie pointed to the fast disappearing speedboat. ‘Let’s follow in the car,’ he suggested. ‘The blighter’s got to come ashore somewhere sooner or later,’
Biggles clicked his fingers. ‘My gosh!’ he muttered, aghast. ‘I’ve just remembered something. I’ll bet I know where he’s making for. He’s got an aircraft up the river. He’s going to pull out.’ Biggles went on quickly. ‘We’ve still a chance. Bertie, go into the main hall and call Dum Dum on the ‘phone; tell them to bring a Spit out and have it started up. I shall be there in five minutes.’
Without waiting to see if Bertie followed Biggles raced back to Larapindi’s car. ‘Look out! I want this car,’ he told Tex in a brittle voice. ‘Take your prisoner inside and hand him over to Johnny. Tell Johnny to call an ambulance from the airfield to pick up Taffy. Then join Ferocity in the lorry and try to overtake a motor-boat that’s heading up-stream. Larapindi’s in it. He’s got a hangar somewhere up the river, with a machine in it. Try to stop him from getting away. If the hangar is this side of the river you may have a chance.’
Biggles was moving as he spoke, and by the time he had finished he was in the driving-seat. The car shot forward, and in another minute was racing along the road to Dum Dum.
In the short drive that followed Biggles took risks which in the ordinary way he would have considered unjustifiable. The driver of a belated bullock cart, which he missed by inches in avoiding a careless pedestrian, would doubtless have agreed with him. But everything depended on speed. He reached the airfield without mishap, and after skidding to a standstill at the main gate to announce his identity, went straight on across the landing-field to where a Spitfire was standing, its engine idling.
‘Is she all right, flight-sergeant?’ he shouted to the N.C.O. in charge, as he jumped out.
‘Okay, sir,’ was the answer.
Biggles climbed into the cockpit. An instant later the engine roared and the Spitfire moved forward. In five seconds it was in the air, swinging round in a wide turn towards Calcutta. The river came into view. Biggles eased the control column forward. On reaching the river he turned steeply, and roared up-stream with the floor of his fuselage not more than fifty feet above the water. He noted several cars outside the warehouse as he flashed past. Ahead, all he could see was that the placid surface of the river had been disturbed. There was no sign of the motor-boat. He tore on for three or four minutes, annihilating distance. Before him the moon gleamed on the broad surface of the water. He had always realised the futility of trying to make any sort of search in the dock area, which stretches for miles, but he hoped that somewhere above it, where there was less congestion of vessels, he would see either the motor-boat, or the aircraft. He saw neither. Doubts assailed him. It was only assumption that Larapindi would try to effect his escape by air. The enemy agent had asserted that the Gull was grounded for the duration; and so, undoubtedly, it had been—officially, Biggles reflected. But that would not prevent Larapindi from keeping it in an airworthy condition if he thought there was a chance that he might need it.
Biggles zoomed. Banking gently, his eyes probed the deep blue void through which he moved. He began to circle, extending his range with each turn. There was no sign of the aircraft he sought. Moodily he began to wonder if he had been wise in rushing into the air; and he was still wondering, torn by indecision, when during a turn he saw two bright sparks of light on the ground, winking at him. He took the lights to be the headlamps of a c
ar, on the far bank of the river. With quickening interest he realised that this might be a signal to him, bearing in mind that the lorry would be able to judge his position by the sound of his motor.
Making for the lights he nearly collided with the Gull, and thereby had what must have been one of the narrowest escapes of his career. He did not know it was the Gull. He barely saw it. He was concentrating his attention on the winking headlights, trying to make out if the flashes formed a signal in Morse, when the thing happened. To say that a shadow appeared in the darkness would convey only a poor impression of the actual event. When two high-performance aircraft are approaching each other head-on, even in broad daylight, from the moment they become visible to each other, to the moment of contact, is a very short time indeed. At night the time factor is lessened, in ratio with reduced visibility. The black shape of the Gull did undoubtedly approach, but from the time it came into sight, to the moment of passing, was a split second. Biggles hardly saw it. Rather did he become aware of it. He acted without conscious thought. It was one of those occasions, and there are many in every pilot’s career, when there is literally no time for thought. Life depends on perfect co-ordination of brain and limb. The two things, actuated by an impulse which is akin to instinct, must operate simultaneously, or all is lost. Biggles’ right hand and foot jerked. The Spitfire reacted convulsively, like a horse startled from sleep. The two shadows seemed to merge. Then they flashed past each other. The danger was averted. Again Biggles moved. His nerves were rigid from shock, the sensation as when we say our heart stands still; but he moved. The control column was back in his thigh, and the Spitfire had whirled round almost in its own length. Then for the first time he really saw the Gull, and recognised it.
The rest was comparatively easy. Glancing down to see where he was he observed that by an ironic twist of fate the Gull was just passing over the eastern boundary of the airfield, from which the enemy agents had sent so many British pilots to their deaths. He waited for a moment and then fired a short burst past the Gull’s cabin. He assumed that the civil machine would be unarmed, and he resolved to give the pilot a chance to land should he prefer surrender to death, although it would probably come to the same thing in the end. He did not think his enemy would accept the invitation. And he was right. The Gull jinked, and then, to Biggles’ surprise, someone in the cabin opened fire on him with a machine-gun, presumably a mobile weapon. He hesitated no longer. Swinging round to the off-side quarter of the fugitive he closed in, took careful aim, and fired. Tracer flashed across the intervening distance. The apex of the cone of fire struck the Gull amidships; the machine appeared first to crumple, and then break across the cabin. Pieces broke off and whirled away astern. The nose of the stricken machine dropped. It dived. The motor was cut, but still it dived, in an ever-steepening swoop earthward. With expressionless face Biggles watched it strike the edge of a paddy-field. He circled twice and then turned away, not feeling inclined to risk a night landing near the wreck, although the country was open. In any case, he knew that there was nothing he could do for whoever might be in the machine. So he cruised back to the airfield and landed, taxi-ing on to the ambulance station.
‘I’ve just shot an enemy machine down, not far from the road, about two miles east of the airfield,’ he announced. ‘I fancy there are casualties. I’ll come with you.’
‘I thought I heard shooting, sir,’ answered the driver, as Biggles got in beside him.
There were two bodies in the wreck. One was Larapindi. The other, obviously the pilot, was unknown to him. The ambulance returned to the airfield and the bodies were taken to the mortuary. Biggles went back to Larapindi’s car, which still stood where he had abandoned it, and drove quietly back to the warehouse.
Things were different from when he had left. A line of police cars occupied the kerb outside the main entrance, from which he gathered that the Air Commodore had considered it advisable to call for assistance. He found a little crowd in the hall; it included most of the members of the squadron, and the Air Commodore. His arrival caused a stir.
‘What about Larapindi?’ asked the Air Commodore urgently, anxiously.
‘He won’t give any more trouble,’ answered Biggles.
‘Where is he?’
Biggles took out his cigarette case. ‘What’s left of him is in the station mortuary,’ he replied.
‘How did that happen?’
‘He’d got an aircraft parked up the river, apparently with a tame pilot standing by. He must have kept the machine there for just such an emergency.’
‘We’ve found five Japanese airmen here so far, hiding in different parts of the building,’ put in the Air Commodore. ‘This must have been a rendezvous for enemy pilots who were forced down on our side of the lines. It seems that that was another of Larapindi’s activities. The search is still going on. I take it you shot him down?’
‘I had to, or he’d have got away. He was heading east. That’s all there was to it. What’s happened here?’
‘Nothing very exciting, since you left. We’re still cleaning up. We’ve taken everybody into custody. That stuff in the laboratory was interesting, but not so interesting as the contents of Larapindi’s safe. You caught him on one foot, so to speak; otherwise, if he had had time, no doubt he would have destroyed everything. As it is, we’ve got particulars of the dope operatives on the other stations, to say nothing of other agents, and where they are working. They are being rounded up. By dawn the whole organization should be wiped out.’
‘Was Larapindi a Jap,’ asked Biggles.
‘I haven’t been able to get to the bottom of that yet,’ answered the Air Commodore. ‘He was a Fascist, anyway. He was a wealthy man, but that wasn’t enough. He wanted power, which is an obsession with a certain type. I found a document in the safe, a sort of agreement, promising him a high political position in India should the country be taken by Japan. He played for a big stake, and lost.’
Biggles nodded. ‘Have you found any indication as to whether this dope business was his own idea, or whether he was put up to it by Japan?’
‘We don’t know yet. We may never know—not that it’s important.’
‘What’s the position of the firm?’ queried Biggles.
‘Oh, it was genuine enough, originally, there’s no doubt of that,’ asserted the Air Commodore. ‘Larapindi was the crook. With Tahil out of the way it provided a wonderful background for espionage. The firm has agents and branches everywhere, and the top floor of this warehouse must have been an ideal meeting-place for enemy agents. Tahil died from snake-bite, you know.’
‘So Laripindi told me. I should say Larapindi was the snake that bit him.’
‘Old Tahil was a good fellow. It must have suited Larapindi to have him out of the way. Young Tahil, the old man’s son, is at Oxford. I imagine he’ll come back and take over the firm. Well, you’ve done a good job, Bigglesworth. I’ll see you get credit for it.’
‘You mean, you’ll see that the squadron gets credit for it,’ corrected Biggles.
The Air Commodore smiled. ‘Of course—that’s what I meant. I suppose you’d like to get back to England now? If you go right away I’m afraid you’ll leave Mackail and Harcourt here.’
‘How are they? Have you heard lately?’
‘Yes, I rang up the hospital this evening. Harcourt is doing fine—he wasn’t seriously hurt. Mackail has come round, and the M.O. says he’ll recover, but it will be some time before he flies again.’
‘Good. What about Taffy? The last I saw of him he was sitting here bleeding like a pig. One of Larapindi’s men had knifed him.’
‘It’s nothing serious,’ stated the Air Commodore. ‘In fact, Crisp, who went back with him in the ambulance, tells me that the M.O., after putting a stitch or two in him, has let him go to his quarters.’
‘Bertie and Tex saw Larapindi take off,’ put in Ginger, who was one of those standing by, listening to the conversation. ‘They went with Ferocity in the lorry, they couldn’
t do anything to stop him because they were on the wrong side of the river.’
‘Absolutely,’ declared Bertie. ‘All I could do was wink my jolly old headlights at you, to show you where we were.’
Biggles smiled. ‘I saw them; and I was so interested in them that I nearly flew into Larapindi. If he was more scared than I was he must have died from shock. I shall have a nightmare to-night—the thought of collision always did give me the jitters.’ He yawned. ‘Which reminds me, a spot of sleep wouldn’t do us any harm. Let’s get back. I want to have a little wager with Taffy.’
‘What is it?’ asked Algy.
Biggles laughed. ‘I’m going to bet him that the hole in my arm is deeper than the one in his leg. Come on. Let’s go, before the Air Commodore thinks of another tangle for us to straighten out.’
Footnotes
Chapter 1
*1 Distinguished Flying Cross.
*2 Slang: Air Commodore.
*3 Slang: those of the rank of Group Captains and above making reference to the gold braid on the service cap.
*4 Slang: a staff officer, also referring to the gold braid on his service cap.
*5 A Wellington—Twin engine heavy bomber made by Vickers.
*6 Slang: information.
*7 A four engine bomber made by Consolidated USA.
*8 General Office Commanding.
*9 Place where the men eat and relax together.
*10 Air Officer Commanding.
Chapter 2
*1 Slang: to be killed.
Chapter 3
*1 Slang: perimeter
*2 Slang: Flight Lieutenant
*3 Spitfire fighter
*4 Hurricane fighters modified to carry bombs under the wings.
Chapter 4
*1 Beaufighter—twin engine two-seater day and night fighter.
*2 Slang: parachutes
Chapter 5
*1 Slang: to bomb a target successfully.
*2 Exploding anti-aircraft shells.
