Biggles and Cruise of the Condor

by W E Johns

  For some time they stood in silence, listening for any sound that might indicate the discovery of the adventurer, but all was still.

  'I think he must have got through,' whispered Dickpa with a sigh of relief.

  He had hardly spoken the words when there came a sudden shout, and a revolver blazed in the darkness outside.

  Dickpa seized Algy's arm in a vice-like grip. 'That's done it,' he groaned.

  'Certainly not,' replied Algy shortly. 'Biggles has been shot at before, don't forget.'

  Again they stood listening, trying to hear some sound which might let them know whether Biggles had been captured or whether he had escaped.

  'Shh!' breathed Algy. 'Don't move. Under the apple-tree, over in the corner—I saw a movement. Look! There's another of them—over by the yew hedge. They're making for the house. All right, we'll give them something to think about.' He hurried through to the hall, closely followed by Dickpa, and picked up the heavy elephant gun. 'Is it loaded?' he asked quickly.

  'Yes,' replied Dickpa, 'but—'

  'That's all right,' muttered Algy. 'I'm not going to kill anybody.' And, turning, ran quickly up the staircase. He entered the door of a bedroom that commanded a view from the front of the house and opened the window quietly. Not a sound broke the stillness of the summer night.

  'There's one of them,' breathed Dickpa suddenly, 'over there under the rhododendron-bushes.'

  'I see him; leave him to me,' whispered Algy. He took quick aim at the tops of the bushes and pulled the trigger.

  The roar of the great gun shattered the silence in a mighty volume of sound that seemed to shake even the house to its foundations. A full minute elapsed before the echoes had died away.

  'Listen out there!' called Algy crisply. 'I'm giving you fair warning that the first man who puts foot within twenty yards of this house will get a dose of hot lead.'

  Into the silence that followed, a sound of crashing and stumbling came from several places among the bushes.

  Algy smiled. 'That should give them something to think about, anyway,' he muttered grimly. 'All the same,' he went on, 'I shall be glad when the week is up; it's going to be pretty monotonous sitting here doing nothing except keep guard.'

  Chapter 4

  The Getaway

  The stars were paling in the faint grey light that crept upward in the eastern sky and heralded the coming of dawn. Somewhere in the thick coppice that bordered the long pasture a bird chirped suddenly, then another, and another. A blackbird burst out of the hedge with a shrill clamour of alarm.

  'Dash that bird,' muttered Algy irritably from where he crouched low in a thicket near the edge of the wood. 'It will give the game away if we aren't careful.'

  Dickpa looked up from where he was sitting huddled on a suitcase, and nodded. 'I hope to goodness he comes,' he whispered. 'I'm wondering how we shall get back to the house if he doesn't.'

  'I shouldn't waste time thinking about that,' whispered Algy; 'you evidently don't know Biggles. He'll come all right. Thank goodness there's no ground mist. That's the only thing that worried me. Just pray for the weather conditions to keep fine; that's the most important thing.'

  A week had passed since Biggles had departed on his quest, and, in accordance with their plans, Dickpa and Algy had made their way to the rendezvous, to await Biggles's arrival in the promised aircraft. Fortunately the night had been dark, and, leaving the house by a side window soon after midnight, they had been able to worm their way to the appointed place. It had been nerve-racking work, for in the interval of time they had seen members of the enemy camp repeatedly, and it was obvious that the siege was being maintained.

  The early morning air was chilly, and Algy watched the sky anxiously. Slowly the light grew stronger, and a bright patch of turquoise appeared overhead as the sun rose over the horizon.

  'Hark!' Algy turned his head in a listening position and his heart gave a throb of excitement as faintly, from the far distance, the unmistakable sound of an aero engine reached their ears.

  'He's coming!' Dickpa's voice literally trembled with excitement.

  For answer, Algy pointed to a tiny speck in the sky which his practised eye had picked out. It was approaching rapidly, and any doubts that they might have had that it was not Biggles, but another wandering airman, were soon set at rest, for it was heading straight towards them.

  'Don't move until his wheels touch,' warned Algy. The noise of the engine died away abruptly and the machine began to side-slip* steeply towards the field in which they crouched. 'I expect other eyes besides ours are watching him,' went on Algy. 'We shall have to sprint for all we are worth when we do move.'

  * A sideways movement of the aircraft, used, in this case, to lose height quickly.

  The machine, under expert handling, swung round up the field, levelled out, and dropped as lightly as a feather upon the dewy turf about a hundred yards away in a perfect three-point landing.**

  ** A landing where the two forward landing wheels and the tailwheel (also called the tail skid) all touch the ground together.

  'Come on, Dickpa, run for it,' muttered Algy, picking up a bulky bundle from the ground at their feet, which contained the few articles that Dickpa considered indispensable. 'Never mind me; run straight to the machine.'

  Side by side they broke from the bushes and ran towards the machine, still ticking over where it had landed. The pilot saw them almost at once, opened his engine with a roar, and taxied quickly towards them.

  The runners heard him yell something, but what he said was drowned in the noise of the engine and the whip-like crack of the revolver from somewhere behind them. Without pausing in his stride, Algy snatched a fleeting glance over his shoulder; three men were just emerging from the edge of the wood, one of them firing a revolver as he ran.

  Panting, Algy reached the machine. 'In you go, Dickpa,' he snapped, and swung lightly into the seat, dragging Dickpa in head first behind him. He ducked as a bullet zipped through the canvas fuselage just behind him.

  But the machine was already moving forward under the swelling roar of the engine; the tail rose as it raced across the turf like an arrow. Bump—bump—bump— it rocked over grass-covered mole-hills, and Algy stared aghast at the line of trees ahead. Would she never lift? He saw at a glance that it was going to be a close thing.

  Biggles, sitting tense in his cockpit, had his eyes riveted on the formidable line of trees and knew it was going to be touch and go whether they cleared them or not. He held the stick forward until the last moment to get as much speed as possible, and then, when collision seemed inevitable, jerked it back into his stomach. He held his breath while the under-carriage wheels literally grazed the topmost branches and the machine hung for a moment as if undecided whether to stall or go on.

  Algy felt the aeroplane wobble as the controls relaxed, and then sank back limply as it picked up again, knowing only too well how near they had been to disaster at the very onset of their quest. He pulled on the helmet and goggles the pilot had thoughtfully placed in the cockpit in readiness, and a moment later saw Dickpa's head similarly garbed. Biggles looked back over his shoulder and grinned at his passengers. Then he held his left hand high in the air, thumb turned upwards, with a triumphant gesture, and they returned the thumbs-up salute, which means the same thing the whole world over.

  Chapter 5

  Trouble

  With his altimeter registering five thousand feet, Biggles looked a trifle apprehensively over the side of his cockpit at the unusual scene below as he headed westwards in a Vickers Amphibian. Immediately below, a broad, winding silver ribbon marked the course of the mighty Amazon, the largest river in the world. On both sides lay the forest, dark and unfathomable, like a great sombre pall over the face of the earth, merging into vague purple and blue shadows at the remote horizon. There was nothing else; not a road, a field, or an isolated tree that might be taken for a landmark. The utter sameness of it all had appalled him at first, but now he was growing accustomed to i
t, for they were far up the river, approaching Manaos, the strange city founded by gold-hunting pioneers hundreds of years ago in the savage heart of a savage continent.

  Biggles glanced at Algy, sitting in the second pilot's seat at his left hand, and smiled, for their plans had gone like clockwork since they had left England a month before. Even the weather had been on its best behaviour. They had taken ship at Liverpool, and on arrival at New York found the huge case containing the amphibian that Biggles had purchased had already been opened by the industrious Smyth, Biggles's old flight-sergeant mechanic of 266 Squadron,* and the machine awaiting erection.

  * See Biggles of the Fighter Squadron, published by Red Fox.

  Algy had glanced over her lines while Biggles explained the reason for his choice. She was a five-seater that had been specially built for a wealthy private owner who had been killed in an accident on a motor race track before he had even time to take delivery. Consequently Biggles had been able to get a bargain. The open side-by-side cockpits in the nose, with dual controls, could be reached from the snug enclosed cabin in the boat-shaped hull. The cabin itself was luxuriously equipped for three passengers, but Biggles had had most of the unnecessary furniture removed to lighten the load and make room for the spare parts, equipment, and stores necessary for their adventure. A rather elaborate case containing four parachutes he had left untouched, as well as a cabinet holding a Very pistol,* signal flares, and navigation instruments. The machine was a biplane, with the engine mounted between the wings, and of the 'pusher' type—that is, with the propeller behind the engine.

  * A short-barrelled pistol for firing coloured flares for signalling and sending messages. Especially useful before the days of radio in planes.

  The single Bristol Jupiter engine gave a maximum speed of a hundred and twenty miles an hour and a cruising speed of a hundred and five—ample for their requirements, since speed was not a matter of such importance as reliability. The aircraft had been originally designed for an endurance range of nearly a thousand miles, but Biggles, bearing in mind the nature of the country they were visiting, had had an extra tank fitted which would give them a further five hundred miles if desired. The undercarriage was of the retractable type—that is to say, it could be lowered or raised at the will of the pilot according to whether he wished to come down on land or water.

  Algy agreed that Biggles had just cause to be proud of his bargain, for it could not have suited their purpose better had it been specially designed for the undertaking. There had been some discussion about the selection of a suitable name, but the choice had finally been left to Dickpa, who had decided on the Condor, after the huge bird of that name which makes its home in the mighty Andean Range.

  A fortnight's hard work and the machine was ready to take the air. The tests were satisfactory in every way, and they had forthwith taken off on the long voyage southwards to the land of their quest.

  Biggles nudged his flying partner and nodded, his eyes fixed on a spot directly ahead, and Algy, following his glance, saw in the distance an expanse of white buildings which he knew must be Manaos, their immediate destination and the last point of civilization they would touch before plunging into the wilds of the vast Brazilian hinterland.

  The landing of the amphibian caused a considerable commotion, people hurrying from their homes to the waterside, and it was clear that an aeroplane was a very rare bird in the town so far removed from civilization. Canoes and other small craft flocked about them as the pilot taxied slowly towards what seemed to be a suitable anchorage, and, in spite of the warning shouts of Dickpa, who had climbed out on to the hull, some of them were in imminent danger of being run down.

  A small launch spluttered up, with an official in a gaudy uniform standing in the bows. He shouted something unintelligible to Biggles, but Dickpa evidently understood, for he cautioned the pilot to stop.

  'I'm afraid he's going to be awkward,' he said, frowning. 'That's the worst of these fellows,' he added; 'they must exercise their powers on every possible occasion. We shall have to listen to what he has to say.'

  The appearance of the official did not improve at close quarters. His uniform had been hastily flung on over a suit of pyjamas that were none too clean, while his face, which was unshaven, was flushed with anger.

  'What do you mean, landing at this hour?' he stormed. 'Don't you know I always rest at this time? You would not dare to treat the officers in your own country in this way—' He broke off with a start and stared at Dickpa with a flash of recognition in his eyes. 'Ah!' he said softly, and then again, 'Ah! It's you, is it?' He scowled malevolently, and, before Dickpa could frame a suitable answer, he had snapped an order to the man at the wheel. The launch swung round, nearly fouling the fragile side of the amphibian as it did so, and headed back towards the shore at full speed.

  Dickpa, a frown puckering his brow, watched the departing official in perplexity. 'He's new to me,' he muttered, 'but he seems to know me and I strongly suspect he's going to make things as awkward for us as he can. Never mind; it can't be helped. Taxi to the bank and let me get ashore. The sooner I find my agent and ask him if he got my cable about a supply of petrol the better. If he did, we had better see about refuelling at once. I'm rather afraid we've made a mistake in coming here at all, but it was difficult to see how we could manage for oil and petrol by doing otherwise. If the men who are financing the enemy are in the town, they'll know I am here, and why. Yes, you'll have to put me ashore; the rest of you must stay aboard and look after the machine until I come back. I shall soon find out how the land lies.'

  Still followed by a crowd of natives in small boats, they taxied in and dropped anchor near the bank. Dickpa beckoned one of the boats nearer, jumped aboard, and, after rattling some brief instruction to the startled native, was quickly put ashore. With a parting wave he disappeared in the direction of a row of small shops near the water-front.

  'I don't like the look of this,' muttered Biggles to Algy as they watched Dickpa's disappearing figure. 'Some of these people look capable of anything. Well, we might as well make ourselves as comfortable as we can until he comes back. My word, it's pretty hot down here on the floor, isn't it?'

  An hour passed slowly, and another, but still there was no sign of Dickpa, and Biggles's face began to wear a worried look. 'I don't like this,' he said again; 'I've a feeling in my bones that there's mischief brewing. If there is, and they try any funny stuff, they'll be sorry, that's all. That petrol would have been here an hour ago if everything had been all right,' he concluded.

  Algy nodded assent from where he sat watching Smyth making a minor adjustment to a turnbuckle.* 'It'll be dark in half an hour, too,' he went on, with a quick glance at the sky. 'Hello, what's this coming?'

  * A fitting used to adjust the tension of wires to which it is attached. Used a lot for wing and internal bracing wires in biplanes.

  A small launch had put off from the shore and was chugging its way quickly and with scant ceremony through the still lingering spectators in their miscellaneous assortment of small craft. It pulled up alongside, and they saw at once that there was only one man in it, an elderly white man in well-worn ducks** and a battered solar topee.

  ** Word used to describe a lightweight linen suit often worn in very hot climates.

  'Which of you is Bigglesworth?' he asked sharply.

  'I'm Carter, your uncle's agent. Speak up. You've no time to lose.'

  Biggles stepped forward quickly and helped their visitor on board. 'I'm your man,' he said quickly. 'What's wrong?'

  'Everything—no, don't talk; listen,' he went on with a hurried glance towards the shore. 'Major Bigglesworth, I'm sorry to say that your uncle is in jail.'

  'In jail!' echoed Biggles incredulously. 'But—'

  'It looks to me as if you're up against it properly,' broke in Carter, mopping his perspiring, fever-drawn face with a large yellow handkerchief. 'Luckily I was able to have a word with your uncle before they took him away. When I got his cable ab
out the petrol I kept my mouth shut, because, being on the spot, I knew what was going on out here, and had a pretty shrewd idea of what this gang of crooks who are up against him were planning. By a stroke of luck I got hold of the petrol before they put an embargo on it, but they don't know that.'

  'Who's "they"?' asked Biggles quickly.

  'Joseph da Silva, the Mayor, and the best-hated man in Manaos. He's a tyrant in every sense of the word, and, like many of these local officials, can easily be bought. The crooks have oiled his palm to some purpose, and he's out to stop you. He's clapped your uncle in jail on the ridiculous pretext that his papers are not in order. It's utter bosh, of course, and the British Consul in Rio de Janeiro will soon put matters right when it reaches his ears, but that will all take time, which is just what da Silva is playing for, until the rest of the gang get back from Europe.

  'Meanwhile, da Silva is cock of the walk here, don't make any mistake about that. What he says goes, without any argument, because he's got a mob of hooligans dressed up in uniform which he calls police, but it is really a private bodyguard paid for out of trumped-up taxes and fines on Europeans like you and myself. Now about this petrol. It would be fatal for me to try and get it to you here. They'd stop me and collar the lot. Your only chance is to get off down the river, and I'll bring it to you there. You might be able to drift down after dark without being spotted, which would be so much the better, but I doubt if they'll leave you here as long as that. Da Silva would be quite good enough to throw the lot of you into prison and then smash your machine before you could get out. He knows he's safe. All you could do would be to complain to the Government afterwards, and if you knew as much about them as I do you wouldn't waste your time even doing that. You'll get no change out of anybody here. Now listen. About two miles below the town you'll see a creek on the same side, with a ruined overgrown hut on the bank. You get off down there and wait until I come. The petrol is in two-gallon tins. I'll load it up in my old Ford and bring it down by a track that leads to the place. Once you've got it, get it into your tanks as fast as you can. I shall have to slip back into the town, because they know I'm your uncle's agent and will probably be watching me. They may be watching me now, and if they find I'm playing into your hands I shall probably land in jail myself, or get a knife between my shoulder-blades.'