by W E Johns
CHAPTER VIII
BIGGLES FOLLOWS ON
ON the ground, all was tragedy and disaster, and the hard, frosty look that Ginger knew so well, came into Biggles’s eyes.
In the wrecked flying-boat both the first and second pilots lay dead, shot through the head. The wireless operator lay asprawl his instrument. He, too, was dead. The courier to whom the jewels had been entrusted was just expiring. An automatic close by his hand suggested that he would have put up a fight had he been given the opportunity. One of the passengers, who turned out to be an officer going home on leave from India, sprawled in a seat, deathly pale, a shattered arm dangling horribly. The steward and the four other passengers—two elderly tourists with their wives, one British and one American—had made their way to the beach, where they stood talking. They were shaken, but unhurt. After giving first aid to the wounded officer it was from one of these that Biggles presently got the story, a story that caused his lips to compress in a thin hard line.
By this time the Mosquito had landed. In a few words Biggles explained what had happened. Algy, in turn, revealed that they had picked up the radio message sent out by the traffic manager at Alexandria. They had found the Calpurnia off its course, heading south, but had lost it in the cloud. By following its last known course, southward, they had arrived in sight of the coast, and were following it back to Alexandria when they spotted the flying-boat grounded in the surf.
The story of events in the Calpurnia, told by the passenger, were much as Biggles expected.
The thing began, he said, when the wireless operator came into the cabin, and going to the courier whispered something in his ear. (From this Ginger realised that the operator must have picked up the alarm signal sent out by Alexandria. He had warned the courier of his danger, which was all he could do.) The wireless operator—went on the passenger—had returned to his compartment. Two men then got up and walked to the forward bulkhead, to the door that gave access to the cockpit. Through this they disappeared, although a notice proclaimed that entry was prohibited. A moment later there came the sound of a shot. The passenger explained that he was not sure of this at the time; he thought it might be one of the engines misfiring. Apparently this was the shot that killed the wireless operator. Then came two more shots. At the same time the flying-boat swerved. This, the listeners realised, must have been the moment when the pilots were murdered in cold blood. Up to this time none of the passengers had reason to suspect that anything serious was afoot. The first indication of that came when one of the two men reappeared, an automatic in his hand. Standing in the doorway he covered the passengers and informed them that he would shoot the first person who moved. This man, asserted the passenger, spoke with an American accent.
In spite of this threat the courier had jumped to his feet and pulled out a pistol. The gunman promptly shot him, unnecessarily firing a second shot into him after he was on the floor; whereupon another passenger—the officer—had flung a book at the murderer and then tried to close with him. But this, while brave, was foolish, and all he succeeded in getting was a bullet through the arm that shattered the bone. The other passengers, helpless, sat still, for which they were hardly to be blamed. Thus matters had remained for some time. The course of the aircraft had been altered from west to south. Later, with the gunman still keeping the passengers covered, the Calpurnia had been landed, and taxied to the beach where another machine was waiting. The gunman, who had already picked up the courier’s attaché-case, with his companion, then changed machines and flew off. That was all.
“I see,” said Biggles quietly, when this grim recital was finished. “For your information—but please keep this to yourselves for the time being—the little man who was shot was carrying a parcel of very valuable jewels. His assailants were jewel thieves.”
“Even so, there was no need for them to commit murder,” muttered one of the women passengers.
“To the people behind this affair murder is nothing new,” returned Biggles. “But we mustn’t stand talking here any longer. I have one serviceable aircraft, and although I need it badly myself I shall have to use it to get the wounded officer back to Alexandria. He is in urgent need of medical attention. Unfortunately, the machine will only carry one passenger, so the rest of you will have to wait until a relief plane arrives.” Biggles turned to Algy. “I had better stay here,” he went on. “You take the Mosquito and fly this officer to Alex. Explain what has happened, and ask for a relief plane to be sent to pick up the passengers. It had better bring a working party along; there may be a chance to do some salvage work on the Calpurnia. They’d better bring some petrol, too. Get back here as quickly as you can.” Biggles took Algy out of earshot of the passengers. “You might ask the authorities to keep the story out of the Press as long as possible. In any case, in no circumstances do we want our names mentioned in connection with the affair. That’s important.”
“Good enough,” agreed Algy, and in a few minutes was in the air, with the wounded officer as passenger, heading east.
After that there was nothing the others could do but wait. The steward waded out to the Calpurnia, and managed to produce a substantial lunch, which in the ordinary way would have been served on the machine.
The sun was well past its zenith when Algy returned, bringing the traffic manager with him. Biggles had to take him into his confidence, and explanations occupied some time. A relief plane, said the official, was on the way. It was bringing mechanics and petrol.
“I’d be obliged if you’d let your men repair the Spur before they start on the Calpurnia,” requested Biggles. “I shall want to use it.”
To this the manager agreed.
“What are you going to do?” Algy asked Biggles.
“I’m going to make a reconnaissance while the trail is still warm,” answered Biggles. “There’s nothing else we can do that I can see. I’ll take the Mosquito and have a look at this place El Zufra. The oasis is due south from here, and the Renkell’s headed in that direction. Ginger can come with me. As soon as the Spur is serviceable, fill up with petrol and follow on. I doubt if that’ll be this side of nightfall, though. If you can’t get away before sunset you’d better wait for dawn, rather than risk missing the oasis in the dark. This is assuming that we’re not back by then. Of course, if there’s nothing at Zufra we shall come straight back and contact you here.”
Bertie broke in. “I say, old boy, what are you going to do if you find the Renkells at this beastly place Zufra?”
“I shall endeavour to shoot them up, to ensure that they stay there,” answered Biggles grimly. “Come on, Ginger, let’s get cracking.”
By this time it was nearly five o’clock, with the sun sinking like an enormous toy balloon towards the western horizon.
Biggles walked over to the Mosquito, collecting his map from the damaged Spur on the way. In the cockpit, with Ginger sitting on his left, he opened the map and put a finger on a name printed in tiny italics, conspicuous only because it occurred on the vast and otherwise blank area of the Libyan desert.
“That’s Oasis El Zufra, our objective,” he said. “Don’t ask me what there is there because I don’t know. I expect it’s much the same as any other Libyan oasis—a few sun-dried palms round a pool of brackish water.”
“It looks a long way from here,” observed Ginger.
“Roughly four hundred miles,” returned Biggles, folding the map. “It will be nearly dark by the time we get there, but as it’s the only green spot between here and French Equatorial Africa, it shouldn’t be hard to find.”
In three minutes the Mosquito was in the air, climbing for height on a course due south, over what is generally acknowledged to be the most sterile area of land on earth. As soon as the altimeter registered five thousand feet Biggles settled down to a steady cruising speed of three hundred miles an hour.
In an hour and a quarter by the watch on the instrument panel the oasis crept up over the southern horizon. In all that time the scene had remained
unchanged—a flat, or sometimes corrugated, brown, waterless expanse, occasionally strewn with loose rock, and more often than not spotted with areas of lifeless-looking camel-thorn shrub.
Nothing moved. The scene was as motionless as a picture.
“Is this oasis inhabited?” asked Ginger.
“I don’t know for certain, but I should say it’s most unlikely,” replied Biggles. “Generally, only the very large oases have settled populations, although nomad Arabs on the move call anywhere if there is water to be had. Hallo! I can see something moving... a camel. Apparently there are Arabs here now.”
By this time the Mosquito was circling over the oasis, losing height as Biggles throttled back and put the machine in a glide. There was little to see. In shape, the oasis was roughly oval, perhaps a mile long and half that distance wide, set about with straggling palms. It appeared to stand on a slight eminence, with shallow wadis, or dry water-courses, radiating out at regular intervals. The sand lapped like an ocean, so that it was possible in one stride to step from a land of death to a fertile haven. There was no sign of aircraft. Near the centre there was a clearing in which had been erected what seemed to be a rough bough-shelter of dead palm fronds—a structure commonly found at oases.
“It looks as if we’ve drawn blank,” muttered Biggles.
“I can’t see anything,” said Ginger.
Biggles opened the throttle a little and continued to circle at about a hundred feet, all the time staring down at the depressing scene below. For some minutes nothing was said.
Then Biggles remarked, in a curious voice, “Is that a dead camel lying down there on the sand?”
“I see what you mean,” answered Ginger. “I was just looking at it. It must be a camel, but it’s a funny shape. What’s that bundle of rags lying beside it—two bundles, in fact?”
“If the rags weren’t so scattered I’d say they were dead Arabs,” mused Biggles. “But why should Arabs die there, just outside the oasis? Where’s that live camel?” He swung round towards the beast that was making its way slowly, and apparently with difficulty, towards the palms. “From the way it’s limping that poor brute has got a broken leg,” he went on sharply. “What the deuce goes on here? I don’t understand it at all.”
“Why not land and find out?” suggested Ginger.
“That’s a practical suggestion,” acknowledged Biggles, and proceeded to adopt it.
As far as space was concerned there was no difficulty, On all sides between the wadis stretched the desert, flat, colourless, depressing in its dismal monotony. The sand, as far as it was possible to judge from the camel tracks, was firm. There was no wind, so choosing a line between two wadis that would allow the machine to finish its run reasonably close to the oasis, Biggles throttled back, lowered his wheels, glided in and touched down. The injured camel was about forty yards away, still limping towards the palms. Neither Biggles or Ginger paid much attention to it at the time. There was no reason why they should, for the risk of collision did not arise.
Just what happened after that—when Ginger was able to think again—was a matter of surmise. There was a blinding flash. With it came a thundering explosion. A blast of air hit the Mosquito and lifted it clean off the ground. For perhaps three seconds it hung in the atmosphere, at an angle to its original course, wallowing sickeningly. Then it settled down, struck the ground with one wheel, bounced, swerved, and came to rest with its tail cocked high.
Dazed, his ears ringing, in something like a panic Ginger pushed himself back from the instrument panel against which he had been flung, and tried to get out. The door had jammed. Biggles’s voice cut in, it seemed from a distance.
“Sit tight,” he ordered.
Ginger looked at him and saw that he was removing a splinter of glass from his cheek.
There was blood on his face. He looked shaken.
“What happened?” gasped Ginger.
“Nothing—only that we’ve landed in a mine-field,” returned Biggles.
“Mine-field? What are you talking about?” ejaculated Ginger.
“Look at the camel—or what’s left of it,” invited Biggles.
Ginger looked, and through the side window saw a tangled mess of skin, hair, and blood, lying beside a shallow crater from which smoke was still rising sluggishly.
“That camel trod on a land mine; it couldn’t have been anything else,” declared Biggles. “The area must have been mined during the war, probably when the Italians were in occupation, and nobody has troubled to clear it up. A mine must have killed that other camel, and the two Bedouins. This poor brute was probably with them, but got away with a broken leg.”
“That’s beautiful,” muttered Ginger bitterly. “It’ll be a long time before this machine flies again—if it ever does. How are we going to get back? Thank goodness you told Algy to follow us. We can wait at the oasis. I—”
“Not so fast,” interrupted Biggles. “You appear to have overlooked one or two details The first is, between us and the oasis there is a hundred yards of sand under which, for a certainty, there are more mines Personally, I’ve never walked through a mine-field; I’ve never had the slightest desire to do so, but it looks as if the time has come when I shall have to try it. Well, it’ll be a new sensation. The second point that occurs to me is— supposing we are lucky enough to reach the oasis in one piece—what is going to happen when Algy arrives? He’ll see the crash, and he’ll promptly land. If he doesn’t land on a mine he’ll probably run over one as he taxies in—although the chances of that, of course, depend on how thickly the mines are sown.”
“We shall have to wave to keep him off,” suggested Ginger gloomily.
“He’ll probably think we’re beckoning,” asserted Biggles. “He’s certain to land. We’ve been in some queer messes, but this one is, as the boys say, a fair knock-out.”
“What are we going to do?” demanded Ginger.
“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” answered Biggles. “You’re going to stay here. I’m going to the oasis.”
“But that’s preposterous,” objected Ginger hotly.
“We should be very foolish indeed to walk together,” went on Biggles imperturbably. “To start with, two pairs of feet would double the chances of striking a mine. If either of us stepped on one we should both go up in the air and come down in fragments, in which case there would be no one to tell the story. No, that won’t do. Sitting here won’t get us anywhere, so I may as well find a path to the oasis. That will be something to go on with. I can get half-way safely by stepping in the hoof marks of the camel. For the last fifty yards I shall have to take my chance. You’ll sit here and have a grandstand view of the proceedings. If I get through, you can join me by following in my tracks. If I don’t—well, follow my tracks till you come to the crater, then it will be your turn to take a chance.”
“And if we get to the oasis?” queried Ginger.
“We shall either have to work out some sort of signal to keep Algy off the ground, or poke about with sticks, like the sappers had to do in the war, to locate the mines. With luck—with a lot of luck—we may be able to mark out a runway and arrange a visual signal that will induce Algy to land on it. He’ll have to land if we are to get home. One thing is quite certain; we can’t walk it. We’re four hundred miles from the nearest blade of grass, remember. Fortunately, we’ve plenty of time. Algy isn’t likely to be along yet. I doubt if he’ll get off the ground much before dawn. Well, it’s no use messing about.”
As he finished speaking Biggles forced the door open and stepped out on to the sand. “Don’t move until you get the okay from me, then walk in my tracks,” he commanded.
The rim of the sun, a thin line of glowing crimson, was just sinking into the eternal wilderness. With its going, a veil of purple twilight was being drawn across the scene. Biggles turned towards the oasis.
With his heart in his mouth, as the saying is, Ginger leaned forward in his seat to watch. The strain was such that he found it d
ifficult to breathe. He derived some slight relief when Biggles reached the tracks of the unfortunate camel, and then proceeded at a curious gait, imposed by the necessity of putting his feet in the oddly spaced hoof marks. The relief did not last long. Biggles reached the crater by the dead camel. He turned, waved, lit a cigarette, and then, to Ginger’s utter consternation, strode casually towards the oasis as if he were out for an evening stroll.
Ginger held his breath. Knowing that every step Biggles took might be his last he watched with an agony of suspense that drove beads of perspiration through the skin of his forehead. He began to count the number of paces Biggles would have to take to reach safety— ten— nine— eight—
CHAPTER IX
GONTERMANN MAKES A PROPOSAL
HAVING reached the crater Biggles wasted no time—to use his own expression— messing about. Like a diver on a high board, the temptation was to hesitate; but this would be procrastination, and could avail him nothing. If a mine lay in his path, walking slowly would make no difference should he put his foot on it. So he walked normally. Nevertheless, he advanced with his eyes on the ground, seeking disturbed areas of sand that might betray the location of a mine. Long years of flying had taught him to be master of his nerves, so while the sensation was anything but pleasant he was not unduly perturbed, deriving a crumb of comfort from the knowledge that if he did step on a mine he would be unlikely to know anything about it.
In spite of all this it was with considerable satisfaction that he saw he had nearly reached his objective, the nearest point of the oasis, an area of coarse, wiry grass, from which the palms sprang. As he took the last pace, from the sand to the grass, a voice close at hand said, “Congratulations.”
The sound, coming as it did in the hush of twilight, made Biggles start. He was utterly unprepared for it. Looking up, he saw, leaning against the bole of a palm in an attitude so elegant that it was obviously a pose, a man whom he had never seen before, but whom he recognised at once from photographs he had seen in the press. It was the tall, austere, good-looking ex-Nazi chief, Julius Gontermann, dressed immaculately as though for a ceremony in a tight-fitting, dove-grey suit of semi-military cut. Smoke spiralled from a cigarette in a long, gold-and-amber holder. His expression was one of cynical admiration and satisfaction.
