by W E Johns
He was not alone. Near at hand, in attitudes of idle interest, were Scaroni, Grindler, and Baumer, whom Biggles also recognised from his photograph. Grindler was the only one who openly displayed a weapon; he dangled an automatic from his trigger finger. There was one other man, a man whom Biggles certainly did not expect to see; but his presence explained the mystery of the third pilot. It was von Zoyton, a pilot—and, incidentally, an ace—of the Luftwaffe, against whose Jagdstaffel he had fought a bitter duel over the Western Desert during the war.1
Von Zoyton smiled icy recognition.
Biggles shook his head sadly, and addressed him without malice, in English, which he knew von Zoyton spoke well.
“I’m surprised to see you mixed up in a graft like this. Perhaps you couldn’t help being a Nazi, but you can help being a crook. I suppose they pulled you in because you knew the country?”
“Hit the nail right on the head, as usual,” conceded the German, who seemed amused about something.
“Is there anything funny about this—or have I lost my sense of humour?” inquired Biggles.
“It is the winner’s privilege to laugh,” answered von Zoyton. “I’ve just won a hundred marks from Scaroni—who, by the way, produced and planted the fireworks. So proud was he of his effort that he laid me odds of ten to one that you wouldn’t reach the oasis intact. I, gambling on your usual infernal luck, wagered that you would.”
“I’m glad you won your bet,” replied Biggles dryly.
Grindler interrupted with a snort. “Say, what is this, a kid’s party?” he snarled. “If this guy’s a cop I know how to handle him.”
“Plenty of time for that,” put in Gontermann. He, too, spoke in English, an affected, pedantic English, with an exaggerated Oxford accent through which ran an American drawl. “I’d like a word with him first,” he added. “Let’s get up to the house. Come along, my dear Bigglesworth. Oh, by the way, you won’t mind if I ask Baumer to take over any hardware you may be carrying—merely a precautionary measure against accidents, you know.”
Covered at close range by Grindler’s gun, without a word Biggles passed over his automatic. Resistance, in the circumstances, was useless.
A short walk took them to the structure that Biggles had observed from the air, and he perceived at a glance that what he had seen was camouflage, clever camouflage, concealing a roomy, portable hutment of military design. The interior was simply but comfortably furnished, and illuminated by a hanging oil-lamp.
“Sit down my dear fellow,” invited Gontermann. “May I offer you some hospitality? Get the drinks out, Scaroni; our guest will be thirsty after his trying ordeal.” He turned back to Biggles. “You were foolish to come here, you know.”
“Surely that remains to be seen?” returned Biggles evenly.
Gontermann shrugged. “What can you do? The age of miracles has passed, my dear fellow.” He glanced at Baumer. “You’d better finish the business as we arranged.”
As Baumer withdrew Biggles wondered what this business was. He did not guess it.
“Now let us get down to what you English call, I believe, brass tacks,” suggested Gontermann. “There is no need for me to tell you what we are doing here. Conversely, we know what you are doing. Preuss is rather a dull fellow, but he was able to find out. Are we clear so far?”
“Quite clear,” agreed Biggles.
“In that case you must be wondering why we have permitted you to go on living,” went on Gontermann, smiling faintly.
“I must confess to some curiosity on the point,” admitted Biggles, who, in actual fact, was thinking of something quite different. He was wondering what Ginger would make of his disappearance.
“An hour or two, more or less, is of no consequence now that you are here,” said Gontermann lightly, pushing the cigarette box over to Biggles. “I’ve heard about you, of course. Your name was often mentioned in the Wilhelmstrasse, during the war, notably by my good friend, Erich von Stalhein, of the Gestapo. I gather you caused him a good deal of inconvenience?”
“I’m gratified to hear it,” murmured Biggles.
“Von Zoyton also had quite a lot to say about you,” continued Gontermann. “And that brings me to the point of this interesting debate. You’re the sort of man I should like to have with us. Our programme is going splendidly and there is no reason why it should not be expanded, if we can find suitable personnel. We can also do with one or two more machines, which, in your official capacity, you could acquire. You could also serve a useful purpose by keeping us informed as to the measures being taken against us.”
Incredulity puckered Biggles’s forehead. “Are you making this suggestion seriously?”
“Of course,” averred Gontermann. “I’m not a man to waste time.”
Biggles sipped the drink that had been set before him, and lit a cigarette. “You amaze me,” he said softly. “You really do amaze me. Just as a matter of interest, what should I get out of this?”
“Money, my dear chap; and the satisfaction of exerting power over those who think they can run civilisation their own way for their own ends. The world is bursting with wealth. Why not have some of it? There are two sorts of people in the world, my dear Bigglesworth—the mugs and the others. The mugs accept what is doled out to them. The others, to which class we belong, help themselves. Here, take a look at these, for example.”
Gontermann picked up a black attaché-case, the property of the late courier, and carelessly tipped the contents on the table. Such a stream of jewels gushed forth that Biggles caught his breath in sheer admiration. There were ropes of pearls, strings of rubies, cut and uncut diamond and emerald rings and earrings, set as single stones and in clusters. Gontermann ran his fingers through the heap until it gleamed and flashed and flashed again as though illuminated by some unearthly fire.
“Pretty, eh?” he said slyly. “Not bad, for a day’s work? And there are plenty more where these came from.”
“I begin to see the force of your argument,” said Biggles slowly. “But what,” he went on, “leads you to suppose, that having been allowed to leave here, I should not double-cross you?”
“That’s my argument,” growled Grindler.
Gontermann ignored him. “You would merely have to give me your word that you would not do so.”
“You’d accept that?”
“Of course. The word of a British military or civil servant is one of the few stable things left in a tottering world. Nevertheless, it is one of the weak spots in the British character, for it enables others, like myself, who have a more flexible code, to make our plans with a good deal of certainty. With men of your type, for instance, your word is a sort of fetish; you would suffer untold hardships, even die perhaps, rather than break it. Conditions in the world today, my dear fellow, do not justify such conceit. Give me your word that you accept my offer and you shall be as free as the vultures that otherwise will have the pleasure of dining on you.”
“Now I call that a really pretty speech,” sneered Biggles. “You have the brass face to sit there and accuse me of conceit, when—”
He broke off suddenly, as from outside came a sound which astonished him not a little, although a moment later, on secondary consideration, he realised that there was nothing remarkable about it.
It was the sound of twin aero motors being started up.
“What’s that?” he demanded.
“Only the Wolf, growling,” answered Gontermann with a smile. “Baumer is about to give it a little exercise. He won’t be long. You did not suppose that we had stranded ourselves here without air transport?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” returned Biggles, wondering how the machine, or machines, had been so cleverly camouflaged that his reconnaissance had not revealed them. “What’s Baumer going to do?”
“Finish the job you began so efficiently a few minutes ago. Your aircraft is rather conspicuous as it is. Being of wooden construction it should burn briskly.”
“But why use an air
craft to do that?” inquired Biggles.
“Because, my dear chap, the reaction of a land mine is precisely the same regardless of who treads on it. The area round this oasis is so thickly sown with mines that none of us feel inclined to use it as a promenade. There is, of course, a gap, known only to ourselves, for the purpose of taking our machines in and out.”
“Do you mean that Baumer is going to shoot the machine up?” cried Biggles, with a rising inflection in his voice.
“The only safe way to reach it is by air,” explained the German.
“But just a minute! He can’t do that,” snapped Biggles. “My second pilot is in it.”
“Ah! That’s a pity,” murmured Gontermann smoothly. “I’m afraid he is—how do you say?—out of luck. It’s too late for us to do anything about it.”
This, clearly, was true, for the Wolf had already taken off, and now, to Biggles’s unspeakable horror, came raking bursts of machine-gun fire.
“Stop him!” he shouted, and made a dash for the door.
Grindler raised his pistol, but Gontermann knocked it aside. “Put that thing away,” he said irritably. “You won’t need it.”
Biggles went on until he had a clear view of the desert, and then stopped dead. The wrecked Mosquito was already enveloped in flames.
“Baumer is a very good pilot,” remarked Gontermann from his elbow.
Biggles started forward.
“Steady, Bigglesworth, steady,” said the Nazi. “You can’t do any good. Of course, if you choose to risk another trip across the mine-field I shouldn’t dream of stopping you, but your luck might not be so good this time. At least give Scaroni a chance to recover his money with another little bet.” It was clear from the cynical banter in Gontermann’s voice that he was thoroughly enjoying himself.
Biggles went on to the edge of the sand and then stopped. A wide area was lit up by the flames, but on it nothing moved. One thing was certain; anyone in the machine must already be a charred cinder. Gontermann had spoken an obvious truth when he had said, “you can’t do any good.” Biggles heard the Wolf land, but he did not see it. He could not take his eyes from what, he knew in his heart, must be Ginger’s funeral pyre. It was with difficulty that he maintained his composure. He had no intention of giving his enemies the satisfaction of seeing his distress.
“Well, I suppose it’s no use staying here,” he said evenly.
“I hoped you’d see it in that light,” answered Gontermann. “Come back to the mess and have another drink. That crude fellow Grindler is agitating to shoot you, but it has always been my policy to preserve anybody or anything that might be useful to me.”
They walked back to the hut. Baumer came in, with the air of a man who has done a good job. Biggles looked at him.
“You deliberately killed that boy,” he accused.
“Of course,” answered Baumer, quite casually. “There was no point in leaving him out there to die of thirst. We had to burn the aircraft, anyhow. It might have been seen. He wasn’t a relation of yours, was he?”
“No.” Biggles shook his head. “No, he wasn’t a relation. By the way, who shot down the diamond plane?”
“I did,” replied Baumer promptly, and with some pride.
“And the pay-roll plane from Nairobi?”
“Me,” Scaroni answered.
Biggles considered them with frosty, scornful eyes. “It must be a source of infinite satisfaction to you, to know that you shot a couple of unarmed pilots through the back,” he said, with iron in his voice. “Grindler murdered three men in the flying-boat—three quite ordinary fellows just doing their jobs. But there, he’s used to that sort of thing. It seems he is in good company.”
Grindler rasped out a curse. Baumer started forward angrily, but Gontermann waved him back.
“As our guest, your remarks are not in the best of taste, my dear Bigglesworth,” he said suavely. “It would be better to avoid personalities.”
“From your point of view, you are definitely right,” grated Biggles.
“This mine-field idea was a good one, don’t you think?” went on Gontermann, switching the subject. “That, and the desert, makes the oasis a perfect retreat, and at the same time, a prison that requires neither wire nor iron bars. Scaroni knew of the mines; indeed, he hid them when the British advanced during the war; but I take credit for putting them to practical use. Incidentally, Scaroni has some other useful equipment, too. By the way, should you go outside, keep away from the water-hole. The verge positively bristles with mines—a double row of them. You see, by this means, we have provided an almost unbreakable line of defence. Should anyone be so fortunate as to reach the oasis during our absence, which occurs from time to time, it is exceedingly unlikely that they would profit by it. After crossing the desert they would naturally make straight for the water, in which case...” Gontermann made a significant gesture.
Biggles flared up. “That’s a scandalous thing to do,” he protested hotly. “What about the Arabs? They’ve probably used this oasis for centuries. They haven’t harmed you.”
“Nevertheless, my dear fellow, they might be tempted to report what they had seen,” returned Gontermann casually. “Besides, what is an Arab, more or less? You British are the most extraordinary people, always worrying about someone else. It impairs your efficiency. We Germans do not allow ourselves to be hampered by such humanitarian scruples.”
“I’ve noticed it,” answered Biggles shortly.
“Well, what do you think of the scheme?” queried Gontermann.
Biggles did not answer. He was finding it hard to hold himself in hand. What had been a mere desire to bring these men to justice as a matter of duty, was now an obsession. The matter had become personal.
Gontermann hazarded a guess as to what was passing in his mind—and guessed wrong.
“I can give you until the morning to think it over,” he offered. “We are leaving here at dawn. We use this place only occasionally, as an advanced landing-ground.”
Grindler broke in. “What’s that? Leaving here? Are we going back to that goldarned sanseviera?”
Gontermann flashed a scowl at him. “Never mind where we’re going,” he said curtly, and turned back to Biggles. He was smiling again, but Biggles could see that he was annoyed by Grindler’s remark. “Very well, my dear fellow,” he said airily. “Let us leave it like that. The oasis is at your disposal. We sleep in the open—it’s cooler. You can have a camp bed under the palms.”
Biggles raised his eyebrows. “Aren’t you going to tie me up or something?”
The German affected a look of reproach. “To what purpose, old chap? If you feel like trying your luck again in the mine-field we shall be most interested spectators; but it is only fair to warn you, that in the unlikely event of your getting through, you would find the long walk across the desert to Sollum, without food or water, rather exhausting. It’s a good four hundred miles, you know. There’s no cover, and we should find you quite easily. But why discuss it? I’m sure that you, with your reputation for intelligence, would not be so ill-advised as to attempt the impossible.”
Biggles did not argue.
“Just one other thing,” concluded Gontermann. “At the moment there are two aeroplanes here. You would find them quite easily. They are in a slight depression under a sand-coloured awning. I mention this because you might be tempted to try your hand at the controls. Resist it. The ground around them is so thickly sown with mines that I confess to some nervousness every time I approach by the narrow path which was left for our accommodation. You’ll forgive me if I don’t show you the path?”
“I shall bear it in mind,” promised Biggles.
* * *
1 See Biggles Sweeps the Desert.
CHAPTER X
GINGER TAKES A WALK
SITTING in the cockpit of the Mosquito, Ginger had let out a gasp of relief when Biggles took the final step from the death-sown sand to the supposedly safe terrain of the oasis. He wiped the sweat from his
forehead with a hand that trembled and sank back limply to recover.
Of course he kept his eyes on Biggles, expecting him to turn at any moment and give the okay signal. When this did not come he sat up again, not a little puzzled by Biggles’s behaviour. There was no suggestion of a signal. Biggles was standing still, staring into the palms as though mesmerised. That in itself was odd. What was even more extraordinary, Biggles appeared to be talking to somebody—unless he was talking to himself, a most unlikely event. The trouble was it was nearly dark, and although some light was furnished by a rising moon, it was deceptive, and certainly not enough to probe the shadows of the palms.
When Biggles suddenly walked on and disappeared from sight Ginger was dumbfounded. He could not imagine anything that would have such an effect. It could hardly be possible that Biggles had forgotten him. Yet the fact remained, there was no signal. His orders on this point were clear. He was to remain in the aircraft until he received the okay to proceed. So he stayed, convinced that Biggles would presently reappear.
Minutes passed. Nothing happened. The oasis remained silent, with the deep stillness of death. The afterglow of the setting sun faded, and in the darkness that followed, the moon shone more brightly. Ginger continued to wrestle with a problem for which he could find no reasonable answer. If it seems strange that he did not guess the truth, it must be remembered that as a result of the air reconnaissance he had quite decided in his mind that the oasis was abandoned. So firmly had this conviction established itself that it remained unmoved. Nothing had happened to imply that he and Biggles might have been mistaken in their assumption.
But when, shortly afterwards, the clatter of aero engines being started up shattered the silence, he moved with alacrity, and with some agitation. For the obvious explanation of his problem did not come to him gently; rather did it burst upon him like a thunderclap.
