by W E Johns
The first warning of peril came from Ginger, who suddenly shouted, “Look out!” and Biggles, looking over his shoulder, saw the Renkells coming down like eagles on a pair of lost lambs. Their intention was instantly apparent, and after making sure that Algy was aware of the danger he prepared to take evading action, which was all he could do. Even so, he did not think much of his chance. The Tiger Moths were so far below the Renkells in speed and manoeuvrability that they would be easy marks for beginners; the enemy pilots, far from that, were experienced men of war. All he could do was skim the desert sand, keeping one eye on the enemy, nerves and muscles braced to move like lightning the instant their guns flashed.
He noted that the Wolf had picked him out, and from his own experience he could judge when the pilot would fire. At that moment he turned at right angles, so that the bullets flashed past his wing-tip to plough up the sand, and a split second later the Wolf had to zoom sharply to avoid hitting the ground. It was rather like a greyhound snatching at a hare, and just missing it on the turn.
This happened three times, and each time Biggles got away with his trick; but he did not deceive himself; he knew that it could not go on. Now that his tactics were revealed, the pilot of the Wolf would presently forestall him. Still watching his opponent, he had braced himself for the next move in the grim game of aerial “tag,” when Ginger let out a yell, shrill with excitement.
“Bertie! It’s Bertie! Good old Bertie!” he shouted delightedly.
Biggles dare not take his eyes from the Wolf. He hoped, without much confidence, that the pilot would not see the Spur; but he was not surprised when the Wolf swept up in a beautiful climbing turn, no longer the attacker, but the attacked. The Spur flashed into view, coming down like a winged torpedo.
Now, for the first time in his life, Biggles had the doubtful pleasure of watching a dog-fight from the air without taking part in it. Indeed, having no petrol to spare, he resumed his course for the aerodrome, whilst Algy, who had managed to dodge the transport, took up a position near his wing-tip.
At first Biggles was rather worried on Bertie’s account, for he had two opponents, either one of which, considered on performance, would have been a fair match; and the transport had turned, as if the pilot intended to make the duel between the Spur and the Wolf a three-cornered combat. But then, to Biggles’s utter amazement, it suddenly straightened out, turned, and sped away across the desert, the pilot clearly having decided to save his machine while its consort engaged the Spur.
“Did you see that!” cried Ginger. “The transport’s packed up. What a pal! What a pal! I wonder who’s flying it?”
Biggles was wondering the same thing, but he felt pretty certain that Gontermann was in the escaping machine, probably with his friend Baumer.
The combat between the Spur and the Wolf did not last long. As far as the machines were concerned, odds were about even, but Bertie, without indulging in any wild aerobatics, out-manceuvred his opponent. In fact, he only fired twice, each time from short range, whereas the pilot of the Wolf revealed anxiety by shooting frequently from outside effective range, evidently hoping for a lucky hit—which, admittedly, happens sometimes, but not often.
The first time Bertie fired, after a clean, calculated turn, he shot a piece off the Wolf’s tail unit. The Wolf flashed round in professional style and fired back, whereupon the Spur rocketed, fell off on its wing and went down in a spin. Not even Biggles knew if this was accidental or deliberate. Anyway, the Wolf followed it down, and thereby made a fatal blunder, for the Spur recovered, and coming up under its adversary raked it from nose to tail-skid.
“Got him!” yelled Ginger, in a voice hoarse with excitement.
He was right. The Wolf went on down, obviously in difficulties. Near the ground it managed to flatten out, without having lowered its wheels. It struck the desert with a crash, throwing up a cloud of dust, and rolled over and over, cart-wheeling, breaking up and flinging pieces of fabric, wood, and metal, all round the fractured fuselage.
Biggles side-slipped down to the stricken machine and landed. He jumped out, and was running over to the wreck when he saw the Spur coming down, wheels lowered, also with the obvious intention of landing. Feeling that this was an unnecessary risk he waved Bertie away; but the Spur ignored his signals and landed heavily. Biggles paid no further attention to it, but with Ginger keeping him company ran on to the Wolf. The first thing he saw was Scaroni, who had been thrown clear, with his head twisted under him at a ghastly angle.
“Poor devil,” said Biggles. “He’s got what he had coming to him. We needn’t waste time there.”
Von Zoyton was the other occupant. He was still in his seat, held in place by the safety belt. His eyes were dull, but recognition gleamed in them for a moment as they fell on Biggles. His lips moved, parting in a cold, sardonic smile, and he muttered: “If the fools hadn’t left us—we could—have got you—Bigglesworth.”
“Who left you?” asked Biggles quietly, unfastening the safety belt.
“Gontermann—always for himself.”
Biggles nodded. “Baumer was no friend of yours, or he’d have stayed.”
“He would do—what Gontermann—ordered,” was the laboured reply.
“Is Grindler with them?”
“Ja.”
“What about Renkell?”
Von Zoyton did not answer. He was obviously on the point of collapse, so Biggles and Ginger, between them, got the wounded man out of his seat, and into the meagre shade of a tattered wing.
“I warned you to get clear of that bunch of crooks,” said Biggles sadly.
“Your friend—flies well,” muttered von Zoyton.
Biggles smiled. “You’ve met before—in the desert.”
“Ah. Which one—was it?”
“Lord Lissie.”
“With the eyeglass. I remember him.”
“Why did you take off?” asked Biggles.
“Had to. You burnt—us out. I told Gontermann that stuff—was too dry... but he wouldn’t—listen. You won’t get the jewels, though, Bigglesworth. He’s got them —with him.”
Biggles started. “Where’s he bound for?”
“America. Ach!” The German’s face twisted with pain. “Mir geht... nicht sehr gut,” he gasped.
“Hang on. We’ll get you to hospital,” promised Biggles. He glanced up as Algy’s voice came across the silence. “What’s Algy shouting about?” he muttered.
Algy had also landed, and seeing that Bertie had not left his machine went over to congratulate him. His frantic shouts took Biggles and Ginger over at the double.
“Bertie’s stopped one—in the thigh, I think,” greeted Algy urgently.
Biggles climbed up to the cockpit. Bertie was still sitting in his seat. His face was ashen, but his monocle was still in his eye. He smiled weakly. “Got my leg in the way—silly ass thing to do. Sorry—and so on.” And with that he fainted dead away.
“Let’s get him out,” said Biggles curtly.
They got Bertie out of the cockpit and found an ugly wound in the upper part of his right leg. He had lost a good deal of blood, but using the bandages from the first-aid kit they managed to stop the bleeding.
“Scaroni’s dead,” Biggles told Algy. “Von Zoyton is in a bad way. I fancy he’s got broken bones. I want to get on after Gontermann, but we shall have to get him to hospital as well as Bertie. I’ll tell you what,” he went on, clipping his words. “I’ll fly Bertie to Khartoum in the Spur. Algy, you follow with von Zoyton. Ginger, you fly the other Tiger. Sergeant Mahmud will have to stay here to keep the hyenas away from Scaroni’s body until the ambulance comes out. I shall be at Khartoum first so I’ll tell Wilks what has happened. Ginger should have arrived by the time I’ve finished, so we’ll push right on after Gontermann. You can follow in the Mosquito, Algy. You’ll be last in, so I shan’t wait for you; make for Zufra; failing that, Tripoli; von Zoyton says Gontermann is heading for America, but he’ll have to refuel somewhere before starting acro
ss the Ditch. From what Bertie told us there must be petrol at Zufra, so the transport may make for the oasis. I shall go there first, anyway. Let’s get cracking. The transport’s got ten minutes start as it is.”
They lifted Bertie into the spare seat of the Spur and made him as comfortable as possible. Von Zoyton, who had now lost consciousness was carried to Algy’s Tiger. Biggles then took off in the Spur. He was followed by Ginger, flying solo. Algy, with his limp passenger, then took the air, leaving Sergeant Mahmud standing at attention by the wreck, a lonely figure in the wilderness.
CHAPTER XVII
GONTERMANN DOES IT AGAIN
BIGGLES landed at Khartoum and taxied tail-up to the tarmac where his yell brought everyone within hearing running towards the Spur, including Wilks, who was in station headquarters. Within thirty seconds the ambulance was alongside, and Bertie, now conscious, lamenting his enforced retirement from the affair, was raced away to hospital.
“I shall be back just as soon as this business sorts itself out,” Biggles promised him.
He then turned to Wilks and asked him to get the Spur refuelled in the shortest possible time. Wilks gave the order, and while mechanics were busy on the machine Biggles gave him a concise account of what had happened.
“You’d better send a vehicle out for Sergeant Mahmud,” he concluded. “Please yourself what you do about the Wolf. Perhaps you’d better bring the pieces in—Air Ministry experts may want to look at them.”
“Pity you couldn’t have got the transport at the same time.” murmured Wilks. “It looks as if the four ringleaders have got away after all.”
“Three of them have—so far,” replied Biggles. “I don’t know about Renkell, but I imagine he’s in the party. I shall push on as soon as Ginger comes in. For your guidance, should anything go wrong, my first objective will be Zufra. If I don’t catch up with them there I shall go on to Tripoli. Beyond that, I don’t know.”
“The transport’s got a good start; do you think you’ll catch it?” asked Wilks anxiously.
“Yes, I do, because it can’t get off this continent without refuelling,” answered Biggles. “Somewhere it will have to lose the time I’m losing here. Apart from that I should say the Spur is a trifle faster than the transport. Ah! Here comes Ginger now.”
“You’re not stopping for food?” queried Wilks.
“I’m not stopping for anything once Ginger’s on the ground,” declared Biggles.
As soon as Ginger landed Biggles called him over and climbed back into the Spur. Algy’s Tiger Moth could be seen in the distance, but Biggles did not wait for him. He took off at once and headed out over the desert on the long flight to El Zufra. Naturally, he watched the sky ahead, although he hardly expected to overtake the transport, even if he had correctly predicted its destination.
During the entire flight neither he nor Ginger saw anything except an implacable sky of lapis lazuli overhead, and the pitiless distances on all sides. The sun toiled wearily across the heavens, splashing gold with a lavish hand and striking the ground with silent force.
At last the oasis crept up over the horizon, like an island in a sea that had been suddenly arrested in motion.
“Are you going to land?” asked Ginger.
“I don’t know, yet,” answered Biggles as, with his eyes surveying the ground he roared low over the palms.
“They’re not here,” said Ginger in a disappointed voice.
“We shall have to make sure,” replied Biggles. “The machine may be under that awning, in which case we shouldn’t be able to see it. Naturally, they’d keep out of sight when they heard us coming I’m going down. If they’re here, not knowing that the mines have been cleared, they’ll expect us to land in the wadi, so that’s where they’ll have their guns trained. It should give them quite a shock to see us land on the other side without being blown up. Five minutes will be time enough to settle whether they are here or not.”
Lowering his wheels, he landed, not in the wadi, but on the opposite side of the oasis, allowing the machine to run on until it was near the fringe of palms.
“You stay here and look after the machine, in case of accidents,” he ordered. Leaving the engine ticking over he jumped down and walked briskly into the oasis.
As he strode on towards the depression over which the awning was spread he noticed a piece of paper in a cleft stick, erected in the manner of a notice-board, but at the moment he was too occupied with other matters to make the detour that would have been necessary to see what it was. Automatic in hand he ran up a slight eminence, the top of which he knew commanded a view of the awning. Even then there was good reason to suppose that his guess had been correct. The bandits were there; at any rate, somebody was there, for to his ears now came an urgent buzz of conversation. Metallic noises suggested that a vehicle was being refuelled in haste.
Had it not been for a warning shout from Ginger he might have collided with Grindler. Ginger, it transpired, caught sight of the gunman running along the fringe of the oasis, just inside the palms, from the direction of the wadi, as though he had waited there to intercept the crew of the Spur; but perceiving his error, he was now attempting to rectify it. He carried an automatic in each hand.
At Ginger’s warning shout Biggles swerved to a tree and stopped. An instant later Grindler came into sight, taking advantage of the meagre cover available by dodging from palm to palm. The gunman saw Biggles at the same moment, and in a flash had fired two shots from the hip. But the range was long for accurate pistol work—about forty yards—and intervening palms made shooting largely a matter of luck. One bullet struck such a tree; the other whistled past the one behind which Biggles stood.
Biggles saved his ammunition. He stood still, waiting, hoping that Grindler would come on; but the gangster, while confident of his shooting, was evidently not as confident as all that, for he, too, jumped to a palm and remained still.
When two or three minutes had passed without a move being made by either side, it slowly dawned on Biggles why Grindler was apparently content with this state of affairs. His job was simply to keep him at a distance while the transport was being refuelled. If this was to be prevented, it meant that he, Biggles, would have to take the initiative. To advance in the face of Grindler’s guns, while the gunman remained in cover, was clearly a project of considerable peril, for Biggles had no doubt about his opponent’s ability to handle his weapons with speed and accuracy. Still, as Grindler stood between them and the spot where the transport was being refuelled, there was nothing else for it. He jumped to the next tree in the line of advance. In the instant of time occupied by the move two bullets had zipped past his face, and he knew that he was taking a desperate chance. Grindler had not shown himself; and as he held the cards there was no reason why he should.
Biggles jumped to the next palm, firing two shots as Grindler’s right hand appeared, more to spoil his aim than with any real hope of hitting him. They were now not more than thirty yards apart.
Grindler sneered: “Come on, Limey; what are you stopping for?”
How the affair would have ended had there not been a diversion is a matter for conjecture, but at this juncture there occurred an interruption which gave the situation a new twist, one that evidently surprised Grindler as much as it did Biggles. The transport’s engines came to life, and at once rose to a crescendo which could only mean that the aircraft was about to take off.
It did not take Biggles long to perceive the shrewd cunning behind this move. Even though the Renkell’s tanks had not been filled it was ensuring a clear start by leaving those on the oasis fully occupied with each other. Grindler was being abandoned. This was so much less weight for the machine to carry, and would result in an improved performance. A ghost of a smile flickered over Biggles’s face at the thought of the gunman being left, as they say, to hold the baby. At the same time, even though he was dealing with crooks whose lack of scruples had already been proved, he was astounded at such unbelievable treachery. Not th
at Grindler deserved better treatment.
Biggles knew that those in the transport must have been refuelling from cans, or drums— a long process. They had not had time to completely refuel, which meant that they hoped to “top-up” somewhere else. There was good reason to suppose that this would be Tripoli, where the airport manager would oblige them. Biggles could see the machine through the trees, heading north-west, a course that tended to confirm this theory. He heard the Spur’s engine rev up, and fully expected Ginger to take off in case he should be attacked; but when it became clear that those in the transport had no such intention the Spur’s engine dropped back to its low mutter.
All this had taken place much faster than it can be told, and Grindler had not been idle. When the truth—and it must have been a paralysing truth—struck him, that he was being deserted, his feelings in the matter found expression in a yell of fury. Spitting obscene vituperation he raced to the edge of the palms, and as the transport’s tail lifted, blazed away at it with both guns. His chances of hitting it were, of course, remote, and he must have known it. He probably fired in sheer blind rage. Anyway, the transport gave no indication that it had been hit, and proceeded on its way.
Biggles was not so much concerned with Grindler as with the transport, because while the aircraft could continue operating without the gangster, the gangster could not go on without the aircraft. Grindler could wait, a prisoner on the oasis. All Biggles wanted was to get in the Spur in order to go on after the transport. He started backing away, but Grinder opened up such a fusillade that he was compelled to take cover in a hurry. He could not remember precisely how many shots the gunman had fired, but it struck him that the magazines of both pistols must be nearly empty. In order to find out if this were so he tried a bluff.
