by W E Johns
“You can drop those guns, Grindler, they’re empty!” he shouted, at the same time emerging from cover.
“Who says they are?” snarled Grindler, also advancing.
Biggles knew he was taking a big chance, but he kept on. “So your pal Gontermann has let you down again,” he scoffed.
Grindler choked; Biggles had never seen a man’s face so distorted with fury. “That dirty, double-crossing Nazi rat,” stormed the gangster. “I came over here to get that squealer, but he made a sucker outa me by offering to let me muscle in on this airplane racket.”
“I don’t see that you’ve anything to complain about,” returned Biggles evenly. “You left the Wolf to shift for itself.”
“That was Gontermann did that,” growled Grindler.
“I wonder Herr Renkell didn’t stand by you,” resumed Biggles. “He’s got a clean record.”
Grindler jeered. “That sap! He wasn’t with us.”
“Not with you?”
“You bet he wasn’t. We left him in that weed swamp.”
Biggles was genuinely shocked, and he looked it. “Spare my days! You are a bright lot,” he sneered. “Are you coming quietly?”
“Who said I was coming any place?” snarled Grindler.
“Please yourself,” returned Biggles. “But make up your mind because I’m leaving. Stay here if you’d rather have it that way. You can’t leave the oasis—you know that.”
“Is that so?” replied Grindler with ominous calm. “I guess you’re right, at that. Now let me tell you something, wise guy. I’ve got one slug left, and if I’m staying I reckon that should be enough to see that you stay, too.”
Before Biggles had fully grasped the threat that lay in the words, Grindler had spun round, and twisting like a snipe was racing towards the Spur.
Biggles fired, and missed. Before he could fire again Grindler had disappeared behind some palms. “Look out, Ginger!” he shouted, as he set off in pursuit, aware that if the gunman did succeed in reaching the Spur one shot in a vital place might well immobilise it—a bullet through one of the tyres would do it, for instance.
Dodging and ducking among the trees Grindler sped on. He topped a rise, and before Biggles could fire, leapt into a sort of small dell-hole beyond. Suddenly he screamed, clutching at a tree; but his hand slipped, and his impetus carried him on.
The scream was cut off short by an explosion of such violence that Biggles was hurled to the ground by blast, momentarily stunned. Smoke swirled. Sand, pebbles, and pieces of palm frond pattered down. Still half dazed Biggles picked himself up and staggered to the stump of a shattered palm to get a grip on himself; then, breathing heavily, he walked on to the scene of the explosion. Just as he reached it a piece of paper came floating down. Automatically he reached for it and picked it up. On it, under a bold heading, a single line had been written in three languages—English, French, and Arabic: “WARNING. Beware of land mines in hollow,” it read. It was signed “Sergeant Mahmud, King’s African Rifles.”
Biggles climbed to the rim of the crater and looked down. Except for a few shreds of clothing, and some suggestive red stains, there was no sign of Grindler. He went on towards the Spur with some anxiety, fearing that it might have been damaged, although he hoped that an intervening dune would have saved it from the blast. It had. Ginger, looking pale and shaken, was standing in his seat.
“What in heaven’s name was that?” he gasped.
“It was Grindler, falling into a nest of mines,” answered Biggles slowly. “Sergeant Mahmud dumped them in that hollow. I suppose he had to put them somewhere, and in the ordinary way that place was as good as any. He put up a warning notice, but Grindler was in too much of a hurry to stop to read it. He fell into the dump and got the full benefit. What’s left of him isn’t worth picking up. He probably helped to plant the mines in the first place, so it’s a nice example of poetic justice. Anyway, I’m not shedding any tears for that thug. Is the machine all right?”
“I think so,” answered Ginger. “It danced a bit from concussion, but I fancy the worst of the blast went over us.”
“Thank God for that,” said Biggles fervently. “We’ll push on after Gontermann. The transport has taken in some petrol, but not much, I think. We barged in a bit too early for them. I should say it’s making for Tripoli to top up before striking across Algeria and Morocco on the way to the States. Let’s go. We haven’t a lot of daylight left.”
“Personally, I haven’t much of anything left,” averred Ginger. “This show is just one place after another. Where is it going to end?”
“It will end,” answered Biggles deliberately, “where the transport hits the carpet.”
Looking travel-stained and weary he climbed into the cockpit, and in another minute the Spur was in the air again, heading north-west on the trail of the transport.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE LAST LAP
BIGGLES knew that by cutting in on the transport while it was refuelling he had decreased its lead by some minutes. In the case of a slow-moving vehicle, minutes, translated into terms of distance, may not amount to much; but with aircraft, able to cover the ground at seven or eight miles a minute, even seconds count. Against this advantage he had to offset the handicap that the transport had taken in an unknown quantity of fuel, so that if the chase became a test of endurance the transport would in the end outrun the Spur. He did not think it would come to that, unless Gontermann had another secret landing-ground; if he had, it seemed probable that he would now make for it, leaving the Spur with the hopeless task of finding it. Biggles did not consider this possibility seriously, because he felt that had the bandits possessed a secret refuelling station near the North African coast they would never have used a public airport like Castel Benito, at Tripoli.
As the Spur roared on, with the shadows of the dunes beginning to lengthen towards the east, Biggles perceived that the hunt was fast becoming a matter of geography. The transport was, in a manner of speaking, an outlaw, and laboured under the usual disadvantages of that condition, particularly now that it was on the run. It could only go into hiding, and obtain supplies, where friends were prepared to take the risk of accommodating it. Ruling out secret hiding-places, it was practically certain that Castel Benito aerodrome, where petrol was available and where the manager was in the swim, would be the next port of call. From there Gontermann might head north for Germany, where he would certainly have friends among the ex-Nazis prepared to offer him sanctuary. He might have to dispose of the aircraft, but he would get away with the loot. Or he might carry on due west for America, as von Zoyton had declared. America would probably suit him very well, reflected Biggles, particularly as he had now got rid of such a dangerous companion as Grindler, who was wanted by the Federal Police. But could he get there in one hop? Tripoli was still a long way from the Atlantic. The Renkell would have to have a tremendous range to take the northern Sahara in its stride, and then cross the ocean. Biggles had not forgotten that the machine had already crossed the Atlantic, but then its starting-point was unknown.
It all came to this. If the transport was able to jump from Tripoli to America, unless the Spur could catch it at Tripoli it would probably get away, because the Spur, even with full tanks, had nothing like that range; and its tanks, far from being full, were nearly empty. If the Spur had to stop to refuel at Tripoli, the transport would obtain such a lead that it would be hopeless to try to overtake it; and if the Spur went on without refuelling it would have to run the risk of running out of petrol somewhere over the desert. The immediate future, therefore, was very much in the air—literally.
Reluctantly the sand gave way to shrubs and rocky hills, while the valleys filled with verdant almond trees and silvery-grey olives. The aerodrome came into view, and Ginger surveyed the tarmac swiftly, eagerly, shielding his eyes with his hands to see the better, for they were flying almost into the orb of the setting sun, and the glare was dazzling. When he saw the unmistakable outline of the transport his
satisfaction found outlet in a whoop of exultation.
“She’s there!” he cried. “We’ve caught her refuelling again.”
“There’s another machine in the shadow of the hangar,” remarked Biggles. “By Jupiter! It’s the Swan. Preuss must be there. That’s it! Now we know the meaning of the R/T signal the B.B.C. picked up. It was Gontermann getting into touch with Preuss, asking him to come here for some reason or other. Maybe Gontermann has an idea of dropping the transport and slipping into Germany in the Swan.”
The Spur roared on, nose down, and the aerodrome seemed to float on invisible rollers towards it; but before Biggles glided in over the boundary fence, engine idling, feverish activity was apparent round the stationary machines, although it was hard to make out just what was happening. It was obvious, however, that the arrival of the Spur had caused a commotion. A man in mechanic’s overalls jumped off the transport’s centre-section. Gontermann, bag in hand, dashed out of the restaurant, and started running towards the Swan; then he appeared to change his mind and made for the transport, behind which a swirl of dust revealed that its engines had been started.
At this juncture it would have been a comparatively simple matter for Biggles to shoot the transport up, but there were reasons why he hesitated to do so. The men in it were not convicted criminals, for they had not yet been tried in a court of law. Castel Benito was not the sanseviera; it was a public aerodrome; there would be spectators, witnesses who would say that the attack on the grounded machine was made without provocation— for so it would appear—and in such circumstances, if he killed the men he would be accounted little better than a murderer. Such an incident might cause a political crisis. Again, even if the men were not killed, the authorities might make a fuss over the deliberate destruction of an aircraft which, with some justification, they could claim as their property. And finally, should the Renkell catch fire, the British Government might be embarrassed by the irreplacable loss of the rajah’s jewels. Had the Renkell taken off and attacked the Spur the position would be altogether different. In short, while Biggles was prepared to use his guns to prevent the escape of men whom he knew were criminals and murderers, although it might not be easy to prove this, he decided first to try other methods.
The transport had swung round to face the open aerodrome, and was moving forward, slowly as yet, but with the obvious intention of taking off. To prevent this Biggles landed across its nose—or rather, it would be more correct to say that he attempted to do so. His wheels were already on the ground, so it seemed a simple matter to taxi on and block the transport’s chosen runway. And no doubt it would have been, had it not been for the intervention of the Swan, which now took a hand.
Concerned primarily with the transport, after making a mental note that he could catch up with the Swan if it attempted to get away, Biggles had forgotten all about it. But the yellow plane now appeared on the scene, playing the Spur’s own game. That was Biggles’s first impression; but he soon saw that the pilot intended more than that; for the Swan, instead of slowing down as it cut across his bows, suddenly swung round on one wheel to which the brake had been applied, and charged straight at him.
It was a clever, unexpected move, and not so dangerous to life as it might appear. The Swan had only to collide with one of the Spur’s wings and the British aircraft would be grounded for an indefinite period. The collision could afterwards be described as an accident. In the meantime the transport would get clear away.
All this flashed through Biggles’s mind as he took the only course open to him if collision was to be avoided. He knew that if he swerved to left or right the Swan had only to do the same to achieve its object of ramming him. So he flicked the throttle wide open, and as the Spur gathered flying speed he snatched it off the ground. It was a desperate expedient, for had his wheels failed to clear the Swan the result would have been utter and complete disaster; as it was, they missed the obstruction by a margin so narrow that the corners of Biggles’s mouth were drawn down in a wave of cold anger, which was aggravated by the fact that the transport, quick to take advantage of his preoccupation, had succeeded in getting off.
As soon as he was clear, regardless of any subsequent inquiry, Biggles whirled the Spur round, and dropping his nose, slashed the Swan with a burst of fire. The pilot, presumably Preuss, might well have crashed the Spur, and that was more than Biggles was prepared to accept without retaliation. Preuss may have expected some such move, for he had stopped the Swan, jumped out, and was sprinting for the aerodrome buildings.
As it happened, these were in line with Biggles’s attack. For a few seconds he ran on, with bullets tearing up the sand around him; then he crashed headlong, and after rolling over and over like a shot rabbit, lay still.
“That should stop him laughing in church,” muttered Ginger.
“He asked for it,” grated Biggles. “The airport manager will probably say we murdered him; which means we’ve burnt our boats; we’ve got to get the others with the swag on them, or we may find ourselves in the custard up to the neck.” Coming round in a climbing turn as he spoke, he made out the transport heading westward, having got a start of about three miles. “We’ve got just one hour in which to catch them,” he remarked.
“Why an hour?” asked Ginger.
“Because, in the first place, I’ve got only an hour’s petrol left; and secondly, in one hour from now it will be dark,” answered Biggles. “Apart from petrol, they could give us the slip in the dark—always bearing in mind that the transport must have a lot more juice in its tanks than we have.” Biggles settled down to the chase.
In point of fact, Ginger knew that the fate of the transport would be decided in less than an hour. It would be settled in five minutes. If, in that time, they had closed the gap to any appreciable extent, they would overtake the fugitives within the hour. If the gap was not closed, it would prove that the speed of the Renkell was at least equal to their own, in which case it would certainly get away. For this reason it was with no small anxiety that he kept his eyes on the enemy aircraft.
When five or six minutes had elapsed he drew a deep breath. “We’ve got ‘em,” he declared, a note of triumph in his voice.
Biggles did not answer.
The Spur was on even keel at a thousand feet. The Renkell was higher, nearer two thousand, and seeing that it was being overtaken it had dropped its nose slightly. This gave it an increase of speed that enabled it to forge ahead again. But Biggles was not perturbed. Both machines were now at the same height, so the advantage gained by the transport was only temporary. The manoeuvre could not be repeated successfully. Gradually the gap closed. The transport sacrificed a little more height for speed, but Biggles merely did the same, so in the end the German gained nothing by the move. All it really did was reveal its inferiority.
When twenty minutes had elapsed the distance between the two machines was less than a mile. Both were at the same height, flying directly into the sun, which now appeared to rest on the western horizon like an enormous crimson ball, casting a lurid glow across the arid waste.
Ginger looked down with some apprehension, for he knew they were running across the northern fringe of the Sahara desert, which varies a good deal in its formation. The area below appeared to have been swept clean, except for innumerable little stones which gleamed as though they had been highly polished—as, indeed, they had been, by wind and sun. The horizon was a hard, unbroken line. It was no place to run out of petrol, and Ginger began to wonder what would happen when their tanks petered out, as they would in the near future. Biggles made no move to turn back.
Over this scene, naked and helpless in its desolation, the two machines roared on, the distance between them closing slowly. Ahead, Ginger was relieved to see, the horizon was at last broken by low hills, and an occasional group of palms; but the sun had nearly run its course, and it was impossible to make out precisely what lay in front of them.
Only a quarter of a mile of heat-distorted air divided the tw
o machines; and still the distance closed. Biggles sat quite still. His face was expressionless. Never, not for an instant, did his eyes leave his quarry.
Ginger moistened his lips, thankful that he was not in the Renkell. There was something so implacable, so relentless, about Biggles, when he was in his present mood. He knew that whatever happened he would not turn back. He would go on to the end, even if their petrol ran out and left them stranded in the heart of the Sahara.
His soliloquy was interrupted by the behaviour of the Renkell. It turned suddenly on its port wing-tip and headed south; and looking for the reason for this unexpected move Ginger saw a belt of mist hanging over a long valley, down the centre of which ran an area of swamp, or salt marsh. The mist was not coming from anywhere; it was forming in the air, now that the sun was setting, due to the difference of temperature between the sun-soaked sand and the water-cooled marsh. With a pang of alarm he realised that should the transport reach the miasma it would disappear from sight, and by changing course, lose them. Then he caught his breath with relief, for Biggles had also turned, and by cutting across the angle, brought the transport within striking distance.
After that the end came quickly. Slowly, with calculated deliberation, Biggles took the objective machine in his sights. His thumb slid over the firing button. Tracer flashed across the gap. Instantly, the transport, seeing that it could not escape, whirled round and came back at them, flecks of flame spurting from its guns, revealing for the first time the type of armament it carried. Biggles pressed his left foot gently on the rudder-bar and the transport’s tracer streamed past his right wing-tip. The Renkell hurtled past. The Spur was already turning, and in a split second Biggles was on the transport’s tail. Again his tracer flashed, the shots converging on the target. The Renkell zoomed wildly, and turned vertically at the top of its climb; but it made no difference; the Spur was still behind it, firing short, vicious bursts.
