Biggles Takes The Case

by W E Johns

  After a while he said: “I think that must be the reservoir. There’s no other water near except the stream that feeds it. I can’t make out the airstrip, but I can see what look like paddy fields lying as the boy described them.”

  Ginger, too, stared down, his eyes trying to pick out salient points in an almost featureless landscape. Not a light showed anywhere. “I can see the paddy fields,” he said presently. “There’s a straight edge, too, that must be the boundary of a plantation.”

  “As there’s no other cultivation within fifty miles it must be the place we’re looking for,” returned Biggles. “All right. Take over. Let her go down a bit. Hold her straight and level when I say the word. When I’ve gone, glide as far as you can before you open up.”

  “Okay. Got everything?”

  Biggles’ hand ran over his harness, and his pockets. “Yes,” he answered, and opened the escape hatch.

  His hand groped for the parachute ring. He stared down. “Right a little,” he called. “Little more. Steady. Now!”

  The nose of the Skud came up a trifle so that for a moment the machine was almost silent as it hung near stalling speed.

  “So long,” said Biggles evenly and slid off into space.

  He counted six before pulling the ring. A second later the harness gripped his body with a jerk as the silk mushroomed above him. He swung a little at first, but steadied himself by handling the shrouds. Then he looked down to see where he was going.

  The earth still looked far away, but the details were a little more definite. The silence was profound. He could no longer hear the aircraft— not that he wanted to. He reached for the shrouds again when he saw he was drifting slightly towards the jungle. Then, suddenly, the earth seemed to be rising up to meet him, and he held his breath for the shock of impact. As it turned out there was surprisingly little shock, for his legs sank to the knees in the ooze in which young rice was growing. He stumbled and fell, but there was no wind so he was quickly on his feet again, crouching while the parachute, now released, settled like a patch of mist beside him.

  For a minute he stood still, ears straining to catch the slightest sound; but all was silent, so gathering up the silk that had brought him down he rolled it into a ball and sat on it while he took stock of his surroundings.

  He saw that he had landed near the end of the cultivated ground and within a hundred yards of the nearest timber, which, from its straight edge, he knew must be a rubber plantation. Towards this he now made his way, stopping often to listen, but for the most part moving with confidence. With the air photographs memorised he knew pretty well where he was. In Singapore, too, he had had a long talk with the Chinese boy, and from him gathered a good deal of detailed information about the lie of the ground.

  The airstrip, merely an area of hard ground, was some distance to his right, but he was not so much concerned with this as with the hangar, which he knew could be reached by following the edge of the plantation.

  The native village, where Vandor’s labourers lived, was some distance beyond that. Vandor’s house, which stood alone, was on a hillside which he could see silhouetted against the sky beyond the trees.

  By the time he had reached the plantation mosquitoes were making their presence felt.

  For this he was prepared, and lost no time in smearing his hands and face with insect repellent. He then looked at his watch. The time was three-thirty, which meant that he had about three hours of darkness to complete his mission and get clear. Making as little noise as possible on the soft ground he went on until he could make out the hangar looming in the gloom ahead. It struck him that it seemed to be getting darker, and gazing skyward he perceived the reason. A veil of cloud was being drawn across the moon. This, he thought, was unfortunate, for he was relying on the moonlight to enable him to find his way about.

  He went on and reached the hangar with only one incident, and that was not of a serious nature; but still, with his nerves keyed up, as they always are on such occasions, he stiffened when a black shadow rose up in front of him and blundered away into the night.

  It was, he saw at once, a buffalo, although whether it was wild, or a domestic beast strayed from its paddock, he did not know. Nor did he, now that it had gone, care very much.

  He found the hangar to be a simple structure of canvas stretched over a wooden framework. The canvas, he noticed, had once been part of Japanese war stores. It was just enough to protect the machine from the weather.

  There was no difficulty about getting in because the entrance consisted merely of curtains that could be drawn aside.

  The Moth was there. As far as it was possible to judge it appeared to be in order. Biggles had a torch, and would have liked to make sure of this, because it was in order to survey a possible line of retreat, should he find himself in a tight corner, that he had troubled to go to the hangar at all. But to show a light was a risk he dare not take, so he went out again with the object of completing his mission in the shortest possible time. The moon, he was annoyed to find, was now no more than a pale glow in the sky. A few big drops of rain were falling.

  Although he still carried the photograph of the place in his mind, to find the house was not an easy matter, and for some time he wandered up and down the footpaths, made by labourers working in the plantations, without advancing far in the direction in which he knew the house to be.

  However, at length he found the landmark which in the photograph he had supposed to be a brook, or a ditch. In fact, it turned out to be a jungle-lined ravine of unknown depth and about twelve yards across. After following this for some way, for in the dark there could be no question of crossing it, he found a bridge. He remembered this bridge. It was on the one track for vehicular traffic between the house and the outside world.

  Having ascertained that there was no guard on it he crossed over, only to find again that the photographs were deceptive. What he had taken to be a level road, turning at a sharp angle from the bridge, was a short steep hill that ended in an open area in front of the house. This area fell away towards the track. Of the building itself he could see little. It was larger than he expected, and appeared to be something between a glorified European bungalow and a Chinese pagoda.

  He was about to make his way to the east end of the building, where the ammunition was stored, when he heard a sound that puzzled him, and brought a frown to his forehead. It was the screech of a motor horn. Looking in the direction whence it came, which was beyond the track up which he had just come, he saw, moving through the trees, not one pair of headlights, but three. What this portended he did not even try to guess; but as it was obvious that the vehicles were coming to the house he lost no time in getting into a position from which he could watch without being seen. The only cover available, although there was plenty of it, was in the luxuriant tropical shrubs and tree-ferns that in places overhung the open ground. Into these he pushed his way, although not without reluctance. There were plenty of fireflies, and these he did not mind; he was thinking of snakes, centipedes, and other venomous insects that might resent his sudden intrusion.

  But his dominant sensations were irritation and frustration, because such an interruption as was now imminent, at such an hour, was outside his reckoning, and looked even then as if it might upset his plan. This was clear cut. He had intended to force an entrance to the ammunition dump, place a couple of time bombs, one explosive and the other incendiary, and retire. He would then merely have to make his way up to the reservoir and there wait for Ginger to come and pick him up.

  That it was not going to work out as easily as that was soon evident. He accepted the state of affairs philosophically. He knew from experience that plans seldom operate without a hitch.

  The next development made him start, so little was he expecting it. This was the switching on of two overhead arc lamps suspended above the area in front of the house. This was now turned into a pool of light, dazzling after the darkness.

  Lights also appeared in the house. He was gla
d he had taken cover, for signs of activity at once appeared. A big Malay—or Biggles took him to be a Malay—stepped forward from the house and stood as if waiting. On him, from some low buildings that were evidently living quarters, converged a motley assortment of Oriental humanity. All were chattering like monkeys, but this ended abruptly when from the front door stepped a man, a white man in a suit of white drill. He gave the appearance of having dressed quickly. He was, Biggles suspected, Captain Langley Vandor, and as events were soon to prove, he was right. Lamenting that he had chosen such an unfortunate moment to arrive, Biggles could only wait and watch.

  That the people under the lights were awaiting the arrival of the motor vehicles, now grinding up the slope in low gear, was obvious; and Biggles himself turned his attention in that direction with no small curiosity. But when, presently, with a good deal of triumphant shouting, a lorry and two jeeps, crowded with men, arrived on the scene, he felt that he should have guessed what was afoot.

  The lorry made a circuit of the open area and came to rest facing the direction from which it had come; that is to say, just at the top of the slope, at the bottom of which was the bridge. The two jeeps, shedding some of their human cargo, went on, and disappeared from sight at the east end of the building, up a track which until then Biggles did not know existed. The area in front of the house now presented an animated picture.

  Not fewer than a score of men were there, all talking at once, although what was being said, Biggles, not knowing the language, had no idea. A more mixed assemblage he had never seen. There were Malays, Japanese, Chinese, Burmese, Tamils and mixed breeds, all of whom had evidently suspended racial hatreds in order to obtain plunder under a common banner of lawlessness with violence. Incongruously, they shared one superficial feature with Biggles, he noticed. The majority of them wore British battle dress, for the most part ill-fitting, which could only have been taken from the bodies of their victims. It did not take Biggles long to see the possibilities of this unpleasant circumstance.

  Three men stood apart from the rest: Vandor, the big Malay, and a man of unknown nationality who was, Biggles thought, the leader of the new arrivals. Vandor was a rather stout, pompous little man, whose ancestry was betrayed by high cheek bones and eyes that were not quite straight.

  By this time Biggles was in no doubt as to who these men were and what they were doing. The weapons they all carried were sufficient evidence of that. Here was a gang of bandits come to report progress or replenish their stores; probably both. The lorry, he noticed, still carried the insignia of a British army unit; it also showed signs of having been recently in the wars, for its woodwork had been holed and splintered by bullets.

  Even so, Biggles was not prepared for what happened next. The man whom he had supposed to be the leader of the raiders walked over to the lorry and climbed in over the tailboard, which had been dropped. A moment later a body—or what Biggles took to be a body from the way it was handled—was flung out. The man who had thrown it out jumped down after it and kicked it. This brought the supposed body to its feet, not without difficulty, for, as Biggles now observed, the hands were tied together behind its back.

  In spite of the clammy heat Biggles felt a chill creep over him as he realised that he was looking at a captured British soldier. What made the situation even more pathetic was the fact that he was little more than a boy. He appeared to be dazed by what was happening to him. A more lonely, hopeless figure, Biggles thought he had never seen, and his lips came together in a hard line as he watched him half dragged, half shoved, to where Vandor and the Malay were standing. Vandor, who had lit a cheroot, appeared to find great satisfaction in the situation; but it is unlikely that he would have been so self-assured could he have seen the expression on Biggles’ face.

  With a flourish of his cheroot Vandor turned away up a path that skirted the side of the house, which he entered through open french windows. The soldier was taken along behind him by the Malay. The other man hurried off shouting to some of his men.

  Keeping in the undergrowth, regardless now of snakes, or water that drenched him every time he touched a palm frond, Biggles made his way, with some difficulty, parallel with the path to a point from which he could see inside the room. The big Malay was just leaving, a bunch of keys in his hand. Vandor was putting a heavy canvas bag into a metal safe. The prisoner, helpless, stood there, calmly awaiting the fate which he must have thought inevitable.

  Biggles made his preparation swiftly. He took from his pocket a flat leather case. Opening it, he selected a slim metal cylinder, and holding it to his ear, counted a number of clicks as he turned a milled screw. This, and the case, he returned to his pocket. From inside his blouse he took a hunting knife and stuck it through his belt. Then his hand went to his hip and came up holding an automatic.

  In his heart he knew that what he purposed doing was wrong. His first consideration, he was aware, should be the fulfilment of his mission, which was the destruction of the ammunition dump. But against that he knew that if he abandoned the unlucky lad, standing wretched and forlorn a dozen paces from him, the face would haunt him for the rest of his days. He moved forward to the fringe of the palms and there paused to hear what Vandor was saying. The words, in perfect English, reached him clearly, and the subject with which they dealt was appropriate to the situation.

  “I see,” Vandor was saying. “So you’re not going to talk?”

  The boy did not answer.

  “We have here,” said Vandor airily, “ways to make the most obstinate people talk.”

  “But I tell you I don’t know anything,” blurted the boy desperately.

  “We may be able to refresh your memory,” replied Vandor, locking the safe, and turning to a desk on which lay a revolver.

  “Officers don’t tell privates what their plans are,” muttered the boy.

  “We shall see,” returned Vandor, smiling unpleasantly.

  Biggles had heard enough. Automatic in hand he stepped forward. “As you say, Vandor, we shall see,” he said coldly. “You’d better keep your hands where I can see them because I’m waiting for an excuse to fill your dirty body with lead.” He went on and picked up the revolver from the desk.

  Vandor did not move. His eyes opened wide. His jaw dropped. Astonishment may have bereft him of the power of speech.

  With his knife Biggles cut the cords that bound the soldier’s hands.

  “Keep your tail up, laddie,” he said softly. “Let me know as soon as you can use your hands. Take time, but don’t waste any.”

  “I’m all right,” said the boy, new hope in his voice.

  “Okay. I want you to do exactly as I tell you. Take this gun. Keep that rat covered. One move, one bleat, let him have it. If we’re going for a Burton your job is to see that he comes too.”

  “Leave it to me,” said the boy through his teeth.

  “That’s the spirit. I shan’t be long. A shot will bring me back.” Biggles strode off, taking the small but powerful demolition bomb from his pocket as he walked.

  He took the back way to the east end of the building, where he found more activity than he expected. The double doors of a room of some size were wide open. A light was on, revealing a stock of ammunition boxes and other things. At the entrance a jeep was being loaded with petrol cans.

  At the same time a man was filling the tank. The second jeep stood at the top of a short ramp apparently awaiting its turn. There was no one with it, all hands being concentrated on the jeep that was being loaded.

  A mirthless smile curled Biggles’ lips as he walked towards it, for this part of the game, at any rate, was in his hands. His battledress—or rather, the stolen uniforms worn by the bandits—may have done him a service, in that the men working on the lower jeep, if they saw him, may have taken him for a member of their gang. Be that as it may, no one challenged him. Reaching the jeep he simply took off the hand brake, whereupon the vehicle, being on a slope, started forward, fast gathering speed. The men below saw it com
ing, as they were bound to, and a shout went up.

  They could not have seen Biggles, for he was crouching behind it. His right arm went back, then swung forward. For a second the yellow light glinted on a little metal tube that whirled through the open doors into the room beyond.

  Biggles did not wait for the result, Counting the seconds, he dashed back the way he had come. When he had counted five he flung himself flat and put his arms over his head, hands over his ears. He was only just in time. First came a sharp explosion, followed instantly by a terrific whoosh which he took to be the petrol catching fire. Hard upon that came a tremendous roar. Waiting only until the debris had finished rattling down—and there was plenty of that—Biggles sprang up and ran on, no longer in darkness, but in a lurid glare that had its source at the east end of the building. Explosion followed explosion.

  In the unholy light he saw a figure run into the room for which he was himself making— the room where he had left the soldier. He reached it to see the big Malay, dagger in hand, creeping up behind the soldier who, his eyes being on Vandor, was unaware of his presence. Biggles did not hesitate. His pistol spat. The native stretched himself to his full height; then his legs crumpled under him and he slumped like a wet sack dropping off a peg.

  The soldier spun round with a gasp. Vandor, white-faced and round-eyed, started to move, but as Biggles’ pistol whipped up again he flinched and stood still.

  “Come on, laddie, let’s get out of this,” said Biggles crisply. To Vandor he rasped: “I’m hoping you’ll come after us because I’m still waiting for that excuse to send you where you belong.” He did, in fact, glance behind him as he left the room; but Vandor was still standing there, as if petrified by the speed of these events.