by W E Johns
Ginger, coming out of a deep sleep, could still hear the sound, so to speak; but he had no idea of what had caused it. He could only think that something had fallen. He was disturbed but not seriously alarmed, for the room was in pitch darkness, and he assumed, paturally, that dawn had not yet broken. What did strike him as odd was that it should be so dark, when the windows at least should be revealed as squares of moonlight. This was all the more strange because he had a feeling that he had been asleep for a long time. He did not speak, but looked at his watch, the dial of which was luminous. He started, and stared again. He held it to his ear to make sure that it had not stopped. The tick told him that it was still going. He switched on his torch and looked again at the dial. The hands pointed to a quarter past twelve.
By this time he was sitting up. “Bertie,” he said tersely. “Are you awake?”
“Definitely,” answered Bertie in a normal voice. “What was that noise?”
“I don’t know,” replied Ginger. “Would you mind looking at your watch and telling me the time? Someething seems to have gone wrong with mine.” He passed the torch.
He could see the glow on Bertie’s watch, but several seconds passed before he got a reply to his question. Then, in a curious voice, Bertie said: “Something seems to have gone wrong with mine, too.”
“Is it going?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the time by it?”
“ Quarter past twelve.”
Ginger sprang to his feet. “Holy smoke! If it’s that time why is it still dark? Something’s happened —but I don’t know what.”
It did not take him long to discover the truth.
Automatically he made for the window by which they had entered. It was not there—at least, there was no cavity.
Incredulous, he looked again, holding his torch close. Then, and only then, did the explanation burst upon him. The window frame was there, but the opening was filled, so that not a crack of light showed anywhere, by a metal blind.
He tried to move it, but it was as rigid as the door of a safe.
By this time Bertie had joined him. “You know, old boy, we ought to be kicked from here to Cairo for going to sleep and letting ourselves be bowled out like this,” he remarked sadly.
“Our punishment for that folly is likely to be worse than kicking,” Ginger told him bitterly. “You realize what’s happened? The windows have been sealed off. We’re shut in.”
“Absolutely—like a brace of sardines in a petrol can.”
“How did they do it without waking us up?”
“It must have been done by a remote switch. Anyone coming in would have seen us. The noise we heard was the metal blinds falling on the windows.
“But if it’s after twelve, why has no one been in here?”
“Something serious must have happened at the lodge —that’s the only explanation I can think of,” returned Ginger moodily.
“But why shut us in? If they knew we were here they could have bumped us off in their own time. They could have potted us through the bally window.”
“There’s only one answer to that,” declared Ginger. “They didn’t know we were in here. I imagine there’s a full strength search going on for me. Not knowing about the gap made by the fallen tree they wouldn’t suppose I could get here even if I wanted to. If you asked my opinion I’d say something has gone wrong at the lodge and they’ve suspended operations until the thing has been cleared up. But what’s the use of guessing? The one fact that sticks out a mile is, we’re in a jam of no small dimensions. We’d better start trying to find a way out. You keep an eye on the door and be ready to deal with anyone who opens it.” Ginger swayed suddenly and put a hand against the wall to steady himself. He looked at Bertie with startled eyes. “What the deuce was that? Did the whole place move or did I imagine it?”
“It moved, laddie. Must be a bally earthquake going on—as if we haven’t got enough to think about!”
“The place might rock a bit if someone stepped on to the decking,” suggested Ginger thoughtfully.
“Crocs, perhaps.”
“Crocs my foot!” cried Ginger. “We’re afloat! We’re moving!” An idea struck him. “I’ve got it,” he went on tersely. “What fools we are. We’re in the part that’s mounted on pontoons. It has been cast off. They’re moving it to another berth.”
“Why?”
“What’s the use of asking me? It may be so that should anyone come here—well, the thing won’t be here. It’ll be somewhere else, some place where it can’t be seen. Get the idea?”
“Not entirely,” admitted Bertie frankly. “Sorry to be so slow in the uptake, old boy, but where can they take it on the lake where it couldn’t be seen from the bank?”
Ginger looked down at the floor, which had taken on a slight list. He could hear water gurgling and bubbling under his feet. Suddenly the whole structure lurched.
The only possible explanation struck him with the force of a physical blow. He stared at Bertie with eyes wide with horror. “I know where they’re going to put it,” he said in a dry voice. “I understand now why the windows were sealed.”
“You mean—you know where we’re going?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Where?”
“To the bottom. They’re sinking the whole caboodle. They’ve opened valves in the pontoons. That gurgling noise is water pouring into them.”
There was silence for perhaps half a minute. Then Bertie picked up Ginger’s rifle.
“What are you going to do with that?” asked Ginger in surprise.
“Punch some holes in this bally shutter,” returned Bertie. “The metal can’t be so thick as all that—if you see what I mean? Stand clear in case the bullet ricochets.”
Ginger’s voice rose high in dismay. “Are you out of your mind?”
“If I’m only going to let some dayhght in.”
“You will also,” said Ginger grimly, “let the water in.”
“She may not have sunk as deep as that yet.”
“But when she does?”
“It’ll be over all the quicker,” replied Bertie, almost cheerfully. “I never was anything for the submarine service, old boy. No bally fear. I’m all for having some fresh air while it lasts—yes, by Jove!” He raised the rifle and took rough aim.
Ginger stepped back and put his hands over his ears.
Three shots filled the chamber with a roar like thunder.
Chapter 15
Biggles Takes Charge
As soon as Algy had departed on his long-distance errand Biggles turned to Tug and as concisely as posssible told him the result of the reconnaissance.
“We’ve got to get really cracking, and that means taking chances,” he went on quickly. “I’ve got to get to Kudinga. At a pinch I could go down in Ginger’s Beau which he told me in his message he had parked at Almaza. But if I do that I shan’t for obvious reasons be able to land anywhere near the lodge. If I land some distance away I shall not only be faced wIth a long walk, but run the risk of not being able to get off again—even if I got down without a crack-up. Apart from that, from what you tell me it would be a tricky business to get close to the lodge without being spotted.”
“It would,” assented Tug.
“That’s why I’ve decided to go down in your Pacemaker.”
“But suppose I’m not sent to Kudinga?”
“We shall go there just the same,” replied Biggles calmly. “With things happening there, though, it seems a fair guess that you will be sent back. It’s likely that the urgent letter you brought up will call for a reply.”
“Even so, how are you going to work it?” inquired Tug.
“I shall go down to the airport wearing a burnous over my ordinary clothes,” explained Biggles. “With all sorts of people of the country about no one will notice me. I shall hang about as near as seems reasonably safe to the Stellar office, or the hangar. Now then. You go and report for orders. If nothing is said about going to Ku
dinga stroll outside and light a cigarette. If you are to go to Kudinga drop your handkerchief. If you are going down with an empty machine pick the handkerchief up. If by any chance you have to take a passenger, or passengers, leave the handkerchief where it falls as if you hadn’t noticed it. Have you got that clear?”
“Clear enough.”
“Good. Now comes the question of getting me on board. If you’re taking an empty machine it will be easy. Taxi down to the far end of the airfield and I’ll get aboard there. Rev your engines once or twice as you go to create an impression that you’re not quite satisfied, in case anybody should be watching you. That’s your excuse for the long run. If you have to take a passenger it’s going to be a bit more difficult. Obviously, I couldn’t get aboard after the machine leaves the tarmac. The best chance would be in the hangar when you go to get it out. I’ll do the stowaway trick in the luggage compartment. It won’t be comfortable travelling but we can’t help that. I’m hoping you’ll go down empty, in which case I shall be able to relax in the cabin while you do the work.”
“What about when we get to Kudinga?”
“All you have to do is put the machine in the hangar and leave me there. The advantage of the plan is, it puts me right on the spot. You go to Kreeze and report. If you learn anything all you will have to do is step out and tell me what’s cooking.”
“Just now you talked about taking chances,” observed Tug dubiously. “This sounds like sheer lunacy.”
Biggles brushed aside the objection. “It shouldn’t be as difficult as it may sound. You’re in the clear, remember. You’ve served them well so far so they won’t be watching you—at least, not as closely as they did at first.”
“Suppose there are some aircraft hands in the hangar here? They’ll see you get aboard.”
“Turf them out. Give them something to do—anything you like, for a couple of minutes. That’ll be all the time I shall need. The big risk will come when you taxi out to the office, when it may be decided to put some last minute luggage on board. It’s to dodge that risk that I made the suggestion about you picking me up at the far end of the airfield, although that can only be done if you’re flying solo. I’m not likely to enjoy sitting on the floor of the luggage compartment all the way to Kudinga, you may be sure.”
Tug nodded. “Okay, chief, you know best.”
“Sure you’ve got it all clear?”
“Clear enough.”
“All right. You push along to the airfield now. I’ll follow you down.”
Tug went off.
Biggles gave him five minutes and then, putting on a fez, and throwing a native burnous over his shoulders, he walked down the road to the rendezvous, halting and squatting down, native fashion, in the deep shade on the western side of the Stellar hangar. Leaning back he settled down to watch.
He had not long to wait. Indeed, not more than two or three minutes had elapsed when Tug appeared, carryying a handkerchief loosely in his left hand. With him, engaged in conversation, were two men. One was the booking clerk.
The other was a short, fat, fussy little man, very well-dressed—too well-dressed Biggles thought—in a dark suit of European cut. A heavy black moustache was a conspicuous feature of his face. His complexion was so pale that at first, from a distance, Biggles took him to be a pure European; but as a result of a more prolonged scrutiny he changed his mind, and concluded that the smooth, olive—tinted skin was almost certainly that of a Eurasian, or at any rate a European with more than a trace of mid-eastern blood in his veins—a guess that was supported by the flash of a diamond tie-pin of a size so vulgar that no British visitor would be likely to wear it at such a time and place.
These details Biggles observed a lot faster than they can be written. His eyes returned to Tug, who, after casually blowing his nose, now allowed the handkerchief to fall at his feet. He did not pick it up, but after nodding as if in acknowledgement of an order, leaving the handkerchief where it had fallen, he walked briskly towards the hangar, some fifty yards away from the office.
This, according to the arranged signals, told Biggles that he was going to Kudinga, and that he was taking a passenger.
The first part of the information was satisfactory but the second, not so good. However, he wasted neither time nor energy deploring what could not be prevented.
Tug went on along the tarmac towards the gaping doors of the hangar. Biggles knew that he must have seen him, but he gave no sign. A glance revealed the clerk and his over-dressed companion stlll standing at the door of the office, engaged in earnest conversation. Biggles hesitated, and even while he hesitated, to his intense satisfaction, they went inside. He was on his feet in a moment, and moved his position so that Tug would have to pass within a few yards of him.
Tug then appeared to notice him for the first tlme. “Hi! You!” he called in a peremptory voice, as if he took it for granted that Biggles was one of the company’s employees. “What are you doing, loafing about there? Get inside and get busy.” Then he added in a low voice, just loud enough for Biggles to hear, “It’s White. I’ve got to fly him down to Kudinga. He’s fed to the teeth about something. Talks as if he’s a big shot.” Then, raising his voice again, Tug said, “Come on there, get a move on.” He strode on into the hangar. Biggles followed.
The reason for the play-acting on Tug’s part was at once apparent, for there were three native hands inside the hangar who must have been watching his approach. Tug shouted at them and they went about their several tasks. It took him only a few seconds to find them all jobs in the front part of the hangar. This of course was Biggles’ opportunity. He walked straight on down the full length of the Pacemaker that stood there, got quickly into the luggage compartment, which was aft of the main cabin, and settled himself as comfortably as circumstances permitted.
“Okay,” said Tug, walking up. With one hand on the handle of the door, but with his eyes on the native staff, he spoke softly and quickly. “I don’t know what’s happened, but there seems to be a flap on—something to do with Ginger and Bertie I fancy. They know you’re in Cairo. All routine services are suspended. White may be the big boss judging from the way Louis—that’s the booking clerk—runs round him. I reckon he’s a Levantine in a big way of business. Fairly studded with diamonds, and reeks like a chemist’s shop of scent and hair oil—makes you sick. Talks English all right, but with a funny sort of lisp that makes you wonder where he learnt it. First thing Louis said to me was, I had to take an important passenger to Kudinga right away. A minute later White turns up in a Rolls.”
“Nothing said about anyone breaking into the office last night?”
“Not a word in front of me. Ivan, the chief pilot, is on his way here from Rome with another machine to collect a load of freight—the stuff you saw, I imagine and get it out of the way. White seems anxious to be rid of it.”
“I’ll bet he is,” murmured Biggles drily. “How did you learn about this?”
“Heard Louis talking on the phone.”
“I see. Good enough. You’d better push off now. Is White going to sit with you or in the cabin?”
“I don’t know—he hasn’t said.”
“No matter. If there should be any luggage to be put aboard handle it yourself or we’ve lost the trick.”
“Okay.” Tug slammed the door.
For the next ten minutes, at the end of which time the Pacemaker took off, events followed normal procedure. The machine was drawn up in front of the Stellar office for White to get aboard. White came out and said he would fly in front with Tug. He was followed by Louis carrying a suitcase. Looking at the case Tug asked him what he was going to do with it.
“Put it in the luggage compartment,” was the answer.
“Whose bag is it?”
“Mr. White’s.”
“Then it might as well go in the cabin where I can keep an eye on it,” suggested Tug casually. “There’s plenty of room.”
“As you wish,” agreed Louis, and handed Tug the bag
.
Tug drew a deep breath and put it in the cabin. White climbed into the spare pilot’s seat.
Tug was about to take his place when Louis beckoned.
The man seemed nervous. “Be very careful,” he whispered. “Mr. White is an important director of the firm. There has been trouble and he is very, very upset. Only Ivan has flown him before, but Ivan is not here and he cannot wait. Take great care.”
“I’ll take care of him,” promised Tug, with feeling. That was all. Five minutes later the machine was in the air, heading south through the crystal-clear atmosphere of early morning, with Tug at the stick, and Mr. White, looking singularly out of place, beside him.
During the long run to Kudinga little was said either by Tug or his passenger. For the most part White sat slumped in his seat, deep in thought, sometimes drummming on his knee, as if with impatience, with the finger of a fat white hand that had obviously never done a day’s manual work. Tug had an almost overpowering desire to tear off an enormous solitaire diamond ring and throw it out of the window.
As they roared high over Aswan, White said: “Can’t you go faster than this? I do not like these machines, they are not safe.”
Answered Tug, trying not to show his contempt: “Sorry, but a plane will travel just as fast as its engines will take it, and no faster. I’m flying flat out now.”
“Well, get there as fast as you can,” ordered White curtly.
“I’m doing that already,” returned Tug evenly. Just before noon, with Kudinga creeping up over the skyline, White spoke again, giving voice, Tug thought from his manner, to something that had exercised his mind for some time.
“When we get to Kudinga there’s a chance there may be trouble,” said White. “I do not say there will be, but it is as well to be ready. Police spies have been there. One is there now. Others may come. I want you to stay near me all the time; then, if anything goes wrong we can get away—you understand? This aeroplane is mine so I have first call on it. Never mind the others; they can take care of themselves. You obey my orders and when we get to Cairo you will not be sorry. It may not come to that. I mention it, in case. Do we understand each other?”
