by W E Johns
“Perfectly,” answered Tug, trying to keep a sneer out of his voice. His passenger’s cold-blooded selfishhness nearly made him sick.
Shortly after this they touched down on the dusty landing-ground. The machine had hardly finished its run when White jumped down, shouting to a steward who had run out to meet the machine, to bring along his suitcase.
Tug taxied on into the shade of the empty hangar.
He switched off and jumped down. There was no one there so he hurried along to the luggage compartment and opened the door a couple of inches. “Okay,” he told Biggles. “We’re in the hangar. White’s expecting trouble—offered me a bribe to stay by him and get him clear if a rumpus does start. I’m going along to see what’s happening. I’ll be back.” With a wave he turned on his heel and hurried in the direction of the manager’s office.
When he reached it he found the entire white staff of Kudinga assembled. White was talking volubly, wagging his hands as well as his tongue. Only Kreeze took any notice of Tug when he entered. In a quick aside he said: “What do you want here?”
“Mr. White ordered me to stand by in case I was wanted in a hurry,” returned Tug imperturbably.
“That’s right, so I did,” put in White sharply, as if he resented the interruption. He went on to conclude what he was saying.
Tug leaned back against the door and lit a cigarette as if the matter under discussion was of no interest to him.
“I want to know what exactly is the position here,” demanded White, looking at Kreeze as if he expected him to supply the information. “Have you caught this fellow Hebblethwaite?”
“Not yet,” admitted Kreeze—to Tug’s unbounded satisfaction.
“Why not?”
“He can’t be found,” answered Kreeze, who seemed ill at ease. “We’ve had a dozen search parties out this morning looking for him,” he went on. “I’ve had everyone out. I can only think that a lion got him; there were plenty in the wood last night, judging from the mess they made.”
“Have you submerged the works?”
Tug of course had no idea what this meant, so he awaited Kreeze’s reply with curiosity.
“It should have been done by now,” replied Kreeze. “I sent Stephan and George down half an hour ago to do it. They should be back soon.”
“And you are sure there is nothing left that might require explanation should we have visitors?”
“You need have no fear of that,” asserted Kreeze. “The entire police forces of the world are welcome to search the place if they wish.”
White drew a deep breath. “Well, that’s someething. Have you seen anything of Bigglesworth?”
“No. Is he about?”
“He’s been seen in Cairo. I thought he might have got here.”
“That’s impossible.” Kreeze laughed unpleasantly. “I rather wish he would come. He’d find us waiting for him with open arms. I’ve got men stationed on all the high ground, watching the sky—that’s the way he’ll come if he does come.”
“Good. Be careful, though. He didn’t get the reputation he’s got for being shy—or a fool.”
“I don’t think there’s any occasion for you to get alarmed, Mr. White,” said Kreeze. “I’m quite capable of handling any situation that may arise here. What would you like me to do about the works?”
“They won’t suffer any damage from submersion?”
“Oh no. The whole thing is watertight. When the pontoons are flooded the float will settle quietly on the bed of the lake. When the water is blown out of them by the introduction of air through the duct, operated by the engine, it will come up again. It will then be drawn in and made fast. I ordered it to be sunk about twenty yards from the shore; the water is plenty deep enough there to cover it. It will be no trouble at all to recover it when you decide that it is safe to do so.”
What all this was about Tug was not entirely clear; but he had a vague idea of what had happened—or was happening. He was waiting impatiently to hear more when there came an interruption which told him all he needed to know. The door was flung open and a man in mechanic’s overalls literally burst in. He seemed to be on the border line of hysteria with excitement.
“He’s inside!” he cried breathlessly.
“What are you talking about, George?” snapped Kreeze. “Who’s inside what?”
“Hebblethwaite. He’s in the works.”
There was a brittle silence that lasted for perhaps two seconds. It was broken by White. “What’s happened? Speak up, man,” he requested sharply.
“We were ordered to submerge the works, sir,” explained the man called George. “We uncoupled the float, pushed it out for about twenty yards, and had thrown the switch that operates the electric valves in the pontoons—”
“Didn’t you look in the works first?” put in Kreeze.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“There seemed no reason—”
“Fool! Go on.”
“The float had just started to settle nicely when there was a noise inside it. Then there was shooting—first three shots, then more.”
By this time the atmosphere in the office was tense. “Go on—and what did you do?” snapped Kreeze.
“We closed the valves again.”
“Why?”
“Because we thought that if there had been shooting some of the bullets might have gone through the walls, in which case, when she went down the works would fill with water.”
“Would that matter?” asked White. “Surely it would have been the easiest way to settle the fellow inside?”
“But if the float filled with water we should never get it up again.”
“Not if you pumped air into the pontoons?”
“That would probably make the whole thing turn turtle,” declared George. “I doubt if the pontoons hold enough air to lift the float if the upper part was full of water. I thought I’d better run up and report to Mr. Kreeze for instructions.”
“Can the man inside get out?” asked White.
“No, sir. The float is awash and the water is full of crocodiles.”
White drew a deep breath. “Then there’s no reason to get upset. You can haul the float to the bank again if need be?”
“Yes, sir. If we pump air into the pontoons the float will right itself and become buoyant. We could then bring it in. There’s a wire cable as well as an air pipe-line connecting it with the engine room.”
Although his head was spinning with this staggering news, and there might be more to come, Tug decided that he had heard enough. Questions were still being fired at the mechanic, who was the centre of interest, so he opened the door quietly and stepped out. He closed the door behind him, and then, casting caution to the winds, raced for the hangar.
When he reached it he found that Biggles had discarded his burnous and was squatting on an undercarriage wheel smoking a cigarette.
“I was watching for you,” greeted Biggles. “What’s the news?”
“Plenty,” answered Tug crisply. “Listen to this.”
In a short spate of words he gave Biggles an account of the situation in the power-house. “It must be Ginger inside,” he concluded. “It couldn’t be anyone else. They think so, anyway. We’ve got to get there first or he’s sunk. The whole bunch will be down there presently.”
Biggles got up and stamped on his cigarette. “Do you know the way to this place?”
“Yes.”
Biggles took out his automatic. “Got your gun?”
“You bet I have.”
“Use it if anyone tries to stop us. Once we start we can’t stop. Ready?”
“Yep.”
“Is anyone about outside?”
Tug took a quick look. “All clear.”
“Fine,” said Biggles. “Let’s go.”
They went out into the hot sunshine and set off at a run for the gate in the wire.
Chapter 16
A Tight Corner
The race for the power-house b
egan well—better, in fact, than Biggles had dared to hope. They entered the lodge grounds, passed the lodge itself, and were well on their way down the hill towards the gate which gave access to the wire corridor that led to the power-house, before they saw a soul. Then Tug noticed that some blacks, in their own compound outside the wire, were watching them curiously. He made a remark to this effect to Biggles, who did not stop, or even look round, but ran on to the gate. Tug was afraid that it might have been closed and locked, but as he hoped, it had been left open by George in his hurry to get to Kreeze.
At the gate Tug pulled up for a moment, pointing. “That’s the powerhouse,” he told Biggles. “Ginger’s in the part you can see in the water—the float, they call it. It’s anchored by a cable to the engine room on the bank.”
“There’s a man down there,” observed Biggles.
“That must be Stephen,” answered Tug. “It was George who came up.”
“So much the better. We may need someone to show us how to operate the valves and haul the thing in,” said Biggles, as they went on.
Very soon, as they ran, they could hear a violent hammering going on inside the float; and the reason for this became apparent when the butt of a rifle burst through what appeared to be a shuttered window. It was withdrawn, but appeared again.
“Looks like Ginger’s trying to hammer a hole in the wall to get out,” panted Tug. “He’s getting on, too, by the looks of it,” he went on, as a hand appeared in the opening made by the rifle.
Then some muffled shots were heard. The rifle butt burst through again. A piece of the window frame was detached and fell into the water.
“Ginger’s putting in some hard work,” muttered Biggles.
“So should I, shut up in that rat trap with crocs outside,” returned Tug grimly.
By this time they were within thirty yards of their objective. The mechanic, Stephan, who had of course seen them coming, got up to meet them. His manner suggested that he was puzzled, but not alarmed. Nevertheless, it was natural that he should look with askance at the automatic as Biggles and Tug ran up. He opened his mouth to speak, but Tug forestalled him.
“I’m Mr. White’s pilot,” he said quickly, and truthfully enough. “He’s here. I was with him in the office when George came in. He’s liable to bite your ear off over this business.”
“But what—?”
“Don’t argue. He wants to talk to that guy in the float. He sent me down to say you’re to get it on an even keel and haul it in. Jump to it—he’ll be here any minute.”
The mechanic did not question the order. After all, there was no reason why he should suspect for one moment that the two men who had just come down from the lodge were police officers. Without a word he went into the engine room, turned a key and pulled a lever.
A dynamo whirred. A steel drum began to revolve, winding a cable on itself.
Biggles, watching from the outside, saw the float begin to rise in the water, and at the same time move towards the place where he stood. Suddenly Ginger recognized him and let out a yell, but Biggles motioned him to be silent.
Stephan came out, and with the others stood watching the float creep slowly towards the bank.
“That man inside—he has a gun. He may be dangerous,” said Stephan, speaking with a stilted foreign accent.
“Leave him to me,” returned Biggles significantly, tapping his pistol.
So far things had gone without a hitch, but Biggles knew that this could hardly be expected to continue. The progress of the float towards the bank was painfully slow. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the path leading to the lodge, and a minute later he was not surprised to see a group of men run into view. Some were running fast, some not so fast, with the result that by the time they reached the gate in the fence they were strung out. Biggles noted that they were all white men. But now, behind them, appeared a score or more of blacks, a few carrying rifles, but most of them brandishing spears. They ran so fast that they rapidly overhauled the white men.
Stephan, of course, had seen what the others had seen, and now for the first time he appeared to become suspicious.
His eyes, parted only by a frown, went from Biggles to Tug, and back to Biggles. His body stiffened.
“Who are you?” he asked in a high-pitched voice, as his suspicions mounted rapidly.
“You’ll learn,” answered Biggles evenly.
Shouts that carried a warning now floated down from the oncoming crowd. Stephan, his eyes darting from Tug to Biggles, began to back away. His right hand went to his hip pocket.
The muzzle of Biggles’ gun, held low, jerked up. “Take it easy,” he warned. “Don’t try anything silly.”
Stephan drew a deep breath. “Cops, eh?” he rasped, understanding leaping into his eyes.
“You’ve got it, brother,” Tug told him without emotion.
The mechanic made a desperate leap for the powerhouse door, either with the intention of taking cover, or switching off the dynamo, or both. In either case Biggles dare not risk it happening. He had given a warning. There was no need to repeat it. His autoomatic cracked, spurting flame.
Stephan swayed, stumbled, collided with the engine-eroom wall and clawed at it with one hand whIle the other dragged at a revolver half in and half out of his pocket.
Biggles’ lips came together in a thin line. Again he raised the pistol. But before he could fire the mechanic had lurched sideways; he missed his footing, and with a scream of mortal fear fell with a terrific splash into the lake.
Biggles ran to the spot, but before he could do anything there was a vicious swirl. A great gnarled tail broke surface for a moment before gliding into the depths. Of Stephan there was no sign. Only ripples marked the spot where he had disappeared. They lapped gently on the shore.
Biggles turned pale but said nothing. What had happened was all too plain.
“You’ve had it, chum,” breathed Tug, still staring at the spot. “But you certainly asked for it.”
A shot rang out and a bullet smacked against the power-house. Biggles glanced quickly up the track and saw that the blacks were dangerously close. “You’ll have to hold them off, Tug, while I get Ginger out,” he ordered, clipping his words. “Shoot straight up the corridor—that should steady them. They can’t get out of it and they’ve no cover.” Then, to Ginger, whose head and shoulders were projecting from the side of the float, now close in, he called: “Is that hole big enough for you to get through?”
“Just about,” answered Ginger.
“All right. Wait till she touches. Don’t on any account slip into the water.”
“Not on your life,” returned Ginger fervently. “I know what’s there.”
Bullets were now coming unpleasantly close, although fortunately the shooting, as a whole, was wild, this being due probably to the harassing fire kept up by Tug. The blacks, refusing to face it without cover, had thrown themselves flat in the longish grass near the wire, each trying to get behind the next man. It was evident that they had no stomach for their job. Nor, for that matter, had their white masters, who seemed equally disinclined to advance. Biggles, too old a soldier to expose himself unnecessarily, was lying flat. He ordered Tug to do the same.
The float touched the bank. Ginger wriggled through the gaping hole he had made in the bent and battered shutter, staggered to the bank and threw himself behind a convenient stump. Another head and shoulders filled the aperture.
Ginger, who happened to be looking at Biggles, saw the blood drain from his face. Twice Biggles opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came. His lips remained parted. The expression in his eyes made Ginger turn sharply to see what he was staring at.
Bertie was just climbing out of the window.
Biggles pointed. “Who—who’s that?” he asked in a voice cracking with incredulity.
Ginger answered: “Bertie.”
“But I thought...”
Then Ginger realized that Tug had told Biggles of what he had seen in the forest; in
short, that Bertie was dead.
“Bertie’s all right,” he explained quickly.
“Absolutely,” confirmed Bertie, joining Ginger behind the stump. “But, I say, what a time we’re having, you know!”
Tug had spun round at the sound of Bertie’s voice.
He, like Biggles, went pale. His eyes goggled. He nearly choked. When he could find his voice his first remark sounded foolish. “What are you doing here?” he gabbled incoherently. “You went for a Burton. I saw you.”
“Changed my mind, old boy,” answered Bertie, polishing his eyeglass with a wisp of dry grass.
“You dirty dog!”
“Dirty is the word,” agreed Bertie in a melancholy voice. “I’m filthy. Don’t come near me. I stink. My pants are flyblown—”
“Quit fooling,” cut in Biggles. “This is the showdown and as far as I’m concerned it’s a bit premature. Things are serious. Watch what you’re doing. Is there any ammo in that rifle of yours, Ginger?”
“Yes. I’ve just charged the magazine, but that’s the lot,” answered Ginger. “It took almost all the cartridges I had to shoot a ring of holes round the shutter so that we could bash a way out.”
“Where’s Bertie’s rifle?”
“The last time I saw it, it was lying up in the wood.”
“What happened to Bertie? Tug told me he’d been gored by a buffalo.”
“That was a frame-up to trick Kreeze.”
While this conversation was taking place in crisp sentences they had not been lying still. Automatically each one had wormed his way to the best cover he could find, facing up the wire corridor, the direction from which an attack must come. More than once this looked like developing when some of the blacks goaded by taunts shouted by Kreeze, advanced a few yards.
“How are we fixed for weapons?” asked Biggles. The answer was soon forthcoming—one rifle, two revolvers and two automatics, with not much ammunition for any of them.
