by W E Johns
Biggles’ next question was addressed to Ginger. “Do you know your way about here?”
“More or less.”
“What’s our best plan? Things can’t go on indefinitely as they are. If the enemy sends for tools to cut through the fence and work round to our flanks, we’ve had it.”
There seemed to be a chance of this happening, for some of the blacks sprang suddenly to their feet and went racing back up the path.
“The only real cover where we could make a stand is the forest on our right,” explained Ginger. “Of course, there’s always the power-house.”
“I don’t like the idea of being cooped up in there,” replied Biggles. “Once inside, there would be no getting out, and we’re in no state to stand a siege. Besides, one spark on that thatched roof and the place would go up in flames. That would finish us. Has anyone anything in the way of rations?”
“No.”
“Then that settles that,” decided Biggles. “Give me a minute to think things over. Meantime, make a dash into the power-house and wreck the plant. Keep your head down as you go. If we smash the engine they won’t be able to sink the float. What’s in it, by the way?”
“Printing machinery, paper and dud notes.”
“Ah!”
“We were inside having a look round when Kreeze decided to sink the thing,” explained Ginger. “Of course we didn’t know then that it could be submerged. I’ve got some specimen notes in my pocket.”
“Good. Go and sabotage the engine.”
Ginger made a dash, and presently the crash of metal on metal told the others that he was doing his job with enthusiasm.
“I say, old boy, where’s Algy?” Bertie asked Biggles.
“Gone back to London to report to Raymond.”
“Lucky blighter.”
Biggles looked at his watch and saw that the time was one-thirty. More of the blacks were now making a cautious withdrawal up the path. Occasionally one of those who remained would fire a shot, without doing any damage.
“This is the lull before the storm,” Biggles told the others. “If we’re going to do anything it will have to be now. Kreeze and Co. are not just going to leave us here. By the way, I seem to remember that someone said there are some genuine hunters staying at the lodge. They might make useful allies. Where are they now?”
“There’s a British colonel and two Americans,” answered Ginger. “They will have gone out hunting and I don’t suppose they’ll be back before dark.”
“I see. How did you and Bertie get here? Did you come down the path?”
“No. There’s a gap in the fence in the forest where a tree has fallen across it. I don’t think Kreeze can know anything about it or he would have had it repaired.”
Biggles thought for a moment. “If that is so they must suppose we are penned in here.”
“I imagine so. Why? Have you got an idea?”
“I was trying to get the position lined up,” replied BIggles. “We can’t take on this bunch single-handed in a straight fight. There are too many blacks, and we haven’t enough ammunition, anyway. Moreover, we can’t live without eating, and I’m about due for a meal. These factors alone mean that our only chance is to get out—if we can. There’s only one way of getting clear and that’s in the machine Tug brought down. I was thinking that if we could get up to this gap you’re talking about we might work round behind the enemy and grab the aircraft without any opposition. That should be possible if they suppose we are still inside the fence somewhere, even though they can’t see us. There’s no need for us to stay at Kudinga any longer; we’ve got all the evidence we need for Raymond to pounce on the whole gang. Incidentally, he should have that information by now. With the power unit smashed Kreeze won’t be able to move the printing outfit. Without a plane they can’t get away from here, so they should still be about when we come back with reinforcements. Our plan is to get away if we can. How does that strike everyone?”
It was unanimously agreed that this was the best thing to do in the circumstances.
“All right, let’s try it,” decided Biggles. “The great thing is not to let the enemy know we’re moving. The easiest way of leading him to think that we are still here is for someone to stay behind for a bit and fire an occasional shot. Bertie, do you know your way up to the gap?”
“Do I not!” exclaimed Bertie.
“Good. This will be the order, then. Ginger will take us up to the track in the forest. You stay here for ten minutes or so firing an occasional shot, then join us on the track. We’ll wait there for you.”
“Right you are, old boy,” agreed Bertie.
Biggles turned to Ginger. “Off you go; we’ll follow.”
“Watch out for snakes,” warned Ginger. “This place is reported to be stiff with them, but so far I’ve only seen one.”
Keeping flat, he wormed his way to the ample cover provided by the bamboos. Biggles and Tug followed, leaving Bertie to cover the retreat.
In daylight it took only a matter of twenty minutes or so to reach the gap in the wire, and a quarter of an hour later they were on the track, reaching it at the scene of the buffalo tragedy, of which there remained gruesome evidence in the shape of trampled earth and well-picked bones. A cloud of flies hung over the place. A disappointment awaited Ginger, who hoped to find Bertie’s rifle still there. But it had gone, having been taken presumably by one of the search parties.
“This is where Bertie was supposed to have had it,” he told Biggles, and while they were waiting for Bertie he gave a fuller account of the ruse. He apologized again to Tug for the distress the picture had caused him.
“You’d have been taken in, too,” remarked Tug. “I never saw a man look more dead than Bertie did, lying there smothered with blood.”
“It was buffalo blood,” said Ginger. “He slipped and fell in it—made a shocking mess of his breeches, which still worries him not a little.” He smiled at the recollection.
Soon afterwards Bertie joined them. He recognized he spot and shuddered. “How perfectly foul,” he uttered in a voice of deep disgust. “Couldn’t you find some other place to wait? Must we stay here?”
“No,” answered Biggles. “The faster we move now the better. If we get caught in the open it will be anything but funny. How far is it to the hangar?” Ginger supplied the information. “Not far. We ought to do it in ten minutes or so.”
“All right; let’s turn up the wick.”1
They set off again, marching in single file with Ginger, who knew the way, leading. There was no more talking and they moved with the least possible noise.
The edge of the forest was reached without incident. Ahead now lay the open rim of the crater, with the sun blazing down on it at full midday strength. The rarefied air quivered in the heat.
“Keep going,” ordered Biggles, and the party proceeded.
They had gone more than half way, and their objeccive was in full view, when without warning two blacks appeared directly ahead. They may have been watchers sent up by Kreeze, or, as Tug remarked, remembering the conversation in the office, they could have been two of the men posted to watch the sky. Anyway, they saw the four white men instantly, as was inevitable. With a yell of alarm they dashed over the brow of the hill whence they had appeared.
“I’m afraid that’s torn it,” muttered Biggles. “In a couple of minutes Kreeze will know where we are. He’ll guess we’re making for the hangar. Our only chance is to beat him to it. Come on.” He broke into a run.
With perspiration streaming down their faces they ran straight for the objective; and they were within a hundred yards of it, with every prospect of success, when a dozen or more blacks appeared, urged on by Doctor Dorov, from behind the hangar. Biggles realized that they had come out of the lodge grounds and had been approaching the hangar at the same time as themselves, but from the far side.
Biggles slowed down. “I should have guessed that the first thing Kreeze would do, now that he knows Tug is with us, would be t
o put a guard on the machine,” he observed. “Pity; another couple of minutes and we should have been there first.”
“When he saw four of us down at the power-house he must have realized that you were here,” Ginger pointed out.
“He must have been a bit puzzled to see me trotting round again—if you get my meaning?” remarked Bertie, wiping moisture off his monocle.
At this juncture Kreeze himself appeared over the edge of the crater, slightly to the left, and rather nearer to the hangar than they were. With him was White, Robinson and George the mechanic, and the remainder of the black staff.
By this time Biggles’ party, confronted by overwhelming numbers, had automatically stopped. In fact, all three parties stopped, since to go on must provoke a collision which, since they were all in the open, could not fail to result in casualties. In fact, the situation, as it had developed, was a curious one. Neither Kreeze nor Doctor Dorov, in charge of the two opposition parties, appeared anxious to open hostilities—possibly because they themselves would certainly be involved. As far as Kreeze was concerned, practical proof of this was provided when he produced a white handkerchief, and waving it conspicuously advanced to within speaking distance—or perhaps it would be more correct to say, shouting distance. Each party was about fifty yards from the hangar and the same distance apart.
“You might as well give up!” called Kreeze. “You can’t get away!”
“Neither can you,” Biggles pointed out with even greater truth, for the only vehicle available was the aircraft, and Kreeze on his side had no one able to fly it.
“Put down your guns and come into the office to talk it over,” suggested Kreeze.
Biggles laughed scornfully. “Put down your guns and I’ll take you to Cairo for a fair trial,” he promised. “Are you coming quietly or would you rather fight it out?”
“You can’t dictate to me,” jeered Kreeze.
“Have it your own way,” answered Biggles.
Kreeze rejoined his companions.
Biggles was watching him closely. “Watch out!” he warned tersely. “This is where they’ll start someething.” Then, as several blacks suddenly ran back below the lip of the crater, he went on, “He’s sent them to try to work round behind us.” Kreeze and the other white men also backed to the lip of the crater, and then dropped down out of sight. Biggles lay flat. “They’re aiming to shoot at us from cover,” he observed. “Keep your heads down.”
A moment later three shots rang out. The bullets whistled but did no harm. Dorov, too, fired a quick shot. Then, taking his blacks with him he ran to a position that put the hangar between them—where, of course, Biggles could no longer see him.
“This is going to be a warm spot presently,” observed Tug.
“Don’t waste ammunition, anybody,” was all Biggles had to say.
An attentive lull fell.
“Now listen, everybody,” said Biggles presently. “We can’t stay here. Those blacks are working round behind us and we shall soon be surrounded. Our only chance is the machine, and there’s only one way to get it. We’ve got to be inside that hangar within a minute or we’re sunk. Once we start, don’t stop. One of us ought to get through. The main thing is to get word back home about this rat’s nest. Wait till I give the word then go straight for the hangar. Hark! What’s that? “
From far away, faint as yet, came the drone of an aircraft.
“I imagine that will be Ivan, their chief pilot,” said Tug. “He’s expected here.”
“In a Pacemaker?” asked Biggles.
“I reckon so.”
“The machine I can hear is a heavier job than that,” asserted Biggles. “It takes at least four engines to set up—watch out, I’ve got an idea those blacks are trying to make up their minds to charge.”
A number of natives near the hangar were being incited by Doctor Dorov; but they, too, had heard the aircraft, and hesitated. Indeed, no doubt because it was likely to affect the situation, everyone waited, watching the sky. When the aircraft came into sight, flying low and very fast, it was greeted by cries of alarm on one side and jubilation on the other.
“It’s a Bombay!” shouted Ginger. “And here comes another by all that’s wonderful!” he added as a second Bombay came roaring over the skyline.
Biggles eyed the machines critically. “There must be an exercise on,” he opined. “No matter; if they land here they’ll give us a lucky break.”
With the appearance of the big machines the entire situation changed abruptly. As Tug remarked a minute later, it was a mystery where everyone went. Even the blacks seemed to know the meaning of the R.A.F. markings, and taking fright they fled incontinently towards the forest.
“Amazing what a little red, white and blue can still do, by Jove!” remarked Bertie, a suspicion of esprit de corps warming his voice.
“Could Algy have anything to do with this?” suggested Ginger.
“No. He hasn’t had time to get back from England,” declared Biggles. “Raymond, of course, could have got in touch with R.A.F. Headquarters, Middle East, through the Air Ministry, or the Police Department here through Scotland Yard. By jingo! They are going to land!”
As the first of the two machines touched down Biggles rose cautiously and looked round. The others did the same. Everyone had vanished. But the landing area did not for long remain abandoned. Hardly had the machine stopped moving when the cabin door opened and a file of uniformed men, following closely one behind the other, jumped out.
“Egyptian police,” observed Biggles. “Then the Air Commodore must have fixed it. This can only be a co-operation job between the service and the police. Hello! There’s Major Grattan, the fellow who helped us in Cairo. I warned him that he might be busy shortly.” Biggles advanced to meet the police officer, whose men, fourteen in all, were being paraded quickly by a sergeant.
“Glad to see you,” greeted Biggles. “You were just about in time. Things were getting warmish. What good fairy sent you here?”
“A signal from the Foreign Office. We got orders to mop this place up.”
“It can do with it,” asserted Biggles, lighting a cigarette.
“What’s going on here, anyway?” questioned the Major.
Biggles explained. “There’s no desperate hurry,” he concluded. “Without transport I don’t see how any of them can get away. Be careful, though, some of the blacks are American gangsters masquerading as natives.”
“Thanks,” acknowledged the Major. “We may as well make a start. Are you coming along?”
“I, personally, am going to have a bath before I do anything else,” put in Bertie definitely.
By this time the second machine had landed, and was disemplaning a fresh contingent of police.
“As a matter of fact we could all do with a wash and a drink,” said Biggles. “You seem to have plenty of men, Major. You don’t really need us, do you?”
“Well, you’d be useful,” answered the Major. “Still, go and have a drink and join us when you’re ready. We’ll make a start.”
“Fair enough,” agreed Biggles. “You can’t go wrong if you pick up everyone you can find—bar a British colonel named Dupray and two American sportssmen who are out shooting.”
He walked on to the lodge.
* * *
1 “Turn up the wick.” R.A.F. slang meaning hurry, or more specifically, open the throttle wide.
Chapter 17
Buttoned Up
Biggles did not linger, nor did he allow the others to waste time, over the refreshments to which they presently helped themselves in the dining-room of the abandoned lodge. Sporadic shooting outside, sometimes near and sometimes distant, aroused his curiosity, and suggested that not all of the gang were submitting tamely to arrest. Even Bertie, who had a quick bath and change, in his relief at getting into clean linen announced that he was ready to start all over again. They were only about half an hour in the lodge, yet when they went out and joined Major Grattan it was to learn that the operat
ion was practically complete.
Kreeze and Robinson had been caught, and after a struggle overpowered and disarmed. They were now in Kreeze’s office, handcuffed and under guard. Doctor Dorov had been mortally wounded resisting arrest. Before he died he boasted that as he was on the list of Nazi war criminals he had cheated the Allies after all. Originally a Czech banker of repute, he had turned quisling, and as head of the Nazi forgery and counterfeit document department during the war, he had ill-treated prisoners who happened in civil life to be engravers, draughtsmen, and the like, who refused to work for him. Stephan and George had been two of his associates at that time.
White, Major Grattan said, was hiding somewhere in the bamboo swamp. There was no fear of him getting away. George had last been seen making off across the plain with some natives. There was little chance of his reaching civilization. For the rest, the entire staff had been rounded up. Two American negro gangsters, disguised as African natives, had been killed in a gun fight. Three policemen had been wounded, but none seriously; first aid treatment had been given, and they would be all right until such time as they could be flown back to Egypt.
“We’d better see about getting White out of that swamp, then we can all go home,” suggested Biggles.
“He can’t get far; I’ve got men all round the place,” stated Major Grattan.
“Why didn’t you send them in after him?”
“A cornered rat will always fight and I want to avoid casualties if I can,” replied the Major. “If he doesn’t come out soon we shall have to go in and drag him out.”
“There’s reason to suppose that he’s the Big Noise behind this outfit,” remarked Biggles. “Why mess about until it suits him to do something? I want to go home, but I don’t like leaving while he’s still at large. Let’s go and get him.”
“All right,” agreed the Major.
Biggles set off down the slope followed by the others.
Reaching the bamboos he ordered the rest to wait, and revolver in hand, treading softly, went on alone for a short distance into the thicket. He halted and listened. Not a sound broke the steamy, sultry silence.
