by W E Johns
It came to a stop near the Otter, close to which Algy was standing. Four men got out. He took them to be the two pilots, the radio operator and the navigator. One of the pilots was a white man. The others he assumed to be Indians. They nodded to him cheerfully in passing and went on to the control building. Algy, slightly bored, hands in his pockets, strolled over for a closer look at the aircraft, wondering, without any real interest, why it carried no passengers.
He was still standing there ten minutes later when the party returned, presumably with the intention of resuming their journey to wherever they happened to be bound for. And let it be admitted that Algy would have made a great many guesses at its destination without hitting the right one.
Three of the men stopped near him. The other went on and opened the cabin door.
Said the white man, in a tone of apologetic curiosity, with an accent that revealed he had learned his English in America: “Is your name by any chance Bigglesworth?”
“No,” answered Algy, slightly taken aback.
“Do you happen to know him?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact I do,” replied Algy, frankly, thinking the man was the bearer of a message from Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, or some other airport in the region.
“You’d be a friend of his, I guess.”
“Yes, I think I could say that.”
“Get in.”
For some seconds Algy gazed uncomprehending at the automatic that was nearly touching his ribs. He raised his eyes and considered in turn three expressionless faces. By now he knew what he had done ; but the whole thing had happened so suddenly, and so completely was he taken off guard, that his brain, reeling under the shock, was a little slow in recovering. He wanted time to think. No time was allowed. His eyes flashed round the airfield. There was not a soul in sight. With a gun pressing into his back he was literally pushed into the machine. The door slammed. The engines roared.
Still dazed he sank into a seat.
“That’s right. Make yourself comfortable,” said one of the Indians smoothly.
CHAPTER XIV
GINGER TAKES A TURN
WHEN Ginger had recovered from the shock of seeing Algy step out of the Dakota and disappear into the Colonel’s quarters he turned a perplexed face to Biggles. Shaking his head he muttered: “I still don’t understand how this could have happened.”
“I can,” returned Biggles, bitterly. “When I was discussing this matter with the Air Commodore before the start I pointed out that the big criminal organizations enjoyed the same technical facilities as ourselves. Why not? Except that they operate on the wrong side of the law they’re in the same position as the big business houses that go straight. Well, now we’ve seen one in action. What has happened is plain enough. The Colonel has aircraft—wartime stuff, it’s true, but still serviceable. He has radio. What more does he need? When the Count’s Dakota crashed he simply called up another of his machines. I’m beginning to wonder how many more he has.”
“But how about Algy?” broke in Ginger.
“Poor old Algy, realizing that the Otter had had it if he stayed here, quite rightly took off and went to Kutaradja. I say Kutaradja because there was nowhere nearer he could land, and he’d naturally stay as close to us as possible ready to come back as soon as the sea made it reasonable for him to get down. The Colonel, who must have been tipped off that he was in my party, probably as the result of our being seen together, is told by one of his spies that Algy is at Kutaradja. What does he do? Here was a chance to get the low-down on us. He sends a signal to the Dakota that was on its way here and gives orders for Algy to be brought here for interrogation. He may have supposed that I was there—or, for that matter we were all there. The Dakota pilot wouldn’t know us by sight, but any of my party would do. That’s how it looks to me. The hard truth is, in spite of Tidore’s warning I’ve made the mistake of underestimating both the efficiency of the enemy and the equipment he has at his disposal.”
“This Colonel bloke, or whatever he is, certainly runs his racket like a military operation,” asserted Bertie.
“It’s my guess that if he hasn’t actually been a senior officer he’s had military experience,” opined Biggles.
“And by now, thanks to that little swipe who spotted you collecting your cigarettes, he must know that the rest of us are on the island.”
“Not necessarily all of us, but he knows someone is here. There can’t be any doubt about that,” admitted Biggles. “Wherefore the sooner we get busy the better. At the moment I imagine the Colonel’s too occupied with Algy to bother with us. He knows we can’t get away.”
“I don’t see there’s much we can do while they have their claws on Algy,” muttered Ginger.
“There’s always something one can do,” returned Biggles evenly. “We haven’t much choice. There are two ways of leaving the island. One is by air and the other by sea. As we’re not sailors, and the yacht is still probably out of action anyway, we can forget about that. Which means we shall have to borrow the Dakota.”
“But we can’t go leaving Algy here?” protested Ginger.
“I didn’t say anything about us all going.”
“But I say, old boy, look here,” said Bertie soberly. “While we’re standing here nattering these yellow rascals may be putting the thumb-screws on poor old Algy.”
“I don’t think so,” answered Biggles. “If, as we suppose, the Colonel is a military type he’ll try the velvet glove method first. Only when he finds that doesn’t work will he try the iron fist. He’ll want to know all Algy knows; but that’s no reason for us going off at half cock and making matters worse.”
“I’m all for having a crack—”
Biggles raised a hand. “There’s no need to get hysterical. We’ll come to the cracking later, maybe. Meanwhile I have a plan.”
Ginger looked expectant. “What is it?”
“I’m going in to have a word with the Colonel.”
“Have a word with—are you crazy?”
“Not at all—I hope. Don’t talk as if the Colonel was a sabre-toothed tiger.”
“But what good will that do?”
“As that’s the last thing he’ll be expecting it will, I trust, cause a diversion and so give you an opportunity to move off in the Dakota.”
“Jolly good! That’s me, every time,” cried Bertie.
“That sounds a pretty wild scheme to me,” stated Ginger.
“It’s time you knew that the wilder the scheme the more likely it is to work,” said Biggles, calmly. “Now listen. At the moment the Colonel must be all taken up with Algy or he wouldn’t be so careless as to leave the Dakota where it is, without a guard and even without chocks under the wheels. Maybe he thinks that because it’s right under his nose it’s safe.” Biggles smiled. “Maybe he’s making the mistake that I’ve admitted making—underestimating the enemy.”
“But wouldn’t it be better to tackle the job after dark?”
“No. By then he’ll have had time to think things over. That’s when he’ll expect us to try something. But not now, in broad daylight. Besides, the Dakota may not be here tonight. It may push off at any time.”
“Do you mean I’m to be the only one to get away, if this comes off?” inquired Ginger.
“I’m not thinking so much of you getting away as keeping the Colonel here. Without an aircraft, unless they get the yacht afloat he’ll be stuck here just as we are. That should cause him to think twice before he starts on murder.”
“Okay,” said Ginger. “What exactly is the drill?”
“First we’ll move along to the rear of the huts. From the nearest point we should be less than forty yards from the machine. When I walk round and go into the Colonel’s office you walk out and take the machine away. I said walk. Don’t run. If you do they’ll be more likely to notice you. Stroll—anyway until you’re spotted. Bertie will give you covering fire from the rear if they open up on you. If that washing is still on the line you might borrow one of th
ose blue blouses—give you a chance of being taken for a Chinaman interested in aviation. Having got away you’ll have to use your discretion, but try to get a signal through to the Air Commodore telling him how we’re fixed. Kuala Lumpur might be the best place for that. Which reminds me. Take these with you.” Biggles passed a wad of papers. “I took these from the Colonel’s office. List of agents, and that sort of thing. They should provide the chief with enough evidence for a complete round-up.”
“How am I going to get back to you?” asked Ginger.
“Switch from the Dakota to the Otter if you can find it. I’m pretty sure it must be at Kutaradja. Be careful if you land there. The Colonel evidently still has friends there so don’t trust a soul. Remember, it’s more important that you should get the gen through to the Air Commodore than to come back for us, although you’ll do that, of course, if you can manage it.”
“Okay.”
“What about me?” asked Bertie plaintively. “Do I just have to sit and watch all this fun?”
“You watch Ginger,” ordered Biggles. “If he’s caught you have a go at it. That way we have a double chance. If he gets away you stick around and make yourself useful as opportunities occur. But don’t do anything silly and get yourself caught if you can prevent it. You’ll probably see what happens to me and Algy. Now let’s get weaving before Ginger thinks of more questions to ask.”
They moved off, keeping under cover of course, and five minutes’ sharp walk brought them as near to the Dakota as they could get without going into the open. The machine was still standing exactly as the pilot had left it when he had switched off. This, Ginger realized, was understandable, for it was right in front of the Colonel’s quarters and therefore in full view of anyone looking in that direction from any one of the huts. There was not a soul about, the reason being, as they could hear, food was now being served in the mess hut.
The washing was still on the line. Ginger pulled off a bright blue blouse and put it on. From the Colonel’s Quarters a little farther along came the sound of a voice raised in anger.
“Sounds as if Algy is being awkward,” murmured Biggles.
“What fun he’s going to have in a minute when the balloon goes up,” chuckled Bertie.
The balloon nearly went up in a way very different from what was anticipated when, without warning, a door in the end of the hut opened and the Chinese cook, carrying an iron pot, literally walked into them. The wretched man was given no time to speak. Biggles’ fist landed in his stomach. Bertie, with admirable presence of mind, wrenched the pot from his hand and clapped it on his head. The cook, with an unpleasant-looking mess pouring over him, sank down. Bertie sat on him. “Go ahead, chaps,” he said brightly.
“Here we go. Good luck. Ginger,” said Biggles, and walking through the opening between the huts turned left towards the door of the Colonel’s office.
Ginger gave him a few seconds and then, with a brief “So long” to Bertie, walked not directly towards the Dakota but on a line that would take him past it as if on his way to the cove. He did not hurry. His bearing was casual. But every nerve was, of course, at full stretch, for he did not really believe that he would be allowed to get away with this. Rather was it a question of how far he would be allowed to go before he was challenged and stopped.
But his hopes rose with every step. Resisting the temptation to look round he began to edge towards the machine. Fifteen yards, ten, and still the warning cry that he expected did not come. It struck him as quite incredible. All he could think was, the sheer brazen effrontery of what he was doing was seeing him through.
And that was what Biggles, who favoured such methods, had relied on.
Drawing level with the Dakota he turned towards it, a move that gave him sight, out of the corner of his eye, of the huts. Bertie, still sitting on the cook, threw him a wave. Two men, standing in front of the hut, were looking in his direction. They may have wondered what he was doing or they may not have been looking at him at all. Ginger didn’t know and didn’t care as long as they didn’t move. He imagined with what satisfaction Bertie was watching this fantastic performance.
Trembling with excitement, still unable to believe this was happening, he entered the machine, closed the door and made a rush for the controls. His exultation was such that he could have shouted, for all he needed now was a few more seconds... just five more. He knew the engines must still be warm so could reckon on them starting easily. They did. Simultaneously, as if they had touched an alarm bell, which in a way no doubt they had, men poured out of every hut. Some stopped to stare. Others urged on by the Colonel, raced towards the machine.
Ginger eased the throttle open and the aircraft began to move. The only thing that could stop him now, he told himself, was a bullet, should he be shot at; and there was a real risk of that because as the Dakota had been left with its nose pointing to the huts he would have to turn completely round before he could get off; and the first part of the turn would take him nearer to the men streaming toward him, not away from them.
For a few desperate seconds while he was swinging his tail round the thing became pandemonium. Some of those who sought to stop him did actually reach the machine and made futile grabs at tail and wing-tips; futile because by this time the engines were roaring and they were thrown off. Those who tried to hang on to the rudder were hurled off in a cloud of dust by the slipstream. Ginger flinched as pistol shots sounded distantly above the noise of engines and he felt the impact of bullets hitting the machine. Then it was all over. The Dakota, swiftly gathering speed, raced tail-up down the half-blackened airstrip.
Of all the people who must have been surprised by this exhibition none could have been more so than the chief actor himself. That the scheme had succeeded, and he was airborne, was not easy to believe. How right Biggles had been in estimating his chances, he told himself.
Making a circuit of the airfield at a safe altitude to see what was happening below his grin of satisfaction faded when an anti-aircraft shell burst uncomfortably close. Recalling that the place had been a military base and telling himself that he should have been prepared for this he promptly took evasive action and did not breathe comfortably again until he was out of range.
Now that he was able to think coherently his eyes went over the instrument panel, and as he feared, yet expected, for the machine had not been refuelled since it had landed, the tanks were more than half empty. This gave him ample petrol to reach Kutaradja, which he would have preferred to avoid; for if Biggles’ summing up of the situation regarding Algy had been correct it seemed that the Colonel still had an agent there. If so, he would soon be in touch with him by radio, knowing that the Dakota would need fuel and Kutaradja the most likely place for it to land.
One thing was certain. There could be no question of flying non-stop to Kuala Lumpur. He might reach Penang, and for a little while he considered going there. But then he realized that the Colonel probably had agents everywhere within reach, so nothing was to be gained by that. Rather than risk running out of petrol and piling up trying to get down in some out of the way place he might as well go to Kutaradja. All he needed there was fuel. Having topped up his tanks he would go straight on to his ultimate objective, the British aerodrome at Kuala Lumpur. From there he would have no difficulty in sending a signal to the Air Commodore. There might even be a message there from him, for Biggles, but he did not think so. It was too soon to expect a reply to the reports Biggles had sent.
In the end he set a course for Kutaradja.
It is not to be supposed that having succeeded in getting away he was entirely happy. Far from it. The plight of those on the island could not be anything but serious, to say the least of it. The Colonel had had some severe set-backs and, blaming them for it, would be in a revengeful mood. There was this about it, however. The knowledge that one of Biggles’ party was away, knowing the purpose for which the island was being used, might cause him to hesitate before employing methods which, should they be brought home
to him, would put a noose round his neck. One thing Ginger did realize was this: that with the Colonel’s spies and agents everywhere he would be constantly in peril while he remained in South-East Asia.
He wondered what had been the ultimate result of Biggles’ bold stroke in jumping into the lion’s den, so to speak. He wondered about many things. He wondered what Bertie had done about the cook. He had clapped the pot on the unlucky man’s head pretty hard. Perhaps the soup, or whatever the pot had contained, had softened the blow. He hoped so. He also hoped that the miserable fellow would be able to get the pot off, for it appeared to have been a tight fit. Strange how often slap-stick comedy went hand in hand with tragedy, he reflected.
He saw neither ship nor plane on the short run to Kutaradja, which he reached inside an hour late in the afternoon, although not without anxiety; for before he was half way over a splutter of oil spots on his windscreen caused his eyes to switch to the dials on the instrument panel. A falling oil pressure gauge and a certain roughness in one of the engines, slight as yet, told their own story. The starboard motor was not getting its proper lubricant and was beginning to complain. He decided that the oil tank that fed it must have been holed by a bullet, or perhaps a shell splinter. At all events, it wasn’t functioning. The other was all right.
This was worrying, but he was not unduly alarmed, for with the aircraft so lightly loaded he anticipated no difficulty in holding his height on one engine. This proved to be the case. As soon as the starboard engine began to vibrate, as a result of heating up, he switched it off and, at reduced speed, of course, carried on with the other. This saw him to his first objective, but it raised a complication in that to get the trouble put right would take time, and he had hoped that his visit to Kutaradja would be brief. But he had no intention of trying to carry on to Kuala Lumpur with one engine. There was now all the more reason for changing over to the Otter, provided it was there.
Surveying the aerodrome before landing he was delighted to see the Otter standing on the tarmac. A frown creased his forehead, however, when he thought he could make out dust swirling behind it. That could only mean the engines were running. Why? Who had been responsible for that?