by W E Johns
They went on, walking slowly, examining the walls as they went, but they were blank on either side. The spy-holes no longer occurred, the reason being, as Biggles pointed out, that the panelling had given way to stonework so that the walls on either side were of heavy blocks of roughly hewn masonry. Then, suddenly, a door, pointed at the top in the manner of a Moorish arch, and studded with huge iron nails, barred their way. There was a handle, however, in the form of an enormous iron ring, rusty with age.
Biggles handed the torch to Ginger, and, taking the ring in both hands, attempted to turn it. At first it defied his efforts, but by wrapping his handkerchief around it he managed to raise the latch. He put his shoulder to the door and pushed. With a fearful groaning of rusty hinges it yielded. He pushed it open wide enough to permit their passage, and again taking the torch from Ginger, went through. ‘Heavens above!’ he whispered, as Ginger joined him. ‘What have we here?’
Ginger saw they were in a large vaulted chamber. ‘It looks pretty grim to me,’ he murmured.
Very slowly Biggles turned the beam of the torch on to the walls, the ceiling, and the floor, and on to certain strange-looking furniture which stood about. At intervals in the walls there were deep recesses, littered with mildewed straw. In several places there were chains fastened by enormous staples to the walls From the roof hung pulleys, the ropes, rotten with age, drooping to the floor.
‘This looks like a forge,’ said Ginger in a puzzled voice, laying his hand on a metal stand on top of which was a heap of cinders. He picked up a curious doubled-ended poker. ‘What on earth is this thing?’ he asked.
Biggles was examining another piece of furniture. ‘I don’t think there is much doubt about where we are,’ he said, in a strained voice. ‘This thing gives it away.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This is — or was — the torture chamber.’
‘Great heavens!’ Ginger stared, aghast.
‘This is the rack,’ went on Biggles. ‘You’ve heard of poor brutes being broken on the wheel — well, there’s the wheel over there. Those pretty little cages round the walls were presumably where they kept the prisoners, so that they could see what was in store for them, or what other poor devils were getting. That poker affair you picked up was either a brand, or the tool they used to put people’s eyes out. Look, there’s the block and the axe. I’m afraid this devil’s den once resounded with the shrieks and groans—’
‘Shut up,’ gasped Ginger. ‘Let’s get out of here. Even von Stalhein’s worst jail would be a nursery compared with this chamber of horrors.’
‘An antiquarian would find it very interesting,’ murmured Biggles dryly.
‘He might. I don’t,’ snorted Ginger. ‘There’s another door over there. Let’s go on. If the boss of this place made a habit of coming down to watch his prisoners being tormented, it should lead to his private sitting-room.’
‘I think there’s a good chance of it,’ agreed Biggles, picking his way through the dreadful furniture to a doorway on the far side of the chamber, similar to the one through which they had entered. ‘Hello, it’s a spiral staircase,’ he observed. ‘Watch your step.’ Keeping the beam on the floor in front of him he began to mount, with Ginger following close behind. He had thought that the staircase would be only a short one, leading from one floor to another, but when it went on, and on, and on, winding ever upwards, he voiced his surprise.
‘If we go on at this rate much longer we shall soon be on the roof,’ declared Ginger, stopping to look through a narrow slit in the wall at a star which had suddenly caught his eye. Not until then did he realize how high they had ascended. ‘My word! We are already above the castle,’ he said. ‘We must be in the main tower. I’m looking down on the roof.’
Biggles came back a step and looked through the loophole. ‘By jingo, you’re right,’ he said. ‘We’re in the keep. We might as well go on to the top now that we’ve come so far, although there ought to be a doorway opening into the castle yard at ground level. We must have passed it.’ And with that he went on upwards, muttering that the flapping sounds which preceded them were caused by birds vacating their roosting places.
They were both out of breath by the time they reached the top, finally emerging on to a flat, leaded area bounded by a castellated parapet. Overhead the stars gleamed brightly from the blue dome of heaven. On all sides the country rolled away until it merged into the night, with tiny points of light marking the position of dwelling-houses. A cluster of such lights showed where the village nestled at the foot of the hill. Below them lay the castle and the central courtyard, the whole surrounded by the wall. They were, in fact, on the roof of the central tower.
Biggles, testing each step before he moved his weight, advanced cautiously towards the parapet. Ginger took one look down and drew back hastily. ‘I should feel happier if I had a parachute,’ he declared. ‘I’m no bird.’
‘Ssh,’ cautioned Biggles, who was staring down into the courtyard.
‘For heaven’s sake be careful of that parapet,’ warned Ginger. ‘It looks to me as if you’d only have to cough to send the whole works overboard.’
‘I’m watching it,’ replied Biggles in a low voice. ‘Something seems to be going on below. I’m glad we came up here; it has given me a good idea of the layout of the place. It is easy to see from the lights which is the wing that von Stalhein has had made habitable — as he told us, you remember? Algy and the Beklinders must be somewhere in there, but I am afraid that there are too many people about at the moment for us to do any scouting — even if we can find a way out. Wait a minute, something seems to be happening.’
Ginger crept forward like a cat walking on hot bricks and saw that what Biggles had said was true. A door had been opened, allowing a path of light to fall across the wide, stone-flagged courtyard. Three men were in view. Orders were being called. Then, suddenly, one whole side of the castle building was floodlit in a brilliant white glare, as if a searchlight had been turned on. A big limousine crept slowly from an unseen garage and came to rest almost immediately below them, and they saw that the light came from its headlamps. The door of the car opened and a storm-trooper chauffeur got out. Another trooper walked briskly towards him from the lighted doorway, speaking loudly as he came, so that the words floated up clearly to the watchers on the tower.
Ginger heard Biggles choke back an exclamation. ‘What did he say?’ he asked.
For a moment Biggles seemed nonplussed. Then, ‘They’re going to take the Beklinders away,’ he breathed in a horrified voice. ‘If they do, we’re sunk. If they once take them away from here we shall never find them. That’s von Stalhein. He’s lost his nerve. He knows that we are still hanging around and he is afraid of us. We’ve got to stop them. If von Stalhein once gets them through that gateway we shall never see them again.’
Ginger said nothing. There seemed to be nothing to say.
‘We’ve got to stop them,’ muttered Biggles again, in a low, tense voice.
‘There’s no way—’ began Ginger.
Biggles cut him short. ‘There is always a way,’ he snapped. ‘I have told you before that there’s always a way – if only you can think of it. I’ve got it. Stand back. Get back to the staircase.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Bust the car. Hold your ears because there’s going to be a big noise. This should send the balloon up.’ And with that, to Ginger’s unspeakable horror, Biggles began pushing at the parapet. It looked flimsy enough, but apparently in places the mortar still held.
Biggles put his foot against the mass and thrust at it.
‘You’ll go over,’ Ginger nearly screamed.
‘Give me your hand and lean back.’
Ginger reached forward and gripped Biggles’s fingers with his own. He heard Biggles grunt as he pushed again. The mass swayed. Then it disappeared from sight. He was nearly right when he said that Biggles would go over. They both nearly went. But Ginger hung on like grim death to
the edge of the opening behind him, and they both fell panting on the lead roof.
Biggles started to speak, but his voice was drowned in the crash of the falling stonework.
Coming as it did in the silence it sounded to Ginger as if the whole castle had collapsed.
He flinched under the shock. ‘This is madness,’ he thought wildly.
From below there came the banging of doors, shouts, and other sounds of alarm.
‘I fancy that’s queered their pitch,’ whispered Biggles, quivering with suppressed laughter.
‘You nearly queered ours, too,’ panted Ginger. ‘Did you get the car?’
‘Couldn’t miss it. It was right underneath.’
‘What about the chauffeur?’
‘I think he’d gone to meet the chap who was shouting to him. If he didn’t — well, it was just too bad.’
‘Did any one see you?’
‘No. At least, I don’t think so. I don’t see how they could. I was flat on the roof before they could look up.’
‘Great Scott!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘The other car.’
‘What other car?’
‘Beklinder’s – Beklinder’s own car. They could use that.’
Biggles was silent for a moment. ‘I’d forgotten all about that,’ he admitted bitterly. ‘It’s a four-seater. They could only – I wonder. Just a minute, stay where you are.’ Lying flat Biggles wormed his way to the now sheer drop, and looked down.
Ginger could hardly bear to watch. ‘Well?’ he asked as Biggles crept back.
‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ Biggles told him. ‘Von Stalhein is there, cursing like a madman. The car is as flat as a sardine tin, but I just heard him shout to somebody to get the other car out.’
‘Then that’s stumped us.’
‘Not yet it hasn’t,’ declared Biggles grimly.
‘What—?’
‘Don’t talk. Let’s get down the stairs. I’ll go first. Be as quiet as you can because somebody may be looking up to see where our snowball came from. For that reason we daren’t use the torch, so for goodness’ sake watch where you’re putting your feet.’ With that Biggles set off down the winding staircase.
Ginger thought the steps would never end. It had seemed a long way up, but, probably on account of the darkness, which made the descent difficult if not dangerous, the way down seemed interminable. He made the best speed he could, but even so Biggles widened the distance between them. They collided at the bottom.
‘Just a minute,’ said Biggles. ‘What’s this? Shading it with his hands he switched on the torch for a moment; the brief flash was sufficient to reveal a number of large square stones placed loosely one on top of the other so that they blocked up what had once been a doorway. It was the roughness of the inside of these stones that had attracted his attention. It was not an easy matter to move the first one, but, by using the screwdriver as a lever he managed it, and peered through the gap thus created. It was, of course, dark, but there was sufficient reflected light from the other end of the courtyard for him to see that they were at the opposite end of it, near the outside wall, which information he passed back to Ginger, before lifting out five more stones which made an opening large enough for them to emerge. ‘You’ll have to pass the stones out to me,’ he told Ginger, as he climbed through; ‘we daren’t leave the hole open or they will find it, and so discover our corridor.’
From the far side he took the stones which Ginger passed out to him, after which Ginger himself came through and they quickly pushed the stones back into place.
They were now in the courtyard. The far end of it was still brilliantly lighted, but this did not affect them for they were at the other extremity, and still in the black shadow of the tower, which they had just descended. A quick survey of the position revealed that they were about fifteen paces from the encircling wall of the castle, although, from the inside, this was little more than a parapet some three feet high, due to the fact that the courtyard had been built up to a much higher level than the terrain outside — doubtless to allow a defending garrison plenty of room to move about, and at the same time look down on the attacking force, which would find itself faced by a wall needing scaling ladders to surmount.
Biggles peeped round the tower towards the lighted end of the courtyard, and what he saw spurred him to a fresh effort of speed. ‘Quick,’ he said. ‘They’re getting the car out.’ And with that he made a dash for the parapet. Ginger followed close behind him.
Looking down, he saw that it was a drop of some twenty feet to the track that skirted the bottom of the rampart, and he hung back in dismay until he saw Biggles take the rope from his pocket, for such a drop might easily mean a broken leg or a bad sprain. While Biggles was looping the rope round one of the battlements Ginger threw a glance over his shoulder, and saw that although the place where they crouched was in darkness, the far end of the courtyard was still illuminated by several lights, including the headlamps of another car, which he thought was the Professor’s Morris. Several people were standing near it. He thought he saw the Beklinders among them, but he was not sure, and had no time to confirm it, for Biggles had already started down the rope and was telling him urgently to follow. This he lost no time in doing. As soon as he was on the path Biggles jerked the rope clear, and, looping it into a rough coil, stuffed it into his pocket again. Simultaneously there came the noise of the car being started up.
Whipping out his automatic, Biggles set off down the path at a run towards the road that led from the village to the main gate of the castle, but before reaching it he turned aside into the trees. ‘Keep going!’ he panted. ‘It’s our only chance and it’s going to be a close thing.’
For the best part of a hundred yards, until he was certain that he was out of view of the gate, he kept inside the forest; then he struck diagonally towards the road, and on reaching it, after a quick look in both directions, continued down it for a further two hundred yards, where he stopped with a panted, ‘Good! We’ve done it!’ At the same time he broke off a piece of dead wood from the lower part of the nearest tree.
Ginger could not imagine what he was about to do. With wondering eyes he watched Biggles place the twig in the middle of the road. Then, switching on the torch, he adjusted it until it showed a red light, and placed it against the twig in such a way that the red light pointed up the road towards the castle gates — which, of course, could not be seen from where they were. The torch was one of the triple-light type, for it had been primarily intended for signalling purposes in accordance with their prearranged plan of sending messages to Algy in the machine.
Biggles returned to Ginger, who had watched all this from the edge of the road. ‘I’m going to hold the car up,’ he said. ‘It’s a ghastly risk, but there’s no other way. We can’t let the Beklinders go. Von Stalhein may be in the car or he may not. In any case, if the two Beklinders are there it is unlikely that there will be more than two guards. I reckon there will only be von Stalhein, with a storm-trooper driving, in the front seats, and the Beklinders in the back. We ought to — hello, that was the gate. The car’s coming now. Get your gun out but don’t use it unless you have to. Stay here. I’ll take the far side. If by any chance the car doesn’t stop, do nothing; otherwise act when I do.’
Biggles would have said more, but there was no time, for already the headlights of the car were turning the treetops to silver. He darted across the road and disappeared into the trees.
CHAPTER XII
Forestalled
The car came on, slowly, as was necessary on account of the state of the road. Ginger held his breath. The driver could not fail to see the red light — but would he stop? Ginger thought he would, for only a foolhardy driver would go on in the face of such a warning signal. And he was right. His heart leapt when the brakes were applied and the vehicle ran slowly to a standstill five or six yards short of the ruby glow. An instant later the front door on the driving side swung open and a
man got out, walking towards the light, so that he came at once into the glare of his own headlamps. He was a storm-trooper.
Ginger, watching, waited until he saw Biggles, pistol at the ready, move swiftly into the road beside the unsuspecting storm-trooper; then, automatic in hand, he himself made a dash for the car. An instant later he was looking into the surprised face of von Stalhein.
‘Keep your hands in front of you and keep ‘em still,’ snapped Ginger.
A split second later two shots rang out so close together that they almost blended as one.
Ginger’s nerves vibrated like banjo strings, but he was too wise to take his eyes from von Stalhein. He heard soft footsteps on the road; his lips went dry as he wondered whose they were, but he did not turn his head. Then a voice spoke. It was Biggles.
‘I’m sorry I had to shoot your man, von Stalhein,’ he said. ‘He shouldn’t have gone for his gun when he saw that I had mine already covering him. Step out, please, quickly. Ginger, get round to the other side.’
Ginger dashed round to the other side of the car and opened the door.
‘Quickly, I said,’ repeated Biggles. ‘I should be sorry to have to shoot you, but I hear your fellows coming down the road, so in the circumstances you will pardon the urgency.’