Biggles Flies South

by W E Johns

  They were staying at one of the lesser-known hotels on the outskirts of the city, partly because it was inexpensive, and partly because Biggles preferred to keep away from the usual tourist crowd with their clicking cameras and swarms of baksheesh-seeking natives. The hotel was, moreover, a small one, and they were not disappointed when they found that they had it almost to themselves. Night had fallen and they were sitting outside on the terrace under the gleaming Egyptian moon, enjoying a rest after a rather tiring day of ‘seeing the sights.’

  ‘So you’re thinking of moving on tomorrow?’ murmured Algy, glancing at Biggles.

  ‘I think so. I fancy we have seen all that is likely to interest us here We’ll push on to Khartoum; there are one or two R.A.F. fellows stationed there whom I should like to look up.’

  ‘Suits me,’ agreed Algy. ‘Anything for a quiet life. I find it curiously refreshing to be able to drift along like this, in our own time, instead of roaring about on some crazy business.’

  Ginger wrinkled his nose but said nothing, and presently turned his attention to a particularly large white moth wheeling in erratic flight among the orange trees that stood at intervals in the garden, which began where the terrace ended. In many respects he was now grown up, but he had not yet lost the boyish desire to chase an attractive butterfly. Picking up his sun helmet in lieu of a net, and keeping as far as possible in the inky shadow of a group of fern-palms, he began a cautious advance towards his quarry; but he had not taken more than a dozen paces when he saw something that caused him to halt, tense and alert, the moth forgotten. Some twenty yards to his right a low white wall separated the garden from the road on which the hotel was situated; a line of tall date-palms followed the wall, and through their graceful fronds the moon cast a curious lattice-like pattern of black-and-white bars that fell across the dappled flower-beds, the sandy paths, and the wall beyond. Along the inside of the wall, ghostly in the silvery half-light, was creeping the white-robed figure of a native. The criss-cross shadows of the palm fronds fell across his sheet-like burnous so that he appeared to be gliding behind the bars of a cage; and so silent and furtive were his movements that it was at once apparent that his purpose was not a lawful one.

  At this juncture it is probable that Ginger would have denied that his interest was anything more than natural curiosity. He had travelled far, and in strange lands, and the mere unexpected appearance of a soft-footed native no longer aroused in him the instinctive suspicion, and possible apprehension, that it does in most Europeans when first they find themselves in a land where the native population is ‘coloured’. Yet there was at once something so sinister about the actions of the intruder—for Ginger’s common sense told him that the man would not behave thus were he not trespassing—that he felt his nerves tighten in expectation of something that was about to happen.

  Making no more noise than the object of his suspicion, he took a pace or two nearer and placed his helmet on the ground. A swift glance in the direction of the terrace revealed Biggles and Algy still sitting where he had left them; the faint murmur of their voices reached him, and he would have attracted their attention had it been possible without alarming the man who was still creeping stealthily along the inside of the wall. Reaching the wrought-iron gate that gave access to the road from the garden, the intruder stopped, and it was at that moment that Ginger had his first suspicion of his purpose. He saw the moonlight glint dully on something that he held in his right hand, and an instant later he heard footsteps beyond the wall, as though someone was approaching the gate from the outside.

  The inference was immediately apparent. A visitor was about to enter the hotel by the garden gate, and the man inside was stalking him with murderous intent.

  Ginger, with the idea of frustrating this, at once started forward, and he was just in time to avert a tragedy. The garden gate swung inward, and a slim figure in European clothes, but wearing the customary tarboosh of the better-class Egyptian, appeared in the opening. At that moment the assassin made his attack, but Ginger, seeing what was about to happen, and perceiving that he could not reach the gate in time, had uttered a shout of warning; and there is no doubt that his prompt action saved the newcomer’s life, for the cry had its effect on both actors in the drama. The figure in the tarboosh jumped aside, and his aggressor hesitated momentarily in making his stroke.

  By this time Ginger was less than half a dozen paces away, and his swift approach was heard. Even so, the assassin made a last desperate attempt to achieve his purpose; he made a cat-like spring, but the other was as quick, and warded off the gleaming blade by an upward sweep of his arm. The attacker, seeing that Ginger was now almost upon him, and noting, no doubt, that he was a white man, darted through the gate and fled.

  Ginger, knowing the futility as well as the danger of pursuit, did not attempt it, but contented himself with flinging a stone, which he snatched from the top of the wall, at the flying figure. It missed its mark, however, so with a grunt of chagrin he turned back to the gate, to find that Biggles and Algy had arrived on the scene.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Biggles sharply.

  ‘A fellow tried to knife this chap,’ answered Ginger briefly, indicating the newcomer, who was standing near the wall with one arm resting against it. ‘Jolly near got him, too,’ he added, noting that the man he had saved was also a native.

  Biggles’s keen eyes evidently saw something that Ginger’s did not, for he took a quick pace forward. ‘Did he touch you?’ he asked the stranger.

  ‘It is nothing,’ was the quiet answer, spoken in perfect English. ‘My arm—a scratch—nothing more.’

  ‘You had better come up into the light and let us have a look at it,’ suggested Biggles in a friendly tone.

  ‘Thank you. You are most kind,’ was the soft answer, and the four of them walked quietly to the terrace.

  ‘My word! You had a close squeak, and no mistake,’ observed Biggles, as the stranger exhibited a slashed sleeve and a bloodstained hand. ‘Algy, slip in and get a towel or something. Better ask the manager to come along, too.’

  ‘No, say nothing,’ put in the stranger quickly. ‘It will be better so.’

  ‘Well, it’s your affair,’ agreed Biggles as Algy hurried away on his errand.

  While they were waiting for him to return, Ginger had a good look at the man he had saved. He was, as he had already observed, a native, but obviously one of the better class, and his skin was not much darker than that of a sun-burned white man. He was young, no older than himself, with finely cut features and soft, intelligent eyes. His clothes were of good quality, and might have been made in London; indeed, but for his distinguishing tarboosh, he might have passed for a European.

  Algy soon returned with two soft linen face-towels. With one of these Biggles cleaned the wound, and with the other, folded in the manner of a bandage, he bound it up. Fortunately, as the victim had stated, it was little more than a scratch, and he smiled apologetically as Biggles gave him medical attention.

  ‘Does this sort of thing often happen to you?’ inquired Biggles. ‘If it does, the sooner you provide yourself with a suit of armour, or a bodyguard, the better. You might not be so lucky next time.’

  ‘It has never happened to me before,’ was the candid reply.

  ‘Are you feeling all right now?’ Biggles asked the question in a manner which suggested politely that the wounded man was free to proceed on his errand if he so wished.

  ‘Quite all right thanks to you,’ was the quiet answer. But the stranger made no move to depart.

  There was rather an embarrassing silence in which Biggles lit a cigarette.

  ‘You were coming to the hotel, weren’t you?’ inquired Ginger, more for the sake of saying something than inquisitiveness.

  The answer took them all by surprise. ‘Yes, I was coming to see you,’ said the young Egyptian quietly, looking at Biggles.

  ‘To see me?’ Biggles was frankly astonished.

  ‘Yes—you are Major Biggle
sworth, are you not?’

  Biggles looked at their guest with renewed interest. ‘Yes, that is my name,’ he admitted. ‘Sit down if you have something to tell me.’

  ‘Thanks. I will, if you don’t mind. The shock of the attack has left me a little—how do you say—shaken.’

  There was another short silence while the visitor seated himself, and the airmen waited for him to continue.

  ‘My name is Kadar Alloui Bey,’ he said at last, in a manner which suggested that it might mean something to his listeners.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘Do not think me discourteous, but I am afraid I must confess that your name means nothing to me.’

  ‘No—of course, you are a stranger here. My father’s name is not unknown in Cairo.’

  ‘I see.’ returned Biggles awkwardly. ‘You came to see me about something?’ he prompted.

  ‘Yes. The circumstances of my arrival have made my mission rather difficult, but—you are an air pilot, I believe?’

  ‘That is correct,’ admitted Biggles, wondering what was coming next.

  The other coughed nervously. ‘I was coming here to ask you if you would care to sell me your aeroplane.’

  Biggles stared. ‘Sell you my aeroplane?’ he repeated wonderingly.

  ‘Yes, I have urgent need of one.’

  ‘But couldn’t you get one here—I mean, through the usual channels? Haven’t Misr Airwork got one for disposal?’

  ‘No, unfortunately. As far as I can discover there is not an aeroplane for sale in Egypt—at least, not of the sort I require. You see, I need a large one, and all the large ones are in use on the air routes. Owing to the air expansion in England there are no civil aeroplanes to spare; even the air line companies need more than they have, for they are running to capacity on every service.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’m afraid we need ours. In any case, do you know what an aeroplane costs?’ Biggles asked the question seriously, feeling sure that the young Egyptian must be unaware of the cost of a large modern aeroplane, and that when he was better informed he would soon give up the idea of buying one.

  ‘A twin-engined tourer such as yours costs, I believe, eight thousand pounds. Had you been here on business I was prepared to offer ten thousand pounds for it,’ was the calm answer.

  Biggles could hardly believe his ears. ‘You are right about the price,’ he confessed. ‘Still, I am afraid I cannot part with my machine. All the same, we are in no great hurry, and if you want a lift somewhere it might be arranged. In fact, under certain conditions, if your purpose is really urgent—which apparently it is—I would be prepared to let you charter it for a couple of days.’

  The other shook his head and smiled as he stood up. ‘Thank you. That is very generous of you, but I am afraid that would be no use. I should need it for some time, and it might take me a little while to find a pilot.’

  ‘I see. You can’t fly yourself?’

  ‘No. I was in rather a difficult position. It was no use my engaging a pilot before I had an aeroplane. Had I been able to buy one, my intention was then to find a pilot to fly it for me, to take me to the place I wish to visit.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Biggles slowly. ‘I am sorry, but I am afraid we can’t do anything about it. As a matter of detail, we are on our way to Capetown. If your objective lies in that direction, we shall be happy to give you a lift.’

  ‘No, I fear that would not do, thank you all the same,’ answered the young Egyptian rather sadly. ‘I am sorry to have taken up your time. Never mind; perhaps it would be better if I abandoned my project.’

  A new thought struck Biggles. ‘Was the project you mention the reason for the attack made on you just now?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ was the instant reply. ‘I think it would be safe to say that it was in order to prevent my reaching you that I was waylaid. There could be no other reason. I knew I was being watched, but I did not think my enemies would go as far as to try to murder me.’

  ‘Somebody must be very anxious to keep you in Cairo,’ smiled Biggles.

  ‘Yes, very anxious, and I think I know who it is. But there, as I say, no doubt he will leave me alone when it becomes known that I have abandoned my proposed quest.’

  The final word made Ginger prick up his ears. ‘Quest?’ The word was a naive question.

  Biggles frowned. ‘Don’t be inquisitive,’ he admonished him.

  Their guest smiled. ‘It is no secret,’ he said. ‘Yes, I suppose one would call it a quest. I have spent some years preparing for it, so it is rather disappointing to have to give it up. Still, we must learn to accept these things as they come.’

  ‘You speak English very well,’ said Biggles, changing the subject.

  ‘That is not surprising, considering that I was at school in England for seven years,’ was the unexpected reply.

  ‘The dickens you were!’

  ‘What was this quest you were projecting?’ persisted Ginger.

  ‘I am afraid it is rather a long story.’

  ‘Well, the night is young,’ declared Biggles. ‘I can’t make any promises, but if you feel like telling us something more about it, perhaps?’

  ‘I will tell you with pleasure, because I know without being told that you will respect my confidence. Much of my information is common property, but there are some things—’

  ‘Shall we sit down and have some coffee?’ suggested Biggles.

  ‘Thank you, you are most hospitable.’

  ‘Ring the bell, Ginger,’ ordered Biggles.

  Chapter 4

  Kadar’s Story

  When they were all comfortably settled and a native servant had placed coffee on a brass-topped table between them, Biggles looked at their guest. ‘Go ahead,’ he invited.

  The young Egyptian leaned forward, his dark eyes keen with eagerness. ‘In the first place,’ he began, ‘as I tell my story I want you to bear in mind two things: one is that this subject on which I am going to speak has a peculiar fascination for me—I mention that to account for what may seem a disproportionate enthusiasm on my part. Secondly, my father was, until he retired a few years ago, an honorary assistant curator of antiquities at the Cairo Museum, where, as you probably know, the most famous relics of ancient Egypt are kept. Naturally, he taught me much, and that is why I am well informed on a subject which, to most people, is of no importance. Have you ever heard of the Lost Oasis?’

  ‘Vaguely,’ answered Biggles, wrinkling his forehead.

  ‘I know a little about it,’ put in Ginger, somewhat to the others’ surprise.

  ‘How did you learn about it?’ inquired Biggles curiously.

  ‘I remember reading something about it in a paper called Popular Flying,’ explained Ginger.

  ‘That is correct. I read the article myself,’ declared Kadar Alloui. ‘In fact, I cut it out, and have it here in my pocket. It deals with the last attempt to locate the oasis, the expedition being made by air. I think it would be a good thing if I read it to you, because that will tell you, more or less officially, how the matter has been left. But before doing that I must ask another question. It is not necessarily associated with the Lost Oasis, but—well, it may be. One must consider both questions to gather the full significance of my proposed quest. Did you, when you were at school, or since, hear the name Cambyses?’

  ‘Wasn’t he a general who got lost in the desert, or something of the sort?’ answered Biggles.

  ‘Yes. That is more or less correct, but what actually happened was this. In the year five hundred and twenty-five B.C., Cambyses, the son of Cyrus, the founder of the great Persian Empire—the greatest empire in the world at that time—conquered Egypt. He destroyed the Egyptian gods, and, to complete all, he decided to plunder Jupiter Amnion, a famous sanctuary situated near the Oasis of Siwah. I must tell you about this temple of Ammon, which was then the centre of the great Ammonite kingdom. At the time of which we are speaking, and for many centuries later, it was the most celebrated place of pilgrimage in the world, on ac
count of its Oracle. In other words, the high-priests claimed to be able to tell the fortunes of those who went there to consult them. Many people still believe in fortune-tellers, so it is not hard to imagine that the Temple of Ammon flourished in those superstitious days. Everyone believed in its power, and everyone who could afford it went there to learn his fate. You must understand that it was not then so inaccessible as it is now. It stood at the cross-roads of the two great African caravan trails—perhaps the oldest roads in the world. Alexander the Great went there to consult the Oracle. So did Hannibal, the famous Carthaginian general: he made a special journey there to ask what would happen if he made war on the Romans. Croesus, the man of fabulous wealth, went there, as did many other kings and princes. This, then, was the shrine that Cambyses proposed to plunder, and we need not wonder why. There must have been vast wealth stored there; indeed, there are still many legends of treasures hidden beneath the crumbling stones.’

  ‘Then it is still there?’ put in Biggles.

  ‘Oh, yes, although the temple is now in ruins. But we will return to that presently. Cambyses’ army left the Oasis of Khargah, but it never reached Ammon. Nothing more was ever heard of it. Not a man returned. That night the army disappeared as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed it up—as indeed, in a way, no doubt it did. And this brings us to the Lost Oasis, named, some say, Zenzura.

  ‘Whether or not this Oasis really exists no man can say, yet it would be a strange thing, would it not, if a name could exist without foundation? From time to time through the ages there have come out of the desert strange rumours of an Oasis, and ruined cities, far away in the heart of the dreaded Libyan sands, known to the Tuareg Arabs as the Region of Devils. If you will look at a map of Africa you will see that all that area is left white, without a mark of any sort on it, unless it be the intriguing word “unknown”. Certainly no white man has ever crossed it. Yet rumours of a mysterious oasis have persisted, and that is not all. The Tuaregs, the cruel nomads of the desert, even tell of a strange white race that live there. If that seems hard to believe, remember that there is a race of white Arabs farther west, in the heart of the Sahara, the descendants, it is generally believed by scientists, of a lost party of Phoenicians. As you probably know, the Phoenician civilization of North Africa was one of the greatest in the early days of the world. When, as I say, one remembers this, there would not appear to be any reason why, if there is an oasis far out in the desert, it should not be peopled by the descendants of the survivors of Cambyses’ ill-fated army. Whatever the disaster was that overwhelmed it, one would expect some to escape, possibly the scouts or advance guards. If some of these did, in fact, reach an oasis in the heart of the great sands, they would have to remain there. It would be impossible for them to get back to civilization. They would be marooned more effectively than mariners on a desert island. On an island there is always a chance, however remote, that a ship will one day call, but the fiery heart of the Libyan Desert is perhaps the one place on earth where no one has ever gone, or is likely to go. There could be no hope of rescue, for not even the most daring explorer would venture there. It is rock, sand, and desolation unutterable. Nothing more. It never rains—’