Biggles Hits The Trail

by W E Johns

  ‘I can’t help that. I wouldn’t go back to that place for fifty cars – not now, anyway. Quietly now; if these blue-light merchants have decided that we’ve got away they might make straight for the house to prevent us from getting in; they must know that’s where we were bound for.’

  ‘I suppose we shall be able to get in ?’

  ‘I’m hoping Malty – this Lord chap – will be there to open the door for us. Here we are; quietly does it.’ Biggles stopped and peered ahead intently, listening, with every nerve taut.

  Immediately in front of them, at a distance of thirty or forty yards, loomed the black mass of the old house. Not a light showed anywhere. The track they were on diverged a few paces ahead, one path turning to the left through a thicket of sombre, evergreen shrubs, and the other joining the weed-covered main drive where it swung round in a wide circle before the front door.

  ‘Let’s get a move on,’ muttered Algy irritably. ‘I’m getting the willies standing here. This is the sort of place where anything might happen – anything.’

  ‘You’ve sure said a mouthful,’ agreed Ginger. ‘Come on, Biggles, let’s go.’

  ‘Right,’ snapped Biggles. Run for it.’ Suiting the action to the word, he broke cover, and with the others close behind, sprinted for the front door. Reaching it, he twisted the old wrought-iron handle and put his shoulder against the massive oak portal, but it did not budge an inch. Casting all attempt at secrecy to the winds, he beat upon the panels with his fists.

  ‘Maltenham! Maltenham!’ he yelled. ‘It’s me — Bigglesworth. Open the door.’

  There was no reply. Silence, utter and complete, hung over the place like a pall, and he felt a thrill of apprehension run through him. Frantically he kicked the lower panel with the toe of his boot. ‘Maltenham — Dickpa, open the door!’ he shouted again.

  The ringing echo of his voice floated back eerily from the woods, but there was still no sound from the house. He moistened his lips and turned to the others. ‘I don’t like this,’ he muttered, turning again to peer into the gloom to left and right. ‘Either they’re not here or else —’ He did not finish the sentence.

  ‘Well, let’s break in, for heaven’s sake,’ exclaimed Algy. ‘Either my nerves are not what they used to be, or else there’s a blight on the place; I feel that if a mouse squeaked I should scream.’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, pull yourself together,’ Biggles told him angrily. ‘It’s no use trying these lower windows: they’re barred, as you know. We’d better try that side pantry window — the one — My heavens, what’s that!’

  Shrill and clear through the still night air from somewhere in the wooded heart of the park came the long-drawn scream of a man in mortal fear. It rose to a high, palpitating falsetto and then ended abruptly.

  It was so horrible that for a moment the three airmen remained rooted to the ground; Ginger was unashamedly clutching Algy’s arm, while Biggles, his face deathly pale in the wan star-light, peered into the darkness in the direction of the sound. For an instant or two he hesitated, and then threw up his hands in a helpless gesture. ‘Sounds like murder being done,’ he muttered harshly, ‘but we can’t do anything in the dark, and unarmed. Pray heaven it isn’t Dickpa. Come on, let’s get inside. Keep close.’ He led the way round to the side of the house and halted under a small square window. ‘I’d better go in because I know the way,’ he went on. ‘When I’m inside you slip round to the front door and I’ll let you in. Give me a leg up, Algy.’

  He took out a box of matches, held them between his teeth, seized the window-sill in his hands and vaulted up. There was a tinkle of falling glass as he shoved his elbow through the pane. The window swung open and his lithe body disappeared through the small aperture. For a moment his face showed dully white in the black opening. ‘O.K.,’ he breathed. ‘Get round to the front door.’

  He struck a match and hurried down the corridor that gave access to the breakfast room, from which a door opened directly into the huge hall. On his way he picked up a heavy silver statuette from a small table, and holding it by the head, swung it as a weapon; but he reached the front door without incident and threw back the chains and bolts.

  Algy and Ginger literally leapt inside. ‘Get a light on the scene, for the love of Mike,’ implored Algy.

  Biggles crossed swiftly to a large oil lamp that stood on the centre table, lighted it, and looked around swiftly. ‘My gosh! there’s been trouble here all right. Look at all this,’ he said. The place looks like an arsenal.’

  Right across the table lay an enormous double-barrelled elephant gun. Beside it was a hammerless twelve-bore, a ·410 collector’s gun, and a small rifle. Leaning against the window that overlooked the drive was an Express rifle. Several broken boxes of cartridges were scattered about. A number of spears and cutlasses that normally decorated the walls had been taken down and were standing or lying in handy positions.

  Biggles picked up the elephant gun and snapped open the breech. ‘Loaded,’ he said laconically, as he closed it again and replaced it on the table. ‘Where’s Dickpa? That’s the first and most important matter to attend to. Lock that door, Algy, and we’ll go upstairs; I know where his room – hark!’ The last word was a high note of warning. He snatched up the elephant gun and made a dash for the door. ‘Sounds like somebody coming,’ he added tersely.

  ‘And in a hurry,’ put in Algy, picking up the twelve-bore.

  Footsteps were coming down the drive; they were those of a man running in stark terror, and if confirmation of this were needed, the loud gasping sobs for breath of the runner supplied it.

  ‘Look out – the light!’ cried Ginger.

  ‘You stand by to guard the door,’ yelled Biggles, and dashed into the open in the direction of the approaching footsteps. Dimly through the gloom he could just make out the dark form of a man who swayed from side to side as he raced towards the house.

  Behind him, silent, yet dreadful in its ghostly deliberation, danced a stream of blue mist.

  Biggles brought the gun to his shoulder. ‘Halt! who goes there?’ he roared.

  The runner threw up his hands. ‘Shoot! Shoot!’ he screamed. ‘I’m —’ He stumbled and pitched face downwards on the gravelled drive.

  Biggles’s lips parted in a mirthless smile as his fingers tightened over the triggers. He did not take aim for the simple reason that there was no mark to aim at except the uncertain light. Two long streaks of orange flame leapt from the twin barrels as the gun thundered out its heavy charges in a quick left and right. The blue light disappeared instantly. Bang! Bang! Algy’s twelve-bore blazed into the darkness, the spraying shot rattling on the bushes like hail. Crack! A flash came from the doorway, and a bullet ricocheted up from the road with a shrill whe-e-e.

  ‘Careful with that rifle, Ginger,’ shouted Biggles. ‘Come on, Algy – take his feet.’ He bent over the fallen man and seized him by the collar. Half dragging and half carrying, they managed to get the prostrate form into the hall, where they dropped him on to the hearthrug.

  ‘Shut that door, Ginger, bolt it and re-load the guns,’ ordered Biggles. ‘Algy, pass me that decanter off the sideboard. I believe this is Maltenham, and he looks in a bad way.’

  Algy dashed to the sideboard and returned to where Biggles was removing the unconscious man’s collar. ‘That’s the idea,’ muttered Biggles, as they managed to get some of the liquid through his lips. ‘Not too much – we don’t want to drown him. Hello, what now?’ They both sprang to their feet as a new sound reached them. Standing at the foot of the stairs, hanging on to the banister, was a white-robed figure that held an automatic unsteadily in its right hand.

  ‘Dickpa!’ Biggles’s joyful shout eased the tension. ‘Be careful with the gun – it’s me, Biggles,’ he added quickly.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come,’ whispered the Professor fervently. ‘Great heavens! what’s happened? Don’t tell me they’ve got poor Maltenham!’

  ‘So it is Maltenham.’

  ‘Yes
. Poor fellow, is he hurt?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s only shock and exhaustion, I fancy. They were after him, but we managed to get him inside just in time. But what’s the matter? You look ill!’

  ‘I am. I shouldn’t have got up really, but I heard the noise. How did you get in? I must have been in a dead sleep; neither Maltenham nor I has slept for days.’

  ‘Well, you get back to bed,’ Biggles told him. ‘We’ll bring Maltenham round, and then perhaps you’ll tell us the meaning of this unpleasant state of affairs.’ Biggles turned to Algy. ‘See Dickpa up to his room,’ he ordered. ‘And you, Ginger, watch the drive through that window and let me know if you see anything unusual.’

  ‘O.K.,’ replied Ginger obediently.

  CHAPTER 2

  DICKPA’S STORY

  HALF an hour later the Professor, propped up in bed, told his story while Biggles, from a box-seat in the window, kept a watchful eye on the front door. Algy and Ginger sat on guard by the other window, while Lord Maltenham, little the worse for his adventure, reclined in an armchair near the bed. He was a delicate-looking young man of not more than twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, with a high, intellectual forehead and rather sad, dreamy eyes. A long upper lip betrayed the thinker, rather than the man of action, and Biggles was wondering how his uncle had become associated with him when the Professor began to speak.

  ‘I suppose you must be wondering what is going on here,’ he observed. ‘And why I – or perhaps it would be more accurate to say we – should have to resort to the desperate expedient of sending for you by the radio.’

  ‘Yes, naturally I have wondered,’ replied Biggles readily. ‘I expected to find you desperately ill, but as far as one may judge, there doesn’t seem to be very much the matter with you, if I may say so.’

  ‘True. To be quite frank, there is little wrong with me at the moment except weakness, and nerve trouble brought on by the experiences I am about to relate. I am afraid Maltenham exaggerated my illness to the B.B.C. officials, but we wanted you here, and we didn’t know your address, so there was nothing else for it. In any case, it is as well for you to know about the strange things that have happened, because if anything tragic occurred –well, neither Maltenham nor I am unknown to the world, and questions might be asked.’

  ‘I shouldn’t talk like that, Dickpa. Let us hope —’

  ‘Oh, quite, quite. I merely remarked — But let me tell the story, then you’ll understand what we are up against. Speaking from memory, it must be nearly two years since we last saw each other. You were anxious to go off on a flying trip, while I was equally anxious to pursue my studies in other directions, or, to be more precise, in the Far East, a locality that has always interested me intensely. Well, I had booked my passage and made all the necessary arrangements when, two days before I was due to sail, I had a visitor. It was the son of my old friend, the Earl of Maltenham, and he was in great trouble.’ Dickpa threw a glance in the direction of the subject of his conversation. ‘May I tell them?’ he asked.

  ‘By all means,’ replied Maltenham, without hesitation.

  ‘Good,’ continued the Professor. ‘As I was saying, Roger – that’s Maltenham’s Christian name, by the way – came to see me. At that time he was a medical student. His father had recently died, leaving him a large sum of money, but that could not help him. To be quite frank, he had, like many medical men before him, discovered the deplorable properties of certain drugs to which he had access, and from casual curiosity he had rapidly acquired a taste which he was well aware would ultimately destroy him. Realizing his danger, he asked me to save him by taking him with me, where he knew he would be beyond the reach of temptation. In short, he suggested abandoning his medical career, which was not of real importance, and coming with me to China. Naturally, I agreed, and we went. Six months later we were far in the heart of Western China, on the borders of Tibet. Few people realize the size of Tibet. To tell you it covers a million square miles would mean little, because the brain fails to grasp what that really means. You are airmen, so let me explain in your own way. The country is as long as from London to Constantinople, and as wide as from London to Gibraltar. Which means that you could get most of Europe into it quite comfortably. An area of roughly a quarter of that vast expanse of land is uninhabited – or is supposed to be. Europeans have barely touched upon the fringe of it, possibly because there is not a railway within four hundred miles of its frontiers, which in turn is no doubt due to the fact that it lies at an altitude of between thirteen thousand and sixteen thousand feet above sea-level. So much for Tibet. I merely mention this in order that you may better understand what is to follow.

  ‘Now while we were on the western frontier of China, which is also the eastern frontier of Tibet, we heard a curious native rumour of a mountain, known as the Mountain of Light, which according to report held some strange properties. For example, people who dwelt near it never suffered from any form of illness, and lived to a great age. At first we discountenanced these tales, but as they persisted, and no matter where we went the natives always pointed in the same direction, we were forced to conclude that there must be some foundation of truth in them. Having decided that, it will not surprise you to learn that we attempted to verify the story by personal experience. And that was the beginning of our troubles, for of all the unusual circumstances that thereafter attended us, one fact alone was clear, and that was that the mountain was guarded by powers against which we could do nothing.

  ‘It would take me too long to tell you now of all the dangers that beset us. But they were real, very real, and ultimately we fled, thinking that with our departure our perils would cease; but in that we were mistaken, sadly mistaken, as we were soon to learn. The fact that we were willing to depart evidently did not satisfy those who, for want of a better name, we will call the guardians of the mountain. No! The fact that we knew of the existence of the mountain was sufficient to jeopardize our lives, and I am convinced that we only escaped death by a merciful Providence, in the shape of a snowstorm which caused us to lose our way, and instead of trekking to China as we intended, we finally forced our way over the Himalayan passes and then through the jungle to India, or rather, Burma. Our presence in India was noted in the newspapers, and forthwith the persecution started afresh. Again, I cannot tell you of the many narrow escapes we had. On one occasion we were the innocent cause of two planters losing their lives. The rest-house was full, so we gave our rooms up to them because they were both very tired. In the morning they were both dead – without a mark on their bodies. The murders were a mystery to everyone except us, for we knew that the fate that had overtaken them should have been ours. And now I come to the most alarming incident of all, and one that may open your eyes to the mysterious forces that surround us, and still do surround us, if it comes to that. We were followed right across India, but when we finally sailed from Bombay on the Calamore Castle we thought, naturally, that our troubles were at an end. Again we were mistaken. Now I want you to listen to me very carefully, but kindly reserve your remarks until I have finished.

  ‘The first night out from Bombay, Roger and I were lying in our stateroom, trying to go to sleep. We had booked rather late, so we could only get a double-berthed cabin; not that it mattered. In fact, as it turned out it may have been a good thing. Roger was already half asleep and I was just dozing off when I saw the lid of my cabin trunk slowly opening. I may mention that it was still quite light in the cabin, because I am not a good sailor and I had deliberately left one light burning in case I had to get up. Now I am not nervous, and for some seconds I watched the trunk with a sort of detached curiosity, thinking perhaps it was a trick of the eyes, or an illusion caused by the movement of the boat. But when I saw that the lid was quite definitely opening I knew without doubt or question that somebody was inside it. Cabin trunks do not open themselves – at least, not those we are accustomed to in England.

  ‘As soon as I realized this I reached for the small automatic I
had bought in India, which was in my jacket pocket, and then jabbed Roger in the back to wake him up. This movement was evidently seen by the fellow in the trunk, for the lid closed again quickly with a very definite click. I heard it, mark you, as well as saw it. I leapt out of bed with a shout and sprang on the lid of the box to keep it shut while Roger came to my assistance. Now it looked as if we were in for a fine old row, so to be on the safe side I told Roger to ring the bell while I remained on the box. A steward answered the summons, but I told him that as we had a potential murderer in the room he had better fetch an officer. He did. Still sitting on the box, I explained to both of them what had happened, and asked the officer to take the man in charge. With that I got off the trunk and the officer invited the occupant to come out in no uncertain terms. There was no response, so he opened the lid and looked inside.’ Dickpa coughed and looked at his nephew apologetically. Biggles,’ he said evenly, ‘believe me or believe me not when I tell you that the trunk was empty. By empty I mean that there was not a man in it. There were two other objects: a nasty-looking dagger and a small bottle made of very curious glass.’

  Biggles nodded understandingly. ‘You had a nightmare, eh?’ he suggested.

  ‘I was prepared for you to say that,’ observed Dickpa. ‘No, I did not have a nightmare. I—’

  ‘But wait a minute,’ interrupted Biggles, ‘I don’t get the hang of this. You say the box was empty. Well, that’s that; why make a fuss about it ?’

  ‘But I saw and heard it open and shut.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘I give it up,’ he confessed; ‘I’m no good at conundrums. Either there was someone in the box, or there wasn’t. You say there was no one in it. If that was so—’

  ‘Just a minute, let me finish,’ broke in Dickpa. ‘Naturally, I was flabbergasted, and felt a bit of a fool, particularly as the officer looked at me in a condescending way that said as clearly as words that he suspected I had been drinking. Then I happened to examine the cabin trunk and found that it was not my trunk at all. Mine had been pushed under the bunk, while Roger’s, which is one of the wardrobe sort, was standing on end against the wall with the door open. Neither of us had ever seen the third trunk before. Briefly, I told the officer that I would not be responsible for it, and moreover I would not have it in my room in any circumstances whatever. I helped him to rope the thing up, and then he took it away, both he and the steward grumbling at the weight of it.