35 Biggles Takes A Holiday

by Captain W E Johns

  Angus did not answer. Presently he pointed to a pink flush that was stealing across the sky. "Here comes the dawn, anyway," he announced.

  "Thank goodness that's turned up on time, at all events," muttered Ginger. Then he put his head in a listening attitude, at the same time staring up the long reach of water above them. "Do you hear something ? "he asked.

  "Aye, I can hear it."

  "Sounds like an engine."

  "I reckon it is."

  "What could it be ? "

  "I should say it's the Doctor's launch," Angus shook Ginger by saying.

  "Then she's looking for us, or Biggles." Ginger was aghast. "She's coming down the river, anyway," said Angus. "And she's pretty close."

  "I should have set fire to her when I had the chance," said Ginger through his teeth. He turned his eyes skyward to where the pink stain of the coming day was spreading. " If Algy isn't here inside five minutes we've had it," he added sombrely. "If the worst comes to the worst we shall have to get on the bank."

  "I don't think ye'll be doing that," returned Angus. " Why not ? "

  "Can ye no hear 'em ? "

  Ginger listened. His eyes opened wide. "The Indians ! They're coming back!"

  "Aye. Sounds like they're running alongside the launch," said Angus. "I'm afraid we're between the de'il and yon dirty brown sea."

  XI

  BIGGLES SPEARS HIS MIND

  HAD Ginger known the truth, that Biggles, far from being on his way, had not yet left the Doctor's establishment, he would certainly have been more upset than he was. What had happened was this.

  For some time the situation in the Doctor's lounge remained unchanged. Liebgarten sat slumped in a chair, glowering, all his polish rubbed off him. Von Stalhein half reclined in his seat, composed, unsmiling, smoking cigarette after cigarette. Biggles sat opposite, watching them, also smoking, his pistol, lightly held, resting on his knee. He was doing some serious thinking. The presence of von Stalhein had put a very different complexion on things, not so much from the personal angle as the fact that, since he was not likely to be mixed up in a cheap money-making scheme, something more serious was afoot. What that could be was not easy to guess. It might, thought Biggles, be almost anything. Was this, he wondered, the hide-out of some of the Nazi leaders who had escaped from Germany ? It could be, he decided, but he had a feeling that there was more to it even than that. Those Nazis who had made provision for escape would also have made provision for money, he reasoned.

  Now Biggles' intention in remaining behind was to give the others a good start. He hoped that he would be able to give them time enough to reach the rendezvous where, in due course, he would join them. He realised that as soon as he left the room the Doctor would lose no time in organising a pursuit, so the longer this was delayed, the better. He, Ginger and Angus, would have to pass the night somewhere, and he could not see how he could pass the time more usefully than by staying where he was. In this way they should all be able to get some rest, instead of standing on guard as would otherwise be the case.

  Ginger and Angus had not come back ; there had been no shooting or other noises outside to suggest that they had been intercepted, so he felt sanguine that they had got safely away.

  "How long is this going on, Bigglesworth ? " said von Stalhein after a while. "It's getting rather tiresome."

  "It will go on for as long as I consider necessary," replied Biggles imperturbably, although in this, as events fell out, he was not strictly correct. However, what he said was his intention.

  About nine o'clock the steward came in to announce that supper was on the table.

  Biggles was expecting this and had an answer ready. "We shall be here for some time yet," he told the man, keeping his pistol hidden. "We'll go in when we're ready. You can go to bed if you want to."

  The man may have wondered why someone other than his master should make this announcement, but seeing the Doctor sitting there, with von Stalhein present, too, he did not question the order. He went out, closing the door behind him.

  More time passed—ten o'clock . . . eleven.

  Von Stalhein yawned, and moved to put a fresh cigarette into his holder. "Now that the war is over, Bigglesworth," said he, "why don't you stop rushing about the world upsetting people who have not interfered with you ? "

  "One must make a living," Biggles pointed out.

  "That I will not deny," returned von Stalhein. "But there are easier ways of doing it than the one you have chosen."

  "So I've been told," admitted Biggles. "But this happens to be the one that suits me.

  Modesty forbids me

  to say that it may be the one for which I am best qualified. If I didn't do this I don't know what else I should do.' "May I make a suggestion ? "

  "As I've nothing better to do than listen, you may," conceded Biggles. "But you'll be wasting your breath. Any suggestion coming from you would be declined before you had finished talking."

  "That's sheer prejudice."

  "Call it experience."

  "What do you want—money ? "

  "Everybody wants money. I can't do without it any more than anyone else."

  "How much would you need to—er—retire on ? " "I don't want to retire."

  "Very well. What do you want out of life ? "

  Biggles smiled faintly. "I've often wondered that myself. Believe it or not, I don't know.

  Excitement, maybe."

  "You've had your share of that."

  "More than my share, probably. But excitement is like a drug. The more you have the more you want. Eventually you can't do without it."

  "Yes, there's something in that," admitted von Stalhein, with a sigh. "War starts it. It provides a fellow with an overdose of thrill at the time when he should be learning a business. I know, because I've been through it myself. But I got over it."

  "In that case what are you doing here ? "

  "I'm not here from choice, you may be sure of that."

  " Fiddlesticks ! The life a man leads is always his own choice. The man who says it isn't simply lacks the nerve to throw up something easy for something which he fears may be harder. He polders a stone-wall certainty, even though he doesn't like it, to facing an unknown hazard. Then, when he realises that he's a failure, he starts bleating about social security. I know the sort. Social security my foot. It may be all right for widows, orphans and old ladies, but I'd rather jump out of an aircraft without a brolly than admit I couldn't live unless someone else did my sweating for me. That goes for Liebgarten, and, since you're here, maybe for you too."

  "What do you mean ? ! "

  "You heard me. You prefer to sit in an arm-chair and let somebody else do the work.

  You've no excuse. You've both got brains. Think what a salesman that glib partner of yours would make, von Stalhein. Why, he'd sell ice to Eskimos. No, you like it the easy way, both of you ; yet you have the brass face to sit there and accuse me of interference because I object to you sweating the life out of a friend of mine in order that you may sit here, clap your hands and order drinks. Pah ! Don't talk to me. You make me sick."

  "You seem to forget that I offered you the hospitality of my roof and my table," said Liebgarten stiffly.

  "Yes," sneered Biggles. "And who pays for it ? Don't tell me—I know."

  "Still, I invited you to my house."

  " Why ? For what ? Because that, you thought, was the easiest way of getting me where you wanted me. You even thought I might fall for this Garden of Eden line of dope you'

  ve had so much practice at on the people you got here with your lying advertisement. Go on talking if you like, but you'll get no change out of me."

  Another silence fell. This time it lasted for nearly three hours. Occasionally someone moved to a more comfortable position, or to light a cigarette. Biggles did not relax his vigilance

  The end came suddenly. Biggles had just looked at his watch and noted with satisfaction that another hour would bring this wearisome inaction to a clo
se, when, without warning, the door was opened and a man, a white man, came into the room.

  "What on earth are you doing, Liebgarten, with your light still on ? " he asked without preamble. "Are you all right—?" His voice trailed away, and he stood staring, Then he seemed to sense that something was wrong, for he

  dashed out leaving the door open. A minute later he could be heard shouting, not far away.

  Biggles rose. "Pity about that," he observed. "It looks as if I shall have to leave you.

  Think over my opinion of you, von Stalhein. If I hear that you've gone back home to help clean up the mess some of your friends made there—well, maybe we could get on different terms."

  While he was speaking Biggles was backing out of the room. He closed the door, taking with him the key he had found on the inside, and locked it behind him. Then he ran quickly to the front door, which had also been left open by the unknown intruder in the haste of his departure. His voice could still be heard, calling, shrill with alarm.

  Biggles paused for a moment on the top step to survey the ground and then set off at a run towards the garden gate. But before he had taken a dozen paces a black shadow detached itself from the background and came bounding across the lawn towards him.

  For a moment he wondered what it could be, for he had forgotten Elizabeth. The animal recalled itself to his memory by a coughing grunt. Biggles did not hesitate. This was not the moment, he decided, to be mauled by a panther. His gun came up. Flame streamed from the muzzle as it roared. The panther fell, but it was on its feet again in a moment, snarling and biting at its shoulder. Biggles fired again and the beast dropped, still growling furiously.

  He waited for no more. He started again towards the gate, but shouts in that direction told him that two men at least were coming in, although he could not see them on account of the dense shadow near the hedge. He made for the nearest bushes, but then, seeing that he was exposed to the view of anyone coming from the other direction, he ran on, dodging from tree to tree until he was level with the end of the house, in an area he had never seen.

  By this time a number of people were moving about, running and calling to each other.

  The Doctor and von Stalhein were among them. Four men were running towards the house from a bungalow which he thought must be the one Ginger had mentioned when recounting the adventure of his fruitless journey to meet Algy. Biggles remembered, too, what he had said about making a gap in the cactus hedge. It should serve as well as the gate—perhaps better, he decided swiftly.

  Keeping close to the bushes and taking advantage of all the cover that offered he ran towards the spot, a course which forced him to pass close to the bungalow, the lights of which were now ablaze. To lend an even stronger atmosphere of activity a small searchlight now stabbed the night from the top of the Doctor's house and began a systematic quartering of the grounds. However, as its efforts were mainly concentrated on the gate, to which it returned constantly, this did not cause him any great inconvenience.

  In passing the bungalow he noticed that the door had been left wide open, presumably by the men he had seen running towards the Doctor's house ; and this he took to be a sign that the building had been temporarily evacuated. He stopped as a thought struck him.

  Here was a chance to see inside the place, an opportunity that might never occur again.

  One minute, two minutes, might be enough to yield information of major importance, perhaps the information he resolved to get before he left the valley. The risks seemed to be negligible.

  Without giving these another thought he made for the door, and in a matter of seconds he was inside, standing in a small square hall, panting slightly from his exertions, making a lightning survey of his surroundings. There was little to see. To left and right ran identical corridors, with doors at regular intervals and one at each end. There were of course no stairs leading up from the hall, but he noticed a flight of steps—strictly speaking, a ladder—leading to a square wooden trap in the ceiling, the sort of loft which usually houses a water system and is often used as a lumber room. All this he took in at a glance, and as there was no sound of movement he proceeded quickly with his investigation, taking the left hand corridor for a start.

  The first door opened into what was obviously a sitting-room. Nothing of great interest catching his eye he passed on to the next. It was furnished as a dining-room. He saw nothing of interest there, either. The next was a bed-room, and so were the rest with the exception of what was evidently a small store-room, with no outside window. The end room was the largest, and obviously a kitchen. By this time he realised that he had struck the living quarters, which in a way was natural enough. He did not know quite what he expected to find, but he was conscious of a feeling of disappointment, of frustration. Striding back down the corridor he crossed the hall and tried the other wing.

  The first door stood open, with the light on, and he at once gazed on a scene more in accord with the reputation of the valley and the people who ran it. It was an armoury.

  Several rifles and sporting guns stood in a rack against the wall. A number of Mauser pistols hung on hooks. There were empty places as if weapons had just been taken down, a surmise that was supported by broken boxes and loose cartridges on the table. With more time at his disposal he could have spent several minutes in this room, but deciding that he had seen enough for the moment he passed on. The next room was a laboratory, or surgery, apparently the sick quarters. Rows of bottles lined the walls. Medical equipment stood about. There was even an operating table. Closing the door he went on to the next room. This was a workshop, with a bench carrying a lathe and precision instruments.

  But it was the end room, the one that balanced the kitchen in the other wing, that brought his lips together and a furrow between his eyes. It was a drawing-office. A draughtsman's bench, with drawing-boards, T-squares and instruments occupied the wall under the window. Blue prints and tracings lay about. On a table were two models. He picked each one up in turn, had a good look at it, and put it back where he found it. Then he turned to a big drawing-board that filled the middle of the bench. He looked at the paper on it, leaned closer and looked again.

  Resting his elbows on the bench he became engrossed.

  It was the sound of voices at no great distance that reminded him of where he was and what he was doing. Then he moved swiftly. Ripping the paper from the pins that held it to the board he folded it tightly and thrust the somewhat bulky document into his breast pocket. This done he went out and ran down the passage to the door. Not until he peeped out did he realise the position into which his interest in the drawing had beguiled him. He had left his departure until it was too late. Several men, talking earnestly as they walked towards the bungalow, were within twenty yards of it. Three, carrying rifles, were hurrying ahead. To leave without being seen was out of the question.

  For two seconds Biggles hesitated, undecided whether to advance or retreat, whether to rely on force to effect an escape, or to bide his time and leave quietly at a more opportune moment.

  It was the fact that a ready-made hiding-place was available that decided him. Two paces took him to the step-ladder leading to the loft. He ran up, slipped the catch that secured the cover, pushed it back and went through. He just had time to replace the hatch when voices below told him that the men had entered the hall.

  He was not unduly perturbed. There seemed to be no immediate cause for alarm. True, the situation had its awkward aspects, but provided these could be countered—and he felt that they should present no serious problem—he thought that his reconnaissance had been well worth while. He had gathered in a few minutes more information than might have been gained in months by more orthodox methods. And, moreover, he was in a position to learn more. His entry into the bungalow had evidently not been suspected, so he felt reasonably secure. A search would be made for him, was actually being made at that moment, he had no doubt ; but it seemed unlikely that it would be pushedo near home. His only regret was that he
had not left himself a little more time so that he would not have to

  take undue risks in order to reach the rendezvous at the appointed hour.

  He took stock of his surroundings, although the place being in darkness there was little he could see. Two long skylights let in broad beams of moonlight, and what these did reveal puzzled him not a little. They fell on what appeared to be two long metal tubes of some size. He dare not move to investigate for fear of being heard by the men below who had stopped in the hall to conclude their conversation. To this he now concentrated his attention.

  The chief speaker, whose voice he did not recognise, seemed to be in no good humour. "

  You're a lot of blundering fools," he stormed. "You have one man to deal with and you let him go."

  "We didn't let him go—he went." Von Stalhein spoke.

  "Do you realise what will happen if he gets clear away

  "He won't get away, Oberhaupt." This time it was the Doctor.

  "I sincerely hope you're right," went on the first speaker. "The next thing would be an army of officials asking questions and demanding to be shown everything."

  "He knows no more than when he came here," said the Doctor in a surly voice.

  "Perhaps not, but if he gets this man Mackail away he may tell the whole story to the newspapers. Besides, this is interrupting my experiments."

  Biggles frowned at this, wondering what the experiments were ; but before he could give the matter serious thought von Stalhein went on.

  " Bigglesworth won't go to the newspapers," said he. "I know him. He may go to the police, or what is more likely, he will try to tackle things his own way."

  "Since you know him so well, my dear Erich, why did you let him outsmart you ? "

  scoffed the first speaker. "You assured me you were confident of being able to handle any situation that arose. From what I can see of it you did nothing. You couldn't have lifted a finger. Did he strike you unconscious, or something ? "