"Maybe," returned Algy coldly.
"Well, I take no orders from cops," rasped Canton, and before Algy could even begin to suspect his intention he had kicked the rudder-bar and dragged the control column back into his stomach.
The aircraft responded in the manner for which it had been designed. With motors howling, its nose swung up and round in an almost vertical climbing turn. Indeed, it nearly went over on its back. To keep on his feet Algy had to drop his gun and cling to the back of the pilot's seat with both hands; but even so, centrifugal force tore him clear so that he was flung sideways. Canton, who had not troubled to strap himself in, was thrown half into the second pilot's seat and half on the floor; and there for a moment he was held, as was Algy, by the tremendous pressure. Canton, clutching at anything to pull himself up, got hold of the reserve control column, perhaps without realizing what it was; whereupon with its engines roaring protest the machine again nearly stood on its tail.
"You fool!" yelled Algy. "You'll kill us both!"
Canton's only reply was a wild, hysterical laugh.
Algy managed to gain the pilot's seat and grabbed at the stick to centralize controls, for the machine was hanging on the point of a stall. Canton's hand went to his pocket and pulled out a gun. At that moment the machine stalled, and in no half-measure. With its engines screaming it went down like a bomb. Algy slammed back the throttle and threw himself on Canton, trying to pin his arm. Canton twisted and managed to get his arm free. Algy swung a jab to the jaw and knocked the arm sideways just as the revolver went off. He grabbed the arm and struck again. Canton kicked Algy in the stomach. With a grunt Algy caught Canton's wrist and twisted it so that the revolver fell on the floor.
Inherent stability was now bringing the Douglas out of its stall. The pressure was so great that Algy thought they would both go through the bottom of the machine. Movement was only possible at the absurdly slow rate of a slow-motion film. Canton was reaching for the gun as a child reaches for a toy. Algy, expecting the machine to hit the sea at any inoment, got him by the body and hung on. Wrestling in a furious clinch, they got up together, only to fall across the control column. Again the machine, out of control, yawed sickeningly, falling at the same tiine.
With a sudden jerk Canton tore himself clear and scrambled to the radio transmitter.
Algy went after him, ripped the flex from the instrument and knocked Canton into the cabin. His automatic was somewhere on the floor. He looked for it, knowing that if Canton .got it it would be the end. He couldn't see it, so he went on after his man.
The fight was resumed in the cabin, with the machine wallowing like a wounded whale.
It must have been obvious to Canton, as it was to Algy, that another minute of this would see the end of both of them. Apparently Canton didn't care. He appeared to have gone mad. Both showing signs of wear, they broke away and glared at each other. Then, seeing that it was a matter of life or death, Algy made a rush. Blows were struck, and in the clinch that followed Canton went down with Algy on top of him. Algy's fist rose and fell viciously. A yard away he saw his automatic lying on the floor. It was no time for squeamishness, so he snatched it up and brought it down on the side of Canton's head.
Gasping, without waiting to see the result, he staggered to the window and looked out.
The aircraft was gliding steeply towards the sea, now blue and sparkling in sunshine, less than a hundred feet below.
He leapt to the cockpit. Reaching over, for there was no time to get into the seat, he pulled the stick back, and as the machine responded opened up the engines. And there for a few seconds he stood, wild-eyed and panting from shock and exhaustion, while the airscrews clawed their way to a safer altitude. A glance showed Canton lying sprawled on the floor, so he got into the cockpit, found Canton's revolver, and put it in his pocket with the automatic. Still breathing heavily, he took the aircraft up to five thousand feet, put it on a course due south for the time being, and as the machine was trimmed for level flight he was able to leave the controls and return to Canton. He found him in a state of semi-consciousness. In no mood to take any more chances with a man so violent, he used one of his shoe laces to tie his thumbs together behind his back. Then, leaving the bulkhead door open, he returned to the cockpit to take control and decide what next to do.
He knew he was well on his way across the Mediterranean, for ahead and slightly to the west he could see a dark smudge which could only be the island of Minorca. Should he go on to Algiers, or should he turn back to Marseilles? That was the immediate question.
Two factors dominated the rest of his deliberations. First, there was Bertie. The immediate danger to him, from Canton, had been dealt with, but there was von Stalhein, who knew he was at El Asile, to be reckoned with. The German was not a man to waste time, and if he did not soon hear from Canton he would take matters into his own hands.
Consequently, while Bertie was at El Asile his life would be in peril. The fact that he was unaware of it only made it greater. Secondly, he was desperately anxious to let Biggles know what he himself knew. For this information to be of any use it would be necessary to let Biggles have it before the enemy became aware of what had happened. If von Stalhein went to Nice to make inquiries about the police aircraft it would not take him long to sum up the situation. In that case much would depend on whether the Plaine de la Crau, or the villa, was in radio communication with El Asile. Algy did not know, but it seemed likely. It would be vital for the different units of the organization to keep in touch. If the Douglas did not arrive at El Asile, where presumably it was normally kept, von Stalhein would be informed, reasoned Algy. In that event the whole gang would be on the alert for trouble, and the task of the police in rounding them up would be made much more difficult. The Count, and his head men, would probably take fright and go into hiding.. It would be a calamity if,
with the game in his hands, that were to happen, pondered Algy moodily. The position still bristled with difficulties. It was not as if the police had only one building to raid.
There were at least three widely separated establishments to be dealt with. There might be others that he knew nothing about.
He decided that he ought to go on to El Asile, both for Bertie's sake, and also, by making things appear normal, to prevent the enemy from becoming suspicious. But then there arose the difficulty of Canton. He would have to be disposed of. By arriving at El Asile alone, Algy thought he could concoct a story that might pass; indeed, he could think of no more certain way of arriving there without causing alarm; but obviously he couldn't take Canton. The overriding difficulty was time. Algy wanted to do several things at once. Thus he thought as he went on towards the African coast.
It would, he decided, take too long to go back to Marseilles and try to make contact with Biggles from there—that is, if he was going on to El Asile. There would be explanations at the airport, and delays. There was no real need to go back, anyway. What he could do at Marseilles he would also be able to do at Maison Blanche, the big French airport at Algiers. He would have to land somewhere in order to get rid of his unwelcome passenger. Another important point that he did not overlook was the fact that Marcel was somewhere in North Africa, or should be. Biggles had suggested that he went back there, although whether this advice had been taken he did not know. It would be asking too much to expect to find him at Maison Blanche; but if he was in Algeria he could reasonably expect to locate him at one of the French military or civil aerodromes. He might have gone back to Insalah, his jumping-off place to get the photographs of El Asile.
What Algy really needed more than anything, he perceived, was a contact, someone to whom he could tell his story with a reasonable hope of it being sent home to Biggles, who would then take such steps as he considered necessary in the circumstances. Marcel was the ideal man, if he could be found. It was in the hope of this that he pushed on, on full throttle, for Algiers.
With so much on his inind, that trouble might come froin another quarter was
the last thing that occurred to him. At any rate, he wasn't looking for it, and consequently, when it came, he was startled almost to the point of panic. If the truth must be told he was half-asleep at the time. It is easy to fall asleep in an aircraft, but after his long car drive, his fight with Canton, and his flight afterwards, Algy found it hard to keep awake.
He was approaching the North African coast, a hard blue line straight ahead, when the chatter of machine guns near at hand jerked him to full consciousness. The smack of a bullet striking his machine made him wince. He did not waste time looking for the marksman. His right hand and foot moved automatically, and it was not until the
machine was swerving like a startled colt that he looked for the gunner.
It did not take long to find him. Behind and slightly to the right was a Morane. Curiously enough, he did not connect it with Marcel immediately. He was thinking of enemies, not friends. Seeing what was happening, he thought of neither, but concentrated on escape.
Not that there was much he could do in the way of evading action with an aircraft so big and heavy. Unable to fight back, he did the next best thing. He put the Douglas in a fairly tight turn and held it there, for in this position he was the least likely to be hit.
His attacker now appeared on the opposite side of the circle, in a turn of the same angle, obviously trying to get on his tail. Algy had a good look at him for the first time; and then, also for the first time, he saw who it was. He recognized the machine, and immediately afterwards, with a curious feeling of unreality at the irony of the situation, the pilot. He had hoped to find Marcel. Instead, Marcel had found him. That was something he had not reckoned on, although Marcel would, of course, be looking for a D.C.3. Having found it, he was not to be blamed for what he was doing.
Having been shot at himself, he had apparently carried out his avowed intention of remounting his guns.
Algy's lips parted in an exasperated smile. First, there was Bertie shooting at Marcel; now Marcel was shooting at him. There seemed to be something awry with their arrangements. However, in the hope of being recognized, he waved. Marcel may not have been looking. If he was he gave no sign of recognition. All he did was tighten the circle and send a stream of tracer bullets across Algy's tail. Algy, still looking at him, saw him gesticulating violently, jabbing a finger downwards.
So that was it, thought Algy. Marcel was ordering him to land. It was an order that he was only too willing to obey, so he sideslipped out of the circle and, throttling back, began a long glide towards the land. Watching in his reflector, he saw Marcel take up a position behind him, as a well-trained dog might shepherd a sheep to its pen.
A quarter of an hour later, when Algy touched down on Maison Blanche airfield, the Morane was still on his tail. He switched off at once. The Morane landed. Marcel jumped down and made for his quarry at a run. As Algy stepped out of the Douglas, Marcel poked a pistol into his ribs. Then, of course, he recognized the man he had captured.
The expression on his face was photographed indelibly on Algy's mind. His eyes opened wide. His lips parted. His lower jaw sagged. He clapped a hand to his forehead, muttering incoherently.
Algy took him by the arm. "Come on," he said. "You're the very man I want to talk to.
Where the deuce did you spring from?"
Marcel swallowed and found his voice. "I am to go to North Africa to find the plane of mystery, Beegles says. I stop at Le Bourget to put on my guns. Then I fly on. All the time I am thinking of the Douglas. Shall I find it? Voila! Then in front of me. I see it. Bon!
Now I say I will catch my man. I catch him. It is you." Marcel shrugged helplessly. "I do not understand how this is possible."
"Come to the canteen and I'll tell you," promised Algy. "But first there is another matter.
In the cabin I have the man you hoped to catch—the pilot of the mystery plane. I don't want him. I want you to get your friends here to take care of him."
"It shall be done," promised Marcel. "Then what?"
"We shall have to work fast," answered Algy. "I'm going on to El Asile to get Bertie, but there's plenty for you to do."
XI
EL ASILE
IT was nearly an hour later when Algy took off and headed south for El Asile.
It had been a period of feverish activity. After Marcel had handed Canton over to the police for safe custody, for the moment on a technical charge, over a hasty breakfast Algy told him exactly how matters stood. This information Marcel promised to convey to Biggles with all possible speed. On the back of an envelope Algy made a note, covering the salient points, to be handed to Biggles by Marcel when they met.
Marcel was aghast at the idea of Algy going alone to El Asile, which he said had the appearance of suicide; and it took Algy some time to convince him of the necessity for it.
Nothing else, Algy had declared, could save Bertie. What would happen when he got to El Mile, he admitted frankly that he did not know. The next move would depend on what happened when he got there. Nor did he know how he and Bertie would get away from the oasis_ although, of course, at the back of his mind there was a vague idea of purloining an aircraft. There could be no question of walking, and there was no other conveyance. They would simply have to rely on their wits, he asserted. Anyway, Biggles would soon know where they were, and would no doubt take such action as he considered best in the circumstances. There were, he agreed, the villa and the landing-strip at the Plaine de la Crau to be taken into account, although this aspect of the case would naturally be under the direction of the French police. He only hoped that there would be no delay as a result of all these explanations.
Marcel promised that he would do his utmost to speed things up.
The Ahaggar Mountains lie in the Deep Sahara due south of Algiers. The distance, in round figures as the aeroplane flies, is twelve hundred miles. For the early part of this the land is settled, with areas of cultivation; but once the Great Dunes, known as El Erg, are reached, there is nothing ahead but wilderness—the most forbidding desert on earth.
Beyond the two French outposts of Insalah and Fort Flatters, lying east and west respectively of Algy's course, civilized life ceases. The only people who can endure the burning sand are the Tuareg Arabs, sometimes known, even to the ordinary desert Arabs, as the Forgotten of God. Otherwise, death and desolation reign undisturbed, and have reigned undisturbed for centuries.
Looking ahead, all Algy could see was a billowing ocean of sand, stretching, it seemed, to eternity. As a spectacle it was awe-inspiring, but it was not a scene on which he, or any other airman, could look without acute anxiety. From now on, he was aware, his life would depend on the reliability of his engines. Should they fail him, all that remained would be a choice of death; a slow one from thirst, or a quick one from a shot from his own pistol. The heat was appalling, and this, with the glare, made flying, except by night, a test of endurance. He could well understand Canton's reluctance to make the -trip too often.
The Douglas roared on, Algy's nerves at full stretch, his ears alert to catch the slightest change in the note of his engines. After a while the scene began to change somewhat.
Rocks appeared, sometimes singly, sometimes in the form of great outcrops, cracked by the hot hammers of the sun and being slowly reduced to dust by the friction of wind-driven sand. Ahead, needle-pointed crags, sharpened by the same process and looking like the spires of a dead city, cut an ominous horizon. Still farther on Algy saw with relief the twin peaks of Mounts Tahat and Illaman, rising eleven thousand feet above the floor of the desert. He was relieved, because they told him that he was on his course and that his journey was drawing to an end. Before him lay the Ahaggar, a barren world of beetling crags, frowning precipices, and dim mysterious canyons. To all appearances he had arrived at the end of the earth.
He found himself marvelling at the amount of thought that must have gone into the establishment of a base in such a land. Water, it is true, was there, for without it the project could not have been co
ntemplated. But everything else, including petrol, would have to be transported. Only by a regular air lift could such a depot. be maintained. But
of course, conjectured Algy. if the Count had machines going to and from France regularly, weight carriers like the Douglas, there would be no great difficulty about it. He wondered what sort of men, even for financial reward, would consent to sojourn in such a dreadful place. The answer was soon to be forthcoming, and then he felt that he should have guessed it, for it was the obvious one. He doubted if Biggles, in his views on modern crime and aviation, had imagined anything quite like this; but he had stated that with enough money almost anything was possible. El Asile was an example. The gold that had been stolen from Australia would provide a nice sum to go on with, he reflected.
He had no difficulty in finding his objective, for Marcel had given him the outstanding landmarks. A group of palm-trees and some sparse vegetation were conspicuous, in the absence of anything else green, in a valley. He turned his nose towards it. His hand went to the throttle, and at last the steady drone of his motors was broken. As he circled, losing height, he saw men appear from some buildings and look up at him. As they were mostly dressed in white he thought at first they were Arabs. He had no idea of how many men he would find at El Asile, but there were certainly more than he expected.
Wondering what sort of reception he would have, he lowered his undercarriage, landed, and taxied on to where a group of men stood waiting. He saw now that they were not Arabs as he had thought, but white men. As he drew near he scanned their faces anxiously, thinking that from their expressions he would be able to judge if von Stalhein had been in touch with them by radio; but he saw no signs of hostility. He also looked with some concern for Bertie, and smiled faintly when he saw him standing there with the rest.
40 Biggles Works It Out Page 10