Algy switched off, climbed down, and walked slowly towards the group. The only face on which there was any sign of recognition was Bertie's, and his expression was so ludicrous that it was all Algy could do to refrain from laughing. All the same, some of the others were looking at him curiously, which was only to be expected. For this he was prepared.
A tall dark man, with a sallow skin and high Slavish cheekbones, stepped forward. "Who are you?" he asked, first in French, and then in English, presumably to indicate that he was able to talk in either language.
Algy answered in English. "Lacey's the name. I'm doing the run for Groot, who was to have come." "What's happened to Groot?"
"He's gone sick—sunstroke, I fancy. Canton had just done the trip, so the Count sent me."
"I haven't seen you before?"
"The Count employs a lot of men you've never seen,"
alleged Algy casually. "This is my first trip over this side, and I don't care if I never have to do another." "Have any difficulty in getting here?"
"None at all. Groot gave me the course. We were waiting for Canton to come in with the stuff. I'm to take another lot over."
"Okay. Funny Canton didn't say anything about it. I understood his load was to be the last for some time."
"Maybe the Count has changed his mind, or else Canton was guessing."
"How long are you staying?"
"I shall start back tonight."
"What's the hurry?"
"Those are the orders. I believe another job is coming along pretty soon."
"I see. You'll find some grub in the kitchen, if you want any?"
"What I really want is some sleep."
"Make yourself comfortable. One of the boys will show you round. We'll get the stuff on board ready for you." The man's eyes were on Algy's face. "What have you been doing?
Had an accident, or something?"
Algy had, of course, removed as far as possible, at Algiers, signs of his fight with Canton. Apparently some remained. He smiled lugubriously. "Some guys in Marseilles tried to get tough with me yesterday," he explained.
The man nodded and turned away. The onlookers, as hard-bitten a crowd as Algy had ever seen, began to disperse. Bertie, who by this time had recovered from what must have been a severe jolt, came over. "I'll show you the works," he offered, and together they strolled towards a frame building well inside the shade of the palms.
As soon as they were out of earshot of the rest, Bertie went on : "I suppose Marcel told you I was here?"
"He did, and was very upset when we didn't believe him."
"What have you come for?"
"To get you out."
"But I'm all right, old boy, as right as rain," protested Bertie.
"You may think so," returned Algy grimly. "Von Stalhein is in the gang, and he knows you're here."
"Does he, by Jove! How very annoying. By the way, how the deuce did you get hold of that kite?"
"It was the only way of getting here. I had to fight Canton to get it. As a matter of detail, he was on his way here to bump you off."
"Where is he now?"
"At Algiers, in jail. But that doesn't make you safe. You're coming home with me tonight, or you won't get out at all. Von Stalhein won't waste time. I shall push off as soon as it's safe to go. Somehow you will have to get in the machine. I'll leave that to you. There's no other way. Get me a drink. I'm all dried up."
Bertie disappeared and presently returned with a jug of lemonade, a glass, and some biscuits.
Sitting in the shade of the palms, Algy told him what had happened, concluding with how he had boarded the Douglas, and why. "How did you get here?" he wanted to know.
Bertie gave his story.
"Have you found out what's going on here?" inquired Algy. Through the trees he noticed some men throwing dust-sheets over the Douglas. "What's the idea of that?" he inquired, pointing.
"Camouflage, laddie, just camouflage. They realize that there's always a chance of someone flying over, so everything is kept covered up as far as possible. There are more men here than you might think. In fact, I'd say this is the crooks' main depot. My job is to shoot down anyone who gets too nosey. That's why I had to make a show of shooting up poor old Marcel. I knew who it was. With people watching it wasn't easy to find an excuse for missing him, I can tell you. The blokes here don't think much of my shooting.
I told them I was a bit out of practice."
"Tell me this," requested Algy. "Are the people here in touch with France by radio?"
"Yes, but they don't use it, for fear of being picked up and traced by the French Security Police, who, they say, have always got an ear to the atmosphere. There are brains behind this show. The radio is only for use in real emergency." Bertie polished his monocle reflectively. "The top people don't live here, of course. No bally fear. Too beastly hot.
They live where they can enjoy the jolly old fleshpots."
"What machines have you got here?"
"A spare Douglas, a Mosquito, and a Hurricane. They're parked in a nullah at the end of the valley. The petrol-dump is there, too."
"Shall I have to go there to refuel?"
"No. You'd better not suggest it. You ought to have enough juice on board to get back.
Most refuelling is done over the other side, to save hauling it here. They've got a good lot stored here though, in case it's wanted in a hurry. I use a little in the Hurricane. The gang is a bit jumpy because their intelligence service has reported that someone has been asking questions about the White Prophets. That was Marcel, of course. The last thing you'll find here, old boy, is anything to do with religion. They're a lot of bally cut-throats.
The head man, the chappie who spoke to you, is Odenski. He's either a Russian or a Roumanian. He keeps the keys, including the keys of the petrol-store. No one can get away. No hope —not an earthly. They only put enough juice in the Hurricane for half an hour. They don't take chances on anyone slipping away. No bally fear. I believe the fellow doing my job before me shot down a couple of French planes that came this way.
Then he got fed up and wanted to go home."
"What happened to him?"
"He's dead—that's all I know."
"How did you reckon on getting out of here?"
"Hadn't thought about it, old boy. When I got a chance to get in I took it. I didn't think they'd leave me here for ever."
"Well, now you've got the low-down on the place the sooner we're out of it the better,"
declared Algy. "I've got a feeling the balloon may go up at any moment. If von Stalhein doesn't send it up. Biggles may, when he hears what Marcel has to tell him. I can't guess what Biggles will do, but he'll have more freedom of movement if he knows we're safely out of this trap. How many of these fake prophets are there altogether?"
"About twenty."
"Great Scott! What do they all do?"
"Nothing, most of them," answered Bertie. "One or two of them are mechanics, and some of them, looking really like prophets, or at any rate, priests, go out sometimes. Nobody bothers a priest. They're mostly criminals on the run. They get a safe hide-out for their services. When the police have given up looking for them they're taken out and given jobs to do—still in the gang of course."
"Which means that the Count plants them where he wants them?"
"That, I fancy, is the idea. They're a lot of disgusting cads, anyway. One of them isn't too bad. A French lad named Emile something or other. We've done quite a spot of chinwagging. I got most of the gen from him. He's had enough of it here. Been here for goodness knows how long. Suggested we did a bolt together."
"He might be a spy, testing you."
"I don't think so, laddie. He got into a spot of bother in Paris, bolted, and joined the Foreign Legion. Hearing his mother was ill, in a weak moinent he deserted to see her before she died. She died before he got home. He found the police waiting for him, so the silly young ass bolted again. Somehow the gang got hold of him—by a trick, he says—
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and sent him here, with the object, no doubt, of using him when the time comes. He's sick to death of the place—got what the French call le cafard.* Now he wants to go home, give himself up and face the music. But never mind him. What are you going to do now?"
"I'm overdue for some sleep," asserted Algy.
"Come along to my room and have a nap," invited Bertie. "I've been given a corner to sleep in. I'll keep an eye on things."
"Wake me when it starts to get dark," requested Algy. "It's tonight we get out or never. If it came to a show-down we shouldn't have an earthly against this bunch."
He went with Bertie to his room, one of several small cubicles in the building under the palms. He threw himself down, and in spite of the difficulties and dangers surrounding him, such was his weariness that he was soon asleep. Nor did he wake until Bertie roused him.
"What's the time?" he asked, sitting up.
"Nearly six o'clock," answered Bertie. "It'll be dark in a few minutes. It gets dark in this bally place before you know where you are."
"Is everything quiet?"
"We should have heard about it by now if it wasn't, old boy. The Douglas is ready."
"What about the dust-sheets?"
"They've pulled them off and loaded up the stuff you're to take back."
"What is this stuff, do you know?"
"Fertilizer."
"What!" Mgy stared.
"That's what they say it is, old boy, and it's marked fertilizer on the sacks. They make the stuff here, anyway. There's a workshop or something which I haven't been allowed to see."
Algy shrugged. "Fertilizer, eh? I should never have guessed it."
* Means literally "the cockroach". A mental disorder arising 'from heat, loneliness and boredom.
"Never mind that now," replied Bertie. "It isn't the Australian gold, anyhow. That was in ingots. Tell me, what's the drill for getting away?"
"It seems fairly simple," answered Algy. "As soon as it's dark you hide yourself in the Douglas. The best way of doing that is something you'll have to work out for yourself.
When I take the machine off I shall assume you're on board. Do you see any difficulty in that?"
"None at all, laddie, as long as nothing happens between now and then to upset the jolly old go-cart. At sundown most of the gang foregather -in the canteen to swill hard liquor like the hogs they are. The canteen doesn't open, by order, until six o'clock. Jolly good thing, too, or no one here would ever be sober."
"I told Marcel that if we got out I should make for Insalah," informed Algy. "We should be able to contact Algiers from there to let him know what we're doing"
"Good enough," agreed Bertie. "I'd better drift along now. The blighters might wonder if they saw us too much together. Once the gang gets down to its drinking and gambling they won't see anything, though. By seven there will only be two sober men in camp."
"Who will they be?"
"The sentries—two of 'em, one at each end of the valley."
"Sentries! What on earth do they want sentries for in a place like this?"
"I think it's something to do with the Tuareg—you know, he jolly old Arabs who wear blue veils? Pretty wild lot, I believe. Emile tells me there was a bit of a rumpus here a little while ago. Some Tuareg came in asking to fill their water-skins. Some of the bright boys here tried fooling about with their women. Their menfolk objected. Quite properly, too. Whereupon there was a bit of a fuss in which a couple of Arabs were killed. The rest made off. Since then Odenski has mounted a guard, in case they came back."
"I'll bet von Stalhein doesn't know that, or he'd have been here to see who was responsible," said Algy seriously. "That's the last sort of publicity they want."
"Absolutely. See you later." Bertie strolled off, unhurriedly, hands in his pockets.
Algy waited until the valley was fast filling with purple shadows and then went out, asking for Odenski. When, presently, the man came, Algy told him he was thinking of moving off. "Is there anything you want—anything j can bring out next time I come?" he inquired.
Odenski grinned. "Yes. You can bring over a few cases of brandy. We're always running short."
Algy laughed. "I don't wonder at that. It's a thirsty place."
"I think you'll find everything all right," said Odenski.
"Thanks." Algy strolled on to the machine. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see Odenski watching him, but as far as he could gather the man had no suspicion of anything being wrong. There was no sign of Bertie, so he could only hope that he was on board. He was about to climb into the cockpit when there was a hail behind him. Looking round he saw Odenski with an arm raised.
Seeing him turn, Odenski called: "Better wait a minute. What's this coming?"
Algy inclined his head, and his heart missed a beat as his ears caught the drone of an aircraft, obviously low and travelling on full throttle. He. too, wondered what was coming; and he had an uneasy feeling that it was no harbinger of peace. He could see nothing, for the sun had dipped below the horizon and darkness was dropping from the sky. Odenski had turned, and was staring up the valley, so he climbed quietly into his seat. And there he had to wait, staring through the windscreen, for the other aircraft was coming straight down the valley, the direction in which he was facing and would have to take off. To take off, therefore, would be to invite a head-on collision; indeed, there was such an obvious likelihood
of this that he dare not move. Stiff with annoyance and impatience, for another minute would have seen him safe in the air, he could only sit and watch. However, perceiving that urgent action might be called for, he took a chance and started his engines. Odenski heard this, of course, and signalled to him to stay where he was. Algy opened the side window and waved back to show that he had no intention of moving.
The oncoming machine loomed suddenly in the gloom. Algy recognized a Mosquito. He hoped that it would make a circuit before coming in, for if it did he would snatch the opportunity to get off. But it did nothing of the sort. It came in straight down the valley, landed, and ran to a stop directly in front of him. Algy's lips went dry, for if the machine remained there it would be impossible for him to do anything. He breathed again when the Mosquito taxied on a little way before switching off, coming to a standstill a little to his right. A man dropped out. It was von Stalhein. Another followed. Algy recognized Groot.
Von Stalhein's business was obviously so urgent that he could not wait until he had reached Odenski before he spoke. He shouted : "Is Canton here?"
"No," answered Odenski.
"Have you seen him?"
"Then the report we had was right," declared von Stalhein. "The police have got him."
He swung round and pointed to the Douglas. "Who brought that machine here?"
"A new man. Fellow named Lacey."
"Where's Lacey now?" Von Stalhein fired the words.
Odenski pointed at the Douglas. "He's just going back."
In a second a pistol was in von Stalhein's hand. He ran towards the Douglas. Groot ran to get in front of it. But Algy's hand was on the throttle, and he banged it open. He ducked instinctively as he saw von Stalhein's hand go up. He saw the flash of the shot, but the sound of it was drowned in the roar of his motors.
The machine moved forward, all too slowly for Algy, for both von Stalhein and Groot were shooting at him, and he held his breath until he judged that he was out of range.
Two bullets at least struck the machine, for at such close quarters the big target could hardly be missed. Where they went he did not know. As it reached flying speed the machine rose ponderously; but he held the control column forward, for it was speed he wanted, not height.
He was staring into the darkness ahead when Bertie appeared beside him.
"I say, old boy, that was a bit hot, wasn't it?" said Bertie cheerfully, dropping into the reserve pilot's seat.
"Too hot," answered Algy shortly, for his nerves were on edge. "If someone comes after us in the Hurricane it'll be even
hotter."
"Its tanks are only a quarter full."
"That may get it far enough to do the dirty on us."
"If it can find us, laddie, if it can find us. She's under her dust-sheets, and it'll take a little while to get 'em off."
"That Mosquito may have guns on it."
"True enough, old boy," admitted Bertie, still cheerful. "Keep her low and give her the works. They'll have a job to spot us against the ground."
"I'd rather they spotted us than we bumped into a mountain."
"We'll soon be clear of the rocks."
"The sooner the better. Where did those shots go?"
"One came jolly close to me," declared Bertie. "Made me jump, I can tell you."
"I was thinking about the machine. Can you see anything behind us?"
Bertie looked. "Not a bally thing," he reported.
"Good."
The machine roared on. Ahead lay the desert, sombre and still, like a rough sea suddenly frozen while in motion.
They had settled down in their seats when, without warning, a voice behind them spoke, spoke in a tone pitched high with alarm. It said one word. "Essence!"
Badly startled, Algy and Bertie turned round together. A dark form with a pallid face could be seen vaguely against the bulkhead.
"It's Emile," said Bertie. "Phew! My word, laddie, you gave me a fright!"
"Essence!" shouted the lad.
"How did he get here?" demanded Algy, crossly.
Bertie put the question to the boy and ascertained that, thinking the machine was going to France, he had stowed himself away.
"Why does he keep on shouting petrol?" asked Algy. Even as he asked the question he sniffed, and understood. "Take over," he told Bertie curtly, and going aft, was met by a cloud of petrol spray. He returned quickly to the cockpit. "The main tank has been holed.
" he said, almost viciously. "One of von Stalhein's shots did it, no doubt. It's squirting like a soda-water syphon. See if you can do anything about it. If you can't, we've had it."
XII
BIGGLES TAKES A TURN
40 Biggles Works It Out Page 11