Biggles Cuts It Fine

by W E Johns

  The expressions on the faces of those watching switched from elation to consternation as they realised the danger of the machine being blown against the rocky promontory that jutted out to form one side of the bay.

  It was a dreadful moment. Then Algy could be seen working desperately with the anchors, and to everyone’s relief the machine swung head to wind. Algy’s hand went up in a signal which they took to mean that all was well.

  “He ought to take her farther out,” said Bertie anxiously. “If the wind blows any harder there’s a chance those anchors will drag.”

  “If he takes her any farther out, he won’t see us and we shan’t see him,” said Ginger.

  “The wind she go down with the sun,” prophesied Marcel optimistically.

  “We can’t have it both ways,” observed Ginger tritely.

  “The machine’s on the water, that’s the main thing. What a game we’ve had.”

  They stood watching to see what Algy would do.

  “As soon as he’s satisfied that she’s holding, he’ll come in the dinghy to fetch us,” opined Bertie.

  For a few seconds Ginger did not answer. He was staring out beyond the aircraft. “Did you see that?” he inquired, in a queer strained voice.

  “See what, old boy?”

  Ginger pointed towards the entrance of the bay. “There’s an iceberg out there—a monster. At least, I think so, although I wouldn’t swear to it. I just got a glimpse of it as the murk parted between gusts. You can’t see it now.”

  Marcel snapped his fingers. “If there is ice we know why it is so cold, and why the fog stays.”

  “Never mind the cold,” muttered Ginger, fresh alarm in his voice. “If this wind is blowing ice up from the south, how are we going to get off? And if bergs come crowding into this bay—”

  “Here, hold hard!” complained Bertie. “You’re frightening me to death. Did you really see a lump of beastly ice?”

  “I’m pretty certain it was ice,” replied Ginger. “I saw something, and I don’t see how it could be anything else. It was white, but it was too angular to be a patch of fog. It looked to me like a berg, and a big one, too. I can soon settle any doubts about it.” He turned. “I’ll take a run to the top of that hill,” he said, pointing to a dark mass that loomed dimly through the mist. “The murk shouldn’t be as thick up there as it is at sea level. I might even be able to see over the top of it, in which case I should see the top of the berg. Apparently Algy isn’t coming ashore just yet, and if I’m right about this he ought to know. Shan’t be long.”

  Without further discussion he began to run towards what he had called a hill, but was really a towering buttress of rock and loose boulders shaped something like a dog’s head.

  Reaching the base he started scrambling up, finding it at close quarters, as so often happens, both rougher and steeper than he had supposed. Nor could he, as he intended, take a straight line to the summit, but found it necessary to follow a winding course to get round obstacles that were plainly insurmountable. Panting, he hurried on, unwilling to turn back, yet aware that the project he had so lightly undertaken was more easily contemplated than carried out. It was obviously going to take more time than he had estimated.

  He was, he thought, about three-quarters of the way up, and had stopped to look seaward in the hope of finding that it would not be necessary for him to go higher, when, observing that it was necessary and turning to resume his climb, he noticed something that struck him as odd. He stopped. On closer scrutiny it struck him as more than odd.

  In the face of the curved bastion of rock that formed the brows of the dog’s head, a formation of considerable size now that he was close to it, was an arrangement of rocks of different shapes and sizes that fitted together so snugly that it seemed incredible that it had occurred by mere chance. It was the fact that one of the component rocks, a narrow slab about a yard long, was standing on end, that first caught his eye. It seemed impossible that it could have fallen in such a position, and remained there, by accident. The whole thing was about six feet by four, upright, and gave the impression that a window had been filled in.

  All round the sides, which were as straight as if they had been cut by a mason, the rock was solid enough; but so carefully had the inner part been filled in that even at close range it might easily have been passed unnoticed. It was the one slab of rock standing on end that called attention to it. No, Ginger told himself, this didn’t just happen. Going right up to it, and looking into the thing, any doubts that might have remained were banished, for he could see chisel marks on the rocks. That settled it. The thing was artificial. Clearly, there was something behind it. What could it be?

  For a minute or two he stood regarding it, his original errand forgotten, trying to guess the purpose of this strange piece of construction. Several possibilities occurred to him. Remembering the well-known sculptures on Easter Island, he wondered if it was a relic of a lost race of people who had dwelt on the island in the dim past. No, he decided, the thing didn’t look all that old. On the contrary, it looked as modern as anything built of weathered rock could look. Was it a cache, a food cache perhaps, the work of a castaway? That was more like it. But why seal the place so carefully? A treasure! Possibly, although these lonely seas had never been a hunting ground for pirates. His curiosity thoroughly aroused, Ginger decided that he could not leave the place without solving the mystery. Later, the greatest mystery of all was why he had failed to guess the right answer. It was, perhaps, one of those things that are obvious afterwards.

  Starting at the top it took him a little while to remove the first stone, but after that, with an aperture in which he could insert a hand, the demolition of the wall, for that is really what it was, presented no difficulty. The removal of the first stone revealed a cavity beyond, and having enlarged it, he thrust in an arm, his hand groping. It encountered nothing, which told him that the hole, or cave, or whatever it was, was of some size. He pulled out more stones impatiently, making the opening larger, aware that his long absence might be causing anxiety to those below. Finally, he upset the tall upright stone, and that brought the whole thing down with a run, revealing in the light of day what lay beyond. Instantly the mystery was solved; the secret exposed; the purpose of the thing at once apparent.

  It would not be enough to say that Ginger was surprised. He was staggered, startled and shocked, to the point where his muscles seemed to seize up, depriving him of the power of movement. Seconds ticked past, and all he could do was stare. Yet, as the initial impact of his discovery began to wear off, he could only think what a numbskull he had been not to guess the answer instantly. It was the obvious explanation. It was, in fact, the very thing they had come to the island to look for. It had been staring him in the face and he had not realised it. He could only suppose that a conviction that there was nothing of the sort there had taken root in his mind, because up to now they had seen no sign of it. Either that, or the pressing events of the past two days had put all such ideas out of his head. But there it was. Major Charles had been right—and how right!

  Before him, in what was now plainly an embrasure, was a gun. It was no ordinary gun. It was a weird, futuristic-looking weapon, the like of which he had only seen in scientific fiction books. He went right up to it. It was obviously brand new, thick with oil, as he ascertained by touching it. Behind it, resting in an orderly row on a wooden rack, were the long, slim missiles that it fired, pointed at the nose and carrying fins at the blunt end. Rockets, Ginger told himself softly. So that was it. Rockets. He drew a deep breath.

  Investigating further, he found that the gun was not mounted in a simple gun-pit, but was in a gallery that disappeared into the darkness on either hand. He could not see the end, but from the way it curved, it looked as if it might continue on right round the inside of the mass of rock; or at any rate round the front of that part of it which resembled the head of a dog. A little way along light gleamed faintly on the fittings of another gun. No doubt there were mo
re, thought Ginger, each with its carefully camouflaged loop-hole. He would see.

  Feeling for his box of matches, he set off slowly down the gallery, which from its clean-cut walls, on which the long white scars of pneumatic drills still showed, was of recent construction. He did not go all round the bastion. He saw enough to make it clear that this long underground chamber within the natural rock was, as he had suspected, a fortification commanding the sea around it, in the manner of a miniature Gibraltar. There were several types of guns apart from the rocket, which, without knowing much about such weapons, he thought might be long-range guided missiles. Some of the ordinary guns were German types, military equipment captured during the war, he presumed. Two heavy German Mauser machine-guns, with embrasures covering different angles, puzzled him. Boxes containing belts of ammunition stood handy. He concluded that they were intended to repel an attempted landing on the island by troops or sailors in time of war. They would certainly make things hot for such an enterprise.

  Deep in thought he hurried back to the entrance he had made. The deadly nature of his discovery, deadly from every point of view, dried his lips and set him trembling slightly. Here was a military secret the importance of which could hardly be estimated. The knowledge that he alone held it was almost terrifying. If the people who had installed this equipment had been hostile before, what would they do to him now if they caught him there? This question, at any rate, called for no effort to answer.

  Aware of a mounting feeling of apprehension he felt that the sooner he got back to the others the happier he would be. Indeed, the desire to share his frightening knowledge with them was uppermost in his mind. Yet for a moment he hesitated. To leave the entrance as it was, broken down, would tell an unmistakable story. Would it be better to patch it up, he wondered? He could not hope to rebuild it as he had found it, but it might be possible to make it look as if the stones had subsided from natural causes. Still considering the matter, he stood motionless, just inside, staring at the square of daylight across which still hung a curtain of fog. He decided to leave it as it was. Algy could decide the question when he told him about it. He ought to get back. Already he had been away too long. The others would be wondering.

  At that moment a stone, quite close, outside, rattled as it tumbled down the hill. His nerves twitched, and he shrank back against the inner wall of the gallery. Was it just an accident or was there somebody there? With his eyes on the white square of light, he felt for his automatic.

  Another stone moved. An instant later a vague shape materialised silently in the fog. He hoped desperately that it might be one of the others come to look for him. Then the shape hardened and his hopes crashed. Silhouetted against the light was a figure that resembled none of them. He recognised it. It was the man in the blue jersey.

  The man stared at the hole. He made no sound. He looked long and steadfastly to the right, then to the left, listening. Then his eyes returned to the hole. He stared at it for so long that Ginger felt his nerves tingling under the strain. He dared hardly breathe. Surely the man must hear the pounding of his heart! The man seemed to be staring straight at him. Was he looking at him? Commonsense said no, or he would not continue to stare. Then what was he looking at?

  It dawned on Ginger that the man was staring because he was puzzled. He was wondering if the rocks had fallen down of their own accord. He prayed fervently that he would come to that conclusion.

  The man turned, so silently that he might have been a shadow, and stared in the direction of the bay, although the fog would prevent him from actually seeing it. Ginger could tell from his attitude that he was listening. Then he turned back to the square hole in the rock. Again he listened. He listened for so long that Ginger felt he couldn’t stand much more of it.

  He realised, of course, why the man was listening. He was listening for a sound that would tell him someone was inside. Ginger almost ceased to breathe. The strain was awful. He became angry with himself for the effect it was having on him. He could have ended it there and then, of course, by shooting the man as he stood against the light only a few yards away, but such an act was unthinkable. It would be too much like murder and he never seriously considered it.

  Then, suddenly, and still soundlessly, the figure vanished.

  Ginger did not move. Was the man still there, standing in the fog? Had he gone? No sound came to answer the question. But presently, as Ginger stood there tense, listening, there came one that brought him near to panic. It was a voice calling. Marcel’s voice. He seemed to be not far away. Certainly he was much nearer than the bay. The inference was plain. Marcel was on his way up the hill to ascertain the reason for his long absence. And if that was so, he was walking into what might well turn out to be a death trap. The man in the blue jersey had heard him coming. That was why he had moved away so suddenly. Where was he? No matter where he was, decided Ginger, Marcel must not be allowed to come nearer.

  Again came the hail, muffled by the fog. “Allo there! Ginger, where are you?”

  Ginger thought swiftly. The significance of a man calling somebody would not be lost on the Russian, unless he were a fool, which was not a thing to reckon on. He would know, now, that the demolished embrasure was no accident. He would know, as definitely as if he had been told, that either somebody was inside the gallery or had been inside.

  Taking a firm grip on his automatic, Ginger began to move forward, inch by inch, foot by foot. But if his movements were slow his nerves were racing at full stretch. A last short step took him to the opening. With infinite caution he moved his body forward until he could see round the edge of the rock. Simultaneously came a shout from Marcel, alarmingly close. But the fog still shrouded everything and he could not be seen.

  A movement caught Ginger’s eye. It was only slight, but it was enough. He made out the burly figure of the bearded man crouching behind a massive boulder about a dozen yards away. Very slowly he was raising his right arm. In the hand was a heavy revolver. He was peering in the direction from which the last hail had come, which meant that his back was turned to the embrasure, a circumstance that suited Ginger very well.

  Marcel’s footsteps could be heard now, approaching, stopping, and coming on again. A loose rock rattled. The man behind the rock did not move. There was no need. He had only to wait.

  Ginger raised his automatic and covered the crouching figure. Then in a shrill voice he shouted: “Keep back, Marcel! There’s a man here with a gun.”

  Before the last words had left his lips the picture sprang to life. With a grunt of surprise the waiting man sprang up, whirled round and fired. It was a panic shot, for it was unlikely that he actually saw Ginger, who had not exposed himself. He may have fired at the sound. Anyway, the bullet smacked harmlessly against the face of the rock. Ginger returned the shot just as the man leapt forward into the fog, so whether or not he had hit him he did not know. Nor did he know what was happening, although clattering rocks told him that someone was moving.

  Feeling that to go out would be folly, he remained where he was. Marcel had been warned. There was nothing more to be done for the moment. The risk of them shooting each other in the blinding fog was great.

  Then, as he waited, the heavy revolver roared again, to be followed a split second later by the whip-like crack of Marcel’s little police automatic.

  Ginger began to creep forward, hugging the rock face, but he had only just started when there was a great crashing of rolling stones and rocks. “Marcel!” he yelled, throwing caution to the winds in his anxiety. “Are you all right?”

  He gasped his relief when Marcel’s voice came back. “Yes. Come here!”

  Feeling his way forward Ginger came upon Marcel standing on the lip of a steep slope that fell away into the mist, and, if the noise of waves was any indication, into the sea. He was staring down.

  “Where is he?” asked Ginger breathlessly.

  Marcel shrugged and pointed down the slope. “Voilà.”

  “Did you shoot him?”


  “I cannot tell. I tried. After he shoots at me, I shoot back and he jumps and falls into the fog. What happens after that I do not know. All I hear is the stones falling down the hill.”

  “He didn’t hit you?”

  “But no. He cannot shoot well, that one, or I must be a dead man now. Name of a dog! What an affair! What happens here? Why are you so long? Algy gets angry. We are worried.”

  “You are worried,” returned Ginger grimly. “I was the one to be worried. Come and have a look at this.”

  He took Marcel to the broken embrasure and pointed to the gun. “What d’you know about that?”

  Marcel’s dark eyes saucered. “Name of ten thousand devils!” he gasped.

  “There are more inside,” Ginger told him.

  “And this is France!” expostulated Marcel with high indignation. “Who dares to make a fortress on the soil of France? We shall show them they cannot do this,” he concluded furiously.

  “They’ve done it,” Ginger pointed out, practically.

  Bertie’s voice could now be heard through the fog. “Here! I say, you chaps, what’s going on up there?”

  “Come and look,” Ginger called back.

  Presently, guided by their voices, Bertie joined them. He looked at the gun. He put his monocle more firmly in his eye and looked again. “By Jove!” he exclaimed. “That certainly is something. What a bally nerve! Who was shooting at who?”

  Ginger told him.

  “Where did this impudent fellow go?”

  “Marcel says he fell down the hill.”

  “Served him right. Was he dead?”

  “I don’t know, and I’m certainly not going to break my neck climbing down to find out.”

  “Quite right, old boy,” agreed Bertie. “Too jolly dangerous.”

  “Look, we’d better be getting back,” suggested Ginger with sudden urgency. “It’s time Algy knew about this set up.”

  “He was browned off with you being away so long.”