06 Biggles And The Black Peril

by Captain W E Johns

  "Eh! What's that? Did you say shoot?"

  "Aye. I thought I'd better warn you. If anyone tries to stop us go right ahead."

  "Where do you think we are, in Mexico?" scoffed the driver.

  But Ginger wasn't listening; he was looking for the damaged car, but it had gone. "Whoa!

  " he cried, when they reached the disused level-crossing. "Here we are." He sprang down as the car pulled up and darted towards the hut. "Hi, Biggles, we're here !" he cried triumphantly.

  With a curious prickling sensation of the skin he entered the hut and struck a match. It was empty. For a moment he could not believe it. "Biggles," he whispered foolishly, "

  where are you?" He ran outside. "Biggles!" he cried loudly. "Hi, it's me, Ginger !"

  There was no reply. He stared at the driver of the car, white-faced.

  "They've got him," he muttered hoarsely. Then, lifting up his voice, "Biggles!" he yelled again.

  For a minute or two he stood staring into the surrounding darkness. "Now what are we going to do?" he asked the driver helplessly.

  "I don't know what you're going to do, but I'm going home. If I thought you'd brought me out here on a fool's errand—"

  "You've been paid, haven't you?" snapped Ginger. "So what have you got to grouse about? Hold hard a minute; I'm. coming with you; it's not much use staying here."

  He left the garage-man at his house, giving him the extra ten shillings as he had promised, and made his way, miserable, but deep in thought, further into the village.

  Again he was tempted to consult a policeman, but could not bring himself to do so. He doubted very much if the police would believe him, anyway, and he could hardly blame them if they did refuse to accept such an improbable story as the one he had to tell. He wandered about till dawn, and then made his way towards the post-office.

  CHAPTER III

  A RECONNAISSANCE FLIGHT

  ALGY landed late in the morning with his mind in a greater turmoil than he could ever remember; he was upset and alarmed, yet he could not bring himself to believe that any tragic fate had overtaken Biggles. Nevertheless, for the first time in his life, he was absolutely at a loss to know what to do for the best, although obviously his first duty would be to report the matter to the police.

  He left the amphibian on the tarmac for the mechanics to put away, and walked absent-mindedly towards the club-house.

  "There's a telegram for you, Lacey," called Benton, a club-instructor, who came out of the office as he passed.

  "Telegram for me?" cried Algy in amazement. "Who on earth—?" He took the buff envelope down from the rack and tore it open impatiently. It was addressed, simply, Algy Lacey, Croydon Airport.

  Come at once. Bring machine. Biggles captured. Waiting for you at Cramlington Aerodrome.

  Ginger.

  Algy read and re-read the wire half a dozen times, trying to grasp its significance ; one word only meant anything to him, and that was Biggles. Who Ginger was he had not the remotest idea, or why he was waiting at Cramlington Aerodrome, which was near Newcastle-onTyne, yet the word Biggles was enough, and he tore back to his aircraft, startling the mechanics with his impatient demands for the machine to be refuelled. He left a message for Smyth, their mechanic, to stand by in case he was wanted, and within ten minutes was off, and with a slight following wind touched his wheels on Cramlington Aerodrome in record time. He taxied in and stared about him curiously.

  A few yards away a tired-looking boy with sandy hair and a freckled face was coming towards him, regarding him with frank interest, but Algy took no notice; he was accustomed to the curious stares of boys.

  "Are you Algy?" asked a voice apologetically.

  Algy started, and looked at the boy in amazement. "Some people call me that—why?"

  he asked.

  " I'm Ginger."

  Algy blinked and stared incredulously. "You mean—you sent me that telegram? "

  "Yes, sir. I couldn't think of anything else to do. I'm afraid the gang's got Biggies—I mean Captain Bigglesworth."

  "Gang—got him—what gang? What do you know about this? You'd better come over here and tell me all about it."

  Briefly, keeping to the point, yet omitting nothing, Ginger described Biggles' arrival at his bivouac, soaked to the skin, and the subsequent events up to the moment when he had returned with the car only to find that Biggles had disappeared. "And then," he concluded, " I went to • the post-office and sent that telegram. I wasn't sure where to tell you to come, but I knew I wasn't far away from Newcastle, and I knew Cramlington was the nearest aerodrome to Newcastle. I had some of Big—er—Captain Bigglesworth's money left, so I was able to get here. I've got the rest of the money here—you'd better take it."

  "Never mind about that now," replied Algy shortly, and for a long time sat staring at the ground, deep in thought. "Do you think you could recognize that place—the hut, I mean—if you saw it from the air? "

  "Well, I've never been up, so I don't know, but I'll have a shot at it," answered Ginger frankly.

  " Come on, then; let's have a shot at it," returned Algy. He was now able to form a vague idea of what had happened after Biggles left him to inspect the mysterious flying-boat.

  As he worked it out, Biggles must have been caught by the crew and taken aboard; it landed again farther on and in some way he had effected his escape. Then he had met Ginger, but had been recaptured while the boy was fetching the car. If that was so, then there was good reason to suppose that he had been once more taken on board and flown away. In that case, the task of finding him within a radius of nearly two thousand miles, which was probably the machine's endurance range, was hopeless. On the other hand, the presence of the two men with the car who had intercepted Ginger suggested that the crew of the flying-boat had confederates ashore, as they had in Norfolk. In that case, it was not unreasonable to suppose that the flying-boat had departed before Biggles had been retaken. He was sure it would try to reach its base, wherever that might be, before dawn.

  If the flying-boat had left, then Biggles' captors would take him to their own headquarters, which would certainly be within striking distance of the place where the boat had landed. Moreover, the fact that such a short time had elapsed between Ginger's departure for the car, and his return, added weight to the supposition that the headquarters, or place from which the people on shore operated, was not far distant from the sea. The first thing to do, then, he decided, was to survey

  the area from the air, and draw such conclusions as were possible.

  Ginger literally trembled with excitement when Algy made him sit next to him in the seat which he himself usually occupied when Biggles was flying the machine; but nevertheless Algy was more than a little shaken by the boy's familiarity with the aeroplane and its component parts. "How do you know all this?" he asked.

  "Read about it," Ginger told him. "I read everything about flying that I can lay my hands on."

  "Well, I must say you haven't wasted your time," admitted Algy. "Now listen. I'm going to fly over the district where you were last night; as soon as you spot that railway-hut, touch me on the arm and point to it. Got that? "

  "O.K.," replied Ginger, gazing around with intense satisfaction as the aircraft soared into the air.

  Algy headed east and soon struck the coast. For the most part it was rugged, with no possible landing-place for a marine aircraft, except at one place, towards which he guided the machine. A flicker of understanding passed over his face as he spotted the concrete hut, identical with the one on the Norfolk coast. "So that's it, is it? " he mused as he throttled back and dropped down to a thousand feet, eyes probing every yard of the landscape in turn. He picked out the straight track of the narrow-gauge railway, and pointed it out to Ginger, who was gazing down with a rapt expression on his face.

  "That's it!" shouted Ginger excitedly, pointing with outstretched finger at a small black square at the junction of the sunken road and railway.

  Algy nodded, and making the hu
t his centre began circling in ever-widening circles, making a mental note of every building which might be used as a base by the people acting in conjunction with the flying-boat. Fortunately there were very few.

  There were some obviously disused buildings near an old mine-head, a pair of brand-new red-brick labourers' cottages, a solitary tavern, and one or two isolated farmhouses. One house in particular engaged his attention, the nearest one to the creek; it stood some distance back from the road and was almost hidden by a thick growth of ivy. To the north and east it was protected by a clump of wind-twisted fir-trees; on the western side was a sparse orchard and some ramshackle outbuildings; to the south, an overgrown drive wound through an avenue of trees to the road. "An ugly place," he thought; "anything could happen there." He jotted down a few notes on his writing-pad and made a quick sketch of the district, noting the positions of all the buildings in sight, and was about to turn away when something caught his eye. It was a common enough sight, an ordinary motor-car, but it was standing between two of the outbuildings of the ivy-covered house.

  Remembering what Ginger had told him about the punctured tyre he was tempted to fly low to make a closer examination, but decided it was too risky. If Biggles' abductors were there, he reasoned, they could hardly fail to be perturbed, after what had occurred, by a low-flying aeroplane. From the air he obtained a very good idea of the lay-out of the countryside and the environs of the ivy-covered house; then, feeling that he could do no more, he returned to the aerodrome.

  On the ground, he slowly removed his flying kit, and regarded Ginger thoughtfully. "

  What are you going to do now?" he asked.

  "What are you?" was the naïve reply. It came so pat that Algy was forced to smile, although he was in no mood for humour.

  "Me? Oh, I've got to set about finding Captain Bigglesworth," he said seriously.

  "Well, can't I help?"

  Algy blinked. "I don't know," he said slowly. "I forgot to thank you for sending me that telegram; you certainly used your initiative there, I must confess. I may need help, and you might be useful. Where were you going when you met Captain Bigglesworth?"

  "To London; to join the R.A.F."

  Algy raised his eyebrows. "So ho!" he said. "A budding airman, eh?"

  "I've been in bud for so long that it's getting time I burst into flower," Ginger told him quickly. "I know all about an aeroplane—except how to fly it."

  "I see," said Algy. "Well, look here, my lad, you can't be about like that."

  "Like what?"

  "In those rags."

  Ginger flushed. "They're the best I've got," he observed.

  "That's what I mean. Here's some money; add that to the change you've got left out of Captain Bigglesworth's money. Slip into Newcastle and get yourself a serviceable outfit and then come back here; I'm going to do a bit of scouting tonight."

  "You mean, round the house where the car was?" Algy opened his eyes wide. "So you spotted that, did you?" he asked.

  "Of course; I was on the lookout for a car; d'you think that's where they've got Biggles?"

  "It struck me as being the most likely place." "What are you going to do, go to the police?"

  "I suppose I should really, but they might mess the

  whole thing up. In the first place I should probably have

  a job to make them believe me, and, secondly, while they were pottering about getting search-warrants and so on, anything could happen. I feel inclined to have a prowl round myself first; if the job proves too big to handle I shall have to call in the police. But that's enough for the present; you get off to Newcastle for some clothes and some food and then come back. I'll get a car, one that I can drive myself, and we'll have a look round tonight."

  "O.K.; I'll be seeing you."

  Algy watched the little upright figure disappear briskly round the corner with a peculiar smile on his face. "I like the way that kid walks and the way he holds his head up," he mused, as he made his way towards the club-house.

  CHAPTER IV

  IN THE ENEMY CAMP

  BIGGLES, after Ginger had departed to fetch the car, made himself as comfortable as possible by the small fire, and prepared to wait. He was well aware that by keeping the fire alight he was taking a big risk of being found, but he had no alternative without running the risk of getting double pneumonia by sitting in soaking wet clothes for a couple of hours or more. However, he hoped that his pursuers had given up the chase.

  Once, shortly after Ginger's departure, he thought he heard a shout in the distance, but he was not sure. What he heard was Ginger's shout to lead the men with the car off the trail, but of course he was not to know that. With the lad out of the way he was able to arrange his coat and trousers, boots and socks, completely round the fire, while he himself crouched over it as near as he could get without actually burning himself. An hour passed slowly and he felt certain that Blackbeard and company had abandoned their search for him, so he threw the rest of the wood on to the fire, and soon had his clothes dry enough to put on. The fire died down to a heap of glowing embers, and although his twisted ankle was still giving him a good deal of pain he dropped off into a doze.

  He was awakened by a low growl from the open doorway, and looking up with a start could just make out the head of a large animal, its eyes reflecting the glow of the embers.

  He knew at once that it could only be a dog, so he did the best thing he could do in the circumstances;

  he spoke to the animal in a quiet caressing voice, hoping to put it at its ease. "What's the matter, old man?" he said coaxingly, but nevertheless ran his eye over the floor for a weapon in case the beast proved savage. The only answer he got was another growl, and as the dog came farther into the hut he saw that it was a large black Alsatian, a breed that has too much of the wolf in it to be either courageous or reliable. It growled again and showed its fangs wickedly. "All right, have it that way if you like; get out, you brute,"

  snapped Biggles.

  Instantly there was a shout outside. " Come on; here he is," cried a voice. There was a low whistle, which the dog quickly obeyed; it disappeared; heavy footsteps sounded just outside the open doorway.

  "Come on out of that," said a voice.

  Biggles stiffened, but made no reply. Had there been a door, he would have tried to hold the place until Ginger's return, trusting that he brought a driver who would stand by him; but as there was no door and he had no weapon, he was helpless.

  "Did you hear what I said?—outside!" repeated the voice venomously.

  Still Biggles made no reply. The muzzle of an automatic appeared in the doorway, slowly followed by a hand and arm, and then a face; Biggles recognized the man at once for one of those he had seen in the hut with Blackbeard.

  "Yes, what do you want?" he asked coldly.

  "I'll show you presently," replied the man, and then, to someone outside, "Serge, slip up and fetch the car; never mind that tyre; get it along somehow. And you sit still till you're told to move," he went on, nodding evilly at Biggles. "The boss wants a word with you."

  In two or three minutes the car came chugging down

  the road, with its driver cursing the faulty steering caused by the punctured tyre.

  "Come on, get in," said the man at the door. "You can either come on your feet or be knocked on the head and carried. If I had my way I should know how to deal with you."

  "Are you an Englishman?" asked Biggles curiously. "I was—till I did ten years at Dartmoor."

  "Well, I expect you deserved it; you'll do another ten shortly or I'm very much mistaken,"

  said Biggles, rising with difficulty and putting on his coat. Resistance was useless; he had no desire to add another injury to his damaged ankle, which was giving him quite enough trouble.

  "Stow that gab; step out and look lively." The man thrust the automatic roughly into Biggles' side as he limped out of the doorway. "You do what you're told—see," he snarled.

  Biggles climbed into the back seat of the ca
r, and the man got up beside him. "Off you go, Serge," he told the driver.

  The jolting of the damaged car up the rough road caused Biggles excruciating agony, and he was glad when it reached the main road. Presently it turned off down a lane, or drive, and pulled up in front of a fairly large house. He was dragged roughly out of the car and hurried up two flights of stairs into a room; the door slammed behind him and he was left alone. There was no artificial light, but sufficient starlight to see that the room was roughly furnished as a bedroom. He crossed at once to the window, but two iron bars had been screwed vertically over it, evidently in anticipation of his capture, and as far as he could make out from his limited field of view, a sheer drop of twenty or thirty feet into a courtyard lay

  below it. Escape that way, particularly in his present lame condition, was out of the question, and he quickly made up his mind that all he could do was to wait for daylight to get a better idea of his position.

  There were no blankets on the bed, and he passed a miserable night, or such as was left of it, but when dawn came he was glad to see that the swelling of his ankle had abated slightly. He rebound it firmly, using strips of his shirt for the purpose, which brought relief. At about eight o'clock the man with whom he had previously spoken brought him a jug of tea and some bread-and-butter, and departed without a word.

  Biggles was thankful for the food, for he was almost famished, and after eating it was about to make another survey of his prison when the sound of a car outside took him to the window, which he now saw overlooked some outbuildings and a grass-grown drive, up which a powerful car was approaching. He watched it curiously until it swung out of sight round a corner of the house, where he heard it stop. Almost immediately afterwards, heavy footsteps sounded on the uncarpeted stairs and the key of his room rattled in the lock.

  The door was pushed open and three men entered; one, who treated the others with deference, was the man who had been responsible for Biggles' capture; the other two were strangers, and that they were both foreigners was obvious at a glance. One, who seemed to be the senior, was an elderly, stoutly built man with a grey beard, high cheekbones, and piercing eyes. He wore a dark overcoat with an astrakhan collar. The other was lean, swarthy, with black hair and a drooping black moustache; his expression was cold and cruel, and he instantly reminded Biggles of someone he had seen on the films, a professional killer in a gangster picture.