"We're lost," observed Biggles coolly, switching off the engine, "lost to the world. And we're hex e for the night, by the look of it," he added, nodding towards the sun, which, sinking in the west in a blaze of crimson glory, cast a ruddy glow over the black waters of the swamp.
"We had better see about making camp," suggested Algy, reaching out for an overhanging branch and pulling the machine towards the bank, which at this place seemed to offer a fairly secure foothold. "We may find the lagoon by cutting through here," he suggested.
"And lose our way back to the machine ! Not if I know it,' declared Biggles grimly "Let's get a fire going to keep off the mosquitoes; take a can of petrol ashore and the suitcases to sit on."
III
Darkness fell with tropical suddenness and found them squatting round a fire in a little open space some fifteen or
twenty yards from the amphibian. The ground was soft and quaked under their feet as they walked, but it was the best place they could find. It was devoid of any sort of grass or undergrowth, and the gnarled trunks of the encircling mangroves, distorted by the flickering firelight, assumed curious life-like forms and cast long serpentine shadows across the clearing.
Weird noises, in which the choking grunt of an alligator could alone be distinguished, came from the inky darkness outside the radius of firelight; something heavy was dragging itself through the ooze by the water's edge.
"This place gives me the creeps," muttered Algy in a low voice. "Let's get some more wood and build the fire up." He arose and reached up for a dead, overhanging bough. It broke off with a snap and shed an army of small living creatures over the ground around them, creatures that scuttled away with a faint rustling noise among the dead leaves.
Biggles and Smyth sprang to their feet.
"Look what you're doing, you fool," snapped Biggles in a tense voice, reaching out for the fallen limb to drag it to the fire; but he sprang aside with a shuddering "Ugh!" "Look at that thing!" he gasped, pointing to a bloated foot-long centipede that had disengaged itself from the bark and was slithering away with a loathsome concertina-like movement.
He laughed, a short uneasy laugh. "Let's take things quietly," he said, seating himself again by the fire.
They smoked for some time in silence. A great bat, silent as a shadow, wheeled once round the clearing and disappeared into the darkness whence it came.
"What's that?" ejaculated Algy suddenly.
Biggles followed the outstretched finger to where two red orbs glowed dully just outside the circle of light. "Croc., I suppose," replied Biggles tersely.
Presently the eyes were joined by another pair, another, and yet another. Here and there smaller pairs of green lamps appeared, motionless, facing the fire. Before long they were in the centre of a circle of silent watchers.
Algy jumped to his feet, snatched a smouldering brand from the fire and hurled it with a shrill yell at a segment of the circle. Every light, went out instantly as if they had been extinguished by a master-switch. Algy laughed, a high falsetto laugh. "Wretched things,"
he muttered as he sat down.
The lights switched on again at once: large eyes, small eyes, yellow, red, and green eyes, silent and unwinking.
Biggles rose abruptly. "I'm going to fetch the gun," he said shortly; "we'll see what a shot or two'll do."
"I'll come with you," said Algy quickly.
Smyth also rose to his feet, and without another word they followed the pilot to where the amphibian was moored. Something heavy slithered away in the darkness and an army of crabs on tall, stilt-like legs scuttled before them into the water as they reached the bank.
Biggles had raised his foot to step on board, but he flung himself backward with a sharp cry of alarm.
"What's that?" he muttered in a voice which he strove to keep steady.
Algy peered forward. Dimly in the gloom he could see a large black object piled up just behind the pilot's seat.
It was moving, very, very slowly, with a sinuous gliding movement.
Algy backed away quickly, clutching Biggles's arm. "Snake !" he said in a hoarse whisper. "What a size!"
For a moment they stood, staring, hesitating. "Let's get back to the fire," snapped Biggles.
"The blessed thing will soon be out if we don't do something about it," observed Algy. "
Let's see if these leaves will burn—ah !" He nearly screamed as a great moth nearly struck him in the face as it whirled an erratic course across the clearing. "Curse this place
!" he cried irritably, and began scraping a pile of fallen leaves together with his foot. He paused, bending low. "Biggles," he said in a strained voice, "what on earth are these things?"
The pilot struck a match and held it near the ground. "Leeches," he said thickly, "millions of 'em. Great Scott! We'll have to get out of here somehow."
"How—how?" cried Algy frantically.
"I don't know," admitted Biggles; "we must be hundreds of miles from the nearest—hark !"
The three airmen stood rigid, like figures carved in stone, frozen into attitudes of tense expectancy. Biggles flung up his arm as if to ward off a blow. "I'm mad," he muttered under his breath, "mad !"
Clear-cut in the silence of the tropic night came the bell-like notes of a piano, the vibrating waves of sound rising and falling in the majestic cadence of Elgar's "Salut d'
Amour."
A long peal of hysterical laughter broke from Algy's lips.
The music stopped abruptly, in the middle of a bar.
"Stop that," snarled Biggles, swinging round at Smyth, who was muttering incoherently.
Stooping swiftly he flung open his suitcase and took out a shirt. He broke a stick from a tree, bound the shirt round one end of it and then saturated it with petrol from the tin they had brought ashore. He thrust the improvised torch into the fire and then raised it like a blazing beacon high above his head. "Come on!" he cried, starting forward, and then stared unbelievingly at a man in immaculate evening dress who had stepped into the circle of light.
"What on earth are you fellows doing here?" asked a quiet, well-bred voice.
For a moment the airmen could only stand and stare. "Well--er—I'm not quite sure,"
blurted out Biggles. "We were flying—had a forced landing. We came down on a lake, or river, but drifted out of it and lost ourselves."
"The lake is just here, through the trees—so is my bungalow. The plantation is a bit lower down. I've just been down there, so I suppose that is why I didn't hear you land.
My boy said something about an aeroplane in the fog, but I didn't believe him. By the way, where's your machine?"
"Just over here," replied Biggles, in a dazed voice, "but there's a very nasty passenger on board at the moment." "What do you mean?"
"A snake of enormous dimensions has taken up its quarters behind the pilot's seat."
"A snake? Let's go and look," said the stranger, taking the torch from Biggles's hand.
The airmen followed him to the machine. He held the torch aloft and a chuckle came from his throat.
"Why, it's Penelope!" he said, stepping forward and fondling the snake's flat head affectionately. "What are you doing here, old girl? She's my pet python," he explained, "
gentle as a kitten. She roosts in the bungalow; I have just let her out for her evening ramble. Come on; let's go and get a drink—come on, Penelope."
CHAPTER I 0
THREE WEEKS
THE SUN was setting in a blaze of scarlet and gold over the Indian Ocean as Biggles slowly made his way through the heterogeneous throng of humanity in the Delhi Road, Karachi, towards the Orient Hotel, where he had left Algy, who, reposing near a punkah with an iced drink at his elbow, had declined Biggles's invitation to take a look round the town. Undeterred, Biggles had wended his way alone from street to street and was now returning to the Orient for dinner.
At the corner of Temple Square, with his eyes on a street carpetseller, rather than on his line of march, he collide
d violently with a slim, white-clad European who was coming in the opposite direction. The apology that rose automatically to his lips remained unuttered as he found himself staring into a rather tired face, upon which flashed a smile of instant recognition.
"Well; by the sacred turnbuckle of Saint Patrick, if it isn't Pat O'Neilson! Hallo, Pat !"
"Hullo, Biggles! what brings you to this part of the world; I heard you'd left the Service?"
Biggles nodded. "I have," he said. "I no longer aviate aircraft decorated with the red-white-and-blue target.
At the moment I'm beetling towards England, home and beauty in a rather dilapidated amphibian."
"Good heavens ! Then it was you mixed up in that affair with Li Chi at Rangoon; there's been a queer tale going round about an aircraft helping him out, and I heard the name Bigglesworth mentioned as the pilot."
"I don't know how it's leaked out, but it's true enough," admitted Biggles. "It was I, and young Algy Lacey—you remember Algy? He's with me now. What are you doing here?
You're not looking too good if I may say so."
A shadow flickered across the tired blue eyes of the Irishman, eyes that had once probed the skies of France from the cockpit of an R.A.F. Spitfire. "What about a spot of hospitality?" he suggested.
Biggles smiled. "Lead on Macduff. What's the trouble, Pat?" he continued when they had settled themselves in a quiet corner. "You look harassed."
The other shrugged his shoulders. "I am," he admitted. "We all are."
"Who's we?"
0' Neilson dropped his voice to a whisper. "Intelligence."
Biggles pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. "So that's it," he muttered. "I might have guessed. Weren't you posted to H.Q. Intelligence in France after you were busted up by that Messerschmitt near Estree?"
O'Neilson nodded. "Sure," he said softly; "that was the way of ut, and here I am, still at ut."
"Ticklish job out here nowadays, I should think."
"It is, since the British bulldog lost his teeth or forgot how to bite," muttered O'Neilson bitterly. "But it's the Great White Bear that worries us."
"Russia?"
O'Neilson flashed a swift, uneasy glance around that remained fixed on a short, swarthy, heavily moustached man who was just entering the saloon. Almost imperceptibly the Irishman turned his chair until his back was towards the newcomer. "Speak of the devil !
" he breathed.
"Who's the enemy?" asked Biggles softly.
"He's the fly in the ointment, the thorn in the flesh; in other words, the Big Noise behind the Hammer and Sickle in this part of the world. We call him Ivan Nikitoff, because we think that's his real name, but he has many others."
"But I thought you people were experts at removing splinters," protested Biggles.
O'Neilson grimaced. "Used to be. It isn't so easy now, with a crowd in the operating theatre, so to speak, watching every move. That man is Russia's prize piece of furniture in the East. He holds the strings between Baghdad and Bombay, and when he pulls 'em things buzz. We've got a big show on at the moment over this Persian business, and he's the man who's going to spike our guns—if he can. Normally his headquarters are in Teheran, and his presence here means that he's on the job. And if you want to know the real cause of the furrow on my brow, well, he's it."
"Is that so?" mused Biggles reflectively. "Why not remove him to a safe place until it's all over?"
"How?"
"Don't ask me—that's your job. I should take him for a ride, like they do in America."
O'Neilson smiled wanly. "As crude as ever, I see. Can you see him stepping into an R.A.
F. machine, or accepting our invitation to take a sea-cruise in one of our battleships?" he said. "Still, it would be worth something to have him out of the way."
"How much, I wonder?" said Biggles softly.
O'Neilson started, caught Biggles's eye, and then looked away quickly. Then he looked at his watch, thoughtfully. "What about having a bite with me at my club?" he suggested. "
Algy won't miss you."
"Good idea," agreed Biggles.
II
The following morning Biggles was rudely awakened by the abrupt entry of Algy into his room, still in pyjamas, a cup of tea in one hand, and a newspaper in the other.
"What's all this nonsense?" demanded Algy, holding out the newspaper with an irritable flourish.
"What are you talking about?" inquired Biggles tersely. "Who's responsible for this tripe?"
Biggles took the proffered paper, eyes on the paragraph indicated by his irate partner, and read:
WORLD-FLYERS IN KARACHI
Major James Bigglesworth, D.S.O., who had a brilliant record as a pilot during the war, landed yesterday at Karachi. His flight, which has already embraced more than half the globe,
will be continued tomorrow towards England by a new route Istarain, Teheran, and the Black Sea ports. He is flying a Vickers "Vandal" amphibian aircraft with an assistant pilot and a mechanic. The airmen are staying at the Orient Hotel.
"Well," observed Biggles with a smile, as he looked up from the printed page, "what do you know about that?" "Did you go crazy or something last night?"
Biggles looked pained. "Me crazy!" he protested. "Don't be foolish. Someone's seen our machine on the tarmac and done a bit of guessing; that's all there is to it."
"Well, let's push on, for heaven's sake, before all the fabric is stripped off the machine by souvenir-hunters. We'll be dogged to death by baboo photographers if we stay here, and if my guv'nor sees my mug in the papers he'll throw a fit; he hates publicity."
"So do I. All right; I'm ready when you are. Let's hit the breeze for Gwadir—I suppose we shall follow the Imperial route?"
"Of course. Well, get a move on," snapped Algy as he left the room.
Biggles had barely finished dressing when a boy arrived with half a dozen cards on a tray, and the information that the gentlemen who had tendered them were waiting below.
He hurried along the corridor to Algy's room and opened the door. "Buck up," he said, "
or we shall never get out; the first of the storm-troops are below."
"The who?"
Biggles cast a casual eye over the slips of paste-board in his hand. "H. F. Carruthers, 12th Bengalis," he read.
"Looks like a lad looking for a free flip home. J. L. Browner, Bombay Argus; F, L.
Winters, West Indian Photographic Agency; Sirdar Ali Sha—wonder what he wants?"
"Tell 'em all there's nothing doing," said Algy bluntly, picking up his bag.
"I have," replied Biggles simply, "or at least, I've told the boy to tell 'em."
A sound of voices, coming along the corridor, reached their ears, and the next moment the door was pushed open and an athletic young man entered, followed by a protesting native servant.
"Listen, chaps," began the young man apologetically; "I'm Carruthers of the 12th. I sent my card up. I've got three months' leave, starting today, and I'm full out to get home as quickly as possible
"
"Then you'd better go by Imperial Airways; we aren't leaving for a fortnight yet."
The subaltern's face fell. "Oh!" he groaned. "The paper said
"
"Yes, I know it did, but the paper knows nothing about it. Sorry."
"So am I," confessed the crestfallen officer. "Cheerio; sorry to have butted in."
"Don't mention it," returned Biggles, and then, turning to Algy, "Come on, laddie; let's hoof it or we shall be pestered to death."
"Pardon, gentlemen!"
Both pilots swung round as the words reached them from the direction of the door; they found themselves
looking into the sombre face of a heavily moustached man carrying a fur coat over his arm. "I beg your pardon for this intrusion," he went on, "which only circumstances of extreme urgency could warrant. May I present myself; my name is Sirdar Ali Sha."
"I'm sorry, sir, but if you are looking for a joy-ride I'm afraid there's nothing doi
ng,"
interrupted Biggles. "We are leaving in a few minutes for Gwadir, on our way to England."
"That is what I understand," nodded their visitor imperturbably. "I believe you are going via Persia and the Black Sea ports?"
"That is our intention."
"May I ask if you have the authority of the Persian Government to fly over its territory?"
Biggles started. "No, we haven't," he confessed, "but we do not anticipate any difficulty.
Most National Aero Clubs extend their courtesy to foreign pilots."
"That may be so, but there are exceptions. It so happens that I have received an urgent message, a very urgent message, demanding my immediate presence in Teheran. I noticed the paragraph in the paper this morning and have called to see if we could reach an agreement. I am quite willing to pay any reasonable sum for my passage, and in addition I could furnish you with documents that might make your welcome in Persia—and Russia—more sincere than it might otherwise be. I would also mention that I am not a stranger to the air."
Biggles hesitated. "Well," he said, "we don't normally take passengers, and, frankly, I don't feel like establishing
a precedent. After all, although we do not anticipate any trouble, accidents do happen, and should such a calamity occur we should feel morally responsible for any injury that you might suffer."
A shadow flitted across the heavy face of their visitor, and he looked at the two pilots for a moment, searchingly, before he replied. "Of course," he said slowly. "Still, you are both experienced pilots and I am quite willing to take the risk. In fact, I am willing to give you a letter completely exonerating you from blame in case anything untoward should occur."
Again Biggles hesitated. "All right," he said slowly at last; "if my partner agrees; and provided we can arrive at a financial understanding, I will take you. But I must make it quite clear that you come at your own risk and that I cannot definitely guarantee time of arrival."
04 Biggles Flies Again Page 10