Von Stalhein took a quick pace forward, peering. "Ach so!" he said in a voice that revealed the extent of his satisfaction. "This is a pleasure."
"If it is," replied Biggles evenly, "it's all yours."
BER TIE TAKES A TURN
MEANWHILE, following the explosion, Ginger, more than a little worried, had led his tired party on to the hide-out where Bertie and Mayne were waiting. Twice during the march they had been overtaken by escaping Koreans or Orochons. They had stood aside to let them pass. Otherwise, there had been no incident of any sort.
Bertie, of course, was delighted to see the party, for he assumed, naturally, that the expedition had been entirely successful; but his expression changed when Ginger expressed his fears for Biggles' safety. Bertie had heard the explosion, and, as he said, supposed it to have been caused by Biggles who had decided to liquidate the enemy camp.
Ginger, sitting with his back to a tree while Bertie brewed tea, ran over his earlier adventures with Biggles,
and narrated his own from the time they had parted company. "If Petroffsky hasn't come this way then he must also be in the enemy camp somewhere," he concluded. "Of course, he may have stayed with Biggles, but I don't think that's likely. I'm pretty sure Bic.,les would try to get rid of him. The fellow was as drunk as an owl and would only be in the way. Biggles was pretty browned off with him when he left me."
"If Petroffsky was tight he might have lost himself in the beastly bogs," opined Bertie, handing out mugs of tea.
"Personally, I couldn't care less," asserted Ginger.
"The point is, old boy, what do we do next—if you get my meaning?" inquired Bertie. "
Do we wait here, or do we toddle along, or what do we do?"
"It isn't much use wasting time here if Biggles is in a jam back in the camp," answered Ginger. "I think somebody ought to go and see what's happened to him. I hoped he'd overtake us; and I think he would have done had he started soon after the explosion which must have made a mess of things and caused a general flap. If someone does go back the chances are that he'll meet Biggles, in which case so well and good. I'd go myself, but to tell the truth I'm dead on my feet. I don't think I could do it."
"What would Biggles say about it, I wonder?" murmured Bertie.
"I can tell you that right away," returned Ginger. "His orders were that the party was to make straight for the aircraft."
"Well, Mayne could take the crowd along. He knows the way," averred Bertie. "If you like I'll toddle back to the camp to see what's cooking there. I know the direction. I'm browned off with sitting here, having my hide perforated by mosquitoes, flies, ticks, beetles, and what have you. Let Mayne take the party to the aircraft. You curl up here and have a snooze. I'll go back. Biggles will find you if we miss each other in the dark.
How does that sound to
you?"
"I can't think of anything better," agreed Ginger. "Good enough; then let's get it organised," said Bertie. "Is the idea okay with you, Mayne?"
Mayne, who had been listening to the conversation, answered that it was. He could find his way back without difficulty. Moreover he could speak the local language should his party have trouble with the refugee slaves.
And so it was decided. Mayne set off with the scientists, saying that the others would find him waiting when they got back to the island.
Ginger gave Bertie directions for finding the lignite diggings, after which he should be able easily to follow the slave trail to the camp. "Keep on the track," he urged, as Bertie set off, "otherwise you may miss Biggles in the dark."
As soon as he was alone he stretched himself on the ground with a sigh of relief and settled down to wait.
Bertie trudged along quite happily towards the scene of the recent explosion. As he had remarked, after hanging about all day, a prey to the voracious insects, he was glad to have something to do. He met several Koreans, alone or in bands, but he took no notice of them. They ignored him, no doubt taking him to be one of themselves.
But when he had gone some distance he was not a little astonished to hear a man singing.
The sound came from ahead. He stopped to listen, and soon observed that the singer was coming towards him. What song the man sang he did not know, for the tune had a strange haunting lilt, and the words were in a language unknown to him.
haunting
that it was no tongueless Korean was evident.
Presently the singer could be seen in the soft moonlight and it was the fact that he swayed slightly as he walked that provided Bertie with a clue to his identity. Being concerned only with Biggles he had forgotten all about Petroffsky. Now, as the distance between them closed, the • style of his dress was certain confirmation, for Biggles had described the man after their first meeting.
Bertie now made a blunder; at least, he thought so for a time. He revealed himself, thinking that the Russian might be able to tell him something about Biggles. He might even know his present whereabouts, for according to Ginger's narrative the two had recently been together.
"What-ho, old Muscovite warrior! " he hailed cheerfully.
Petroffsky's song ended abruptly. "Who speak?" he demanded suspiciously.
"A friend of Bigglesworth and your old pal Mayne," replied Bertie, still walking on.
"A friend of Bigglesworth is a friend of Alex Petroffsky," swore the Russian. "Have you any vodka?"
"Sorry, old boozer, not a tot," answered Bertie.
"If you were not a friend of Bigglesworth you would be no friend of mine for admitting such a thing," declared Petroffsky. "In this country a man who travels without vodka has forfeited his right to live."
"Absolutely," agreed Bertie, "absolutely. But tell me, my merry old toper, where is Bigglesworth?"
"Would I know that?" The Russian seemed surprised.
"But look here, I say, haven't you been with him?"
"Yes. But I have been asleep since then. I was awakened by thunder."
"You were awakened, old Cossack, by an explosion of no small dimensions," corrected Bertie. "Were you near it?"
"Who knows? I might have been. Who blew up what?" "That," answered Bertie, "is a long story, and I've no time to tell it now. So long."
"But wait! Where are you going?"
"To find Bigglesworth."
"I will come with you," declared Petroffsky.
"Don't trouble, old warbler. I can manage," said Bertie quickly, perceiving suddenly that his encounter was likely to have embarrassing consequences.
"No—no. Back I must go," said the Russian. "I have just remembered, those sons of swine took my rifle, my favourite tiger slayer. I will not go without it."
"All right," agreed Bertie reluctantly. "But if you come with me, you know, you'll have to cut out the crooning. Tell me, where did you last see Bigglesworth?"
"In the house of a gentleman named von Stalhein. An amiable fellow, although your friend seemed to think he was a rascal; but at least he offered me hospitality."
"Ah! He toted the old vodka bottle, I suppose?"
"Freely."
"Don't flatter yourself that it was out of the goodness of his heart or because he admired your noble countenance," asserted Bertie. "Nor was it to tickle your palate, my jolly old shikaree. It was merely to lubricate your vocal system."
"Could a man be so base?" questioned Petroffsky, looking aghast.
"Von Stalhein's methods are so low that no one has yet got to the bottom of them—if you see what I mean?" declared Bertie cheerfully. "But how long is it since this display of conviviality occurred?"
The Russian shrugged. "A short time ago. Or perhaps a long time. I'm not altogether clear about it."
"Did you leave Bigglesworth there?"
"He sent me home," replied Petroffsky sadly. "I remember starting, but soon after something must have hap- pened. Perhaps I fell asleep. Who knows? But does it matter?
Let us go back. You shall find the gallant Bigglesworth and I will find my rifle."
"Good enough
, old soaker," agreed Bertie, but without enthusiasm, for he had an uneasy suspicion that his companion was more likely to be a hindrance than a helper.
This became a conviction when, as they walked along, Petroff sky kept up a running fire of talk in a voice so loud that anything like the cautious approach he had planned had to be abandoned. They met more Koreans and Orochons who, for the most part, darted into the rushes at the sight of them. Bertie observed that it looked as if all the slaves were out and running wild. Petroffsky professed complete indifference.
As they approached the precincts of the camp more signs of disorder became apparent.
At one place the dry grass was on fire, and while the flames bathed the scene in a lurid light a belt of drifting smoke made it difficult to see what was going on behind it. Men were there trying to extinguish the fire. They appeared mostly to be Mongols, although there were a few Koreans with them. A dead Korean was lying in the grass. Petroffsky said he must have been shot trying to escape. He pointed to von Stalhein's house. "My rifle is there. I shall fetch it," he
announced. "There is also, unless it has been removed, a bottle in which I am interested,"
he added softly.
"You take my tip and keep your elbow straight while we're in this joint," Bertie told him seriously as they strode towards the building.
The Russian walked straight in and Bertie followed. Fortunately perhaps for both of them the place had been abandoned. At all events they saw no one. Petroff sky uttered a cry of joy, and patted his rifle affectionately as he collected it from the corner in which it stood.
When he turned to the table, however, the bottle was not there, for Bertie had taken the opportunity of slipping it into his pocket. The Russian sighed his disappointment. "Who shall we put to death first?" he asked casually.
"What's the hurry?" inquired Bertie. "Do you have to shoot somebody?"
"It would be a good thing to do," replied Petroffsky seriously. "To kill a few men always discourages the others. Besides, these Bolsheviks laid hands on me—me, Alexis Petroffsky—and for that alone they deserve death."
"Now, you listen to me, my nimble Nimrod," said Bertie crisply. "If you're going to start off by pooping at people you'll get us both put to death. If you're going to indulge in a beastly orgy of wholesale slaughter you push along and play by yourself. I came here to find Bigglesworth."
"Then let us find him first," suggested Petroff sky. "When we have done that we might have a little sport with the rifle. How's that?"
"All right, but wait till I'm out of the way," requested Bertie. "I shall save my cartridges until I need them."
"But this rogue who calls himself a prince is nothing but a common deserter," argued Petroffsky, as they left the building. "He should not be allowed to live."
"All I ask, my old sabre-rattler, is that you wait till I'm out of your line of fire," answered Bertie wearily. He walked on hoping that the Russian would now leave him; but in this he was disappointed. Petroffsky kept pace with him, telling him in a loud voice a lurid story of some Chinese deserters.
From a short distance they paused to watch the Mongols who were still striving to beat out the burning grass. No one appeared to notice them, so they walked on, with Bertie beginning to wonder if he was not wasting his time. In the darkness surrounding the fire he could see nothing. He had no idea of, the layout of the camp and, as he now realised, he hardly knew what he was looking for. It was unlikely that Biggles would be walking about the camp so the chances of meeting him seemed remote. Presently his companion called attention to a large building that loomed up before them, towards which they had been drawn by a lighted window.
"This is a place of importance," declared Petroffsky. "Let us burn it down. A good fire is what we need for accurate shooting."
Bertie did not answer. He stared at the building, wondering if by any chance this was the prison hut to which Ginger had referred. He was not to know that the prisoners' quarters had been demolished by the explosion; so, really, it was from lack of any definite plan that he walked on for a closer view. Petroffsky remained with him.
As they drew nearer Bertie suddenly caught his companion by the arm as from the open window came the sound of voices. "Go easy, old sharpshooter," he ordered. "What have we here?" Approaching warily, the first thing he saw was an oil lamp standing on a table.
This illuminated a scene that brought him to an abrupt halt. A sharp intake of breath expressed his astonishment, and perhaps dismay.
There were some seven or eight men in the room, one or two sitting, but most of them standing. In either case it was clear from their attitudes that a conference of importance was in progress, although there was nothing surprising about this considering the explosion and the effect of it on the camp. But the crux of the situation, Bertie thought, was a figure that sat a little apart from the others, for on him all eyes were turned. It was Biggles. Behind him, a revolver in one hand and his whip in the other, was the gigantic Mongol slavemaster, Ming. Von Stalhein was there, in the group, as was also the man who called himself Prince Ling Soo—at least, so Bertie assumed, from his comic-opera style of Oriental dress. He was speaking fiercely, punctuating his words with the eloquent waving of a formidable dagger. Bertie, of course, did not know what the man was saying, but he had a pretty good idea. If his gestures were an indication, he was advocating the immediate dispatch of the prisoner, the man responsible for the present state of affairs. From time to time one or two of the others present seemed to make some attempts to intervene, but without much success.
How Bertie, had he been alone, would have handled this situation, will never be known.
The same may be said of Biggles. Neither had any opportunity of putting into effect any plan that may have been made. Bertie, pistol in hand, was still watching Ling Soo, who was chattering like an enraged ape, when an explosion occurred so close to his head that he thought his ear drums were shattered. As a matter of detail he suffered from the effects of it for a week. Even so, he realised what had happened. Petroffsky had fired his rifle.
Ling Soo's words were cut off short and he crumpled like an empty sack. But even before his body had reached the ground a second shot caused the oil lamp to disintegrate in a shower of glass. The room was plunged into darkness, but from it came such a medley of sounds as might be expected to result from such a situation.
Bertie's first reaction was fury with the Russian for taking matters into his own hands.
But the thing was done, so no good purpose could be served by arguing about it now.
Ignoring Petroffsky, who was bellowing with what seemed to be singularly ill-timed glee, Bertie tried to get in through the window, only to be knocked backwards by a man who sprang out. Picking himself up, not a little shaken, he saw that it was the big Mongolian. He fired at him from a sitting position, but missed. Ming was taking deliberate aim at him when Petroffsky's rifle came down on his head with a crack that stretched him flat on the ground. By this time others were pouring through the door of the house. Petroff sky, laughing, fired at them with such abandon that Bertie turned on him furiously, for he was afraid that one of these casual shots would hit Biggles. There was obviously a good chance of it. However, at this moment Biggles jumped through the window, and his arrival saved any further argument.
Bertie called to him, and would have left the crazy Russian to his own devices, for he was still keeping up a brisk fusillade on the door. Biggles shouted to him to stop it, telling him that it was time to go. Indeed, this was made the more imperative by flames leaping up inside the room, giving more light than was desirable. Moreover, several of the Mongolians who had been trying to put out the grass fire came running towards the scene, attracted by this new commotion.
Said Biggles, tersely, to Bertie: "Come on. Let's get out of this." He started to walk away.
Petroff sky, to Bertie's disappointment, followed them, although he sometimes stopped to fight a minor rearguard action on his own account, singing all the while in a
rich baritone voice. However, presently he overtook them, and hailed Biggles joyfully. He had an idea.
There was bound to be vodka in the camp. It should not take them long to find it.
Biggles told him with scant ceremony that he could stay and drink himself to death if he liked, but he personally was going home.
Bertie silenced the bitter lamentations that broke from Petroffsky's lips at this decision by telling him that he had a bottle in his pocket, which he would give him presently if he would save his ammunition and keep quiet.
Thereafter, for a time, the Russian fell silent.
Biggles took the path that led to the lignite diggings and the others followed in single file.
From the rear, a crimson glow cast its reflection on the sky. As Bertie observed, it looked as if the ambitious Prince had lost his palace as well as his life.
THE BATTLE OF KOSSURI
BIGGLES and his small party marched on for some distance. It was not long before the garrulous Cossack, in spite of Bertie's warning, was talking and laughing again, and made such frequent requests for the promised bottle that it was at last given to him as the only possible means of keeping him quiet—at any rate, for a time.
37 Biggles Gets His Men Page 14