by W E Johns
Swiftly he made his way to the cabin door and looked out. In the dim starlight he could just see that in all directions except one the ground was flat, a wilderness of dry earth and coarse grass; but behind the machine, some fifty to a hundred yards away beyond the tail, a sombre, blurred mass rose high into the night sky. From the ragged outline of the top he could just make out that it was either the edge of a forest or a clump of trees. But of Leroux there was neither sight nor sound. What the man was doing in such a place he could not imagine; nor did he care particularly, for his main idea still was to get the machine into the air and back to Insula with all possible speed. As near as he could judge they had been in the air about twenty minutes to half an hour, which meant that Insula was at least fifty miles away, but in what direction he could only guess. That did not worry him; once in the air he could cruise round in a wide circle until he saw a landmark he recognized, after which the location of the aerodrome would be a fairly simple matter.
His next move was a mistake. Later, and in the very near future, he realized it, but at the moment he was so taken up with the idea of getting away before Leroux returned that he proceeded with the plan to the exclusion of everything else. A hundred yards was all the distance needed to get the lightly loaded machine off the ground, and it was with the object of examining the surface that he jumped out and ran quickly for a little way in the direction in which the nose of the machine was pointing. He may have gone seventy or eighty yards; then he stopped, peering into the gloom. Satisfied that the course was clear, he was about to turn back to the machine when a low, choking grunt brought him round with a rush to the point whence it came, which was a few yards to the right. To his horror he saw a dark form rise slowly out of the grass. From the centre of it two orbs of green light glowed balefully.
Too late he realized what he had almost forgotten: that he was not on a European aerodrome but in untamed Africa. To say that he was petrified with fright is to express his sensations but mildly. He was not rooted to the ground, as the saying is, but he felt as if he was. At least, he was quite unable to move, although he wanted to run more than ever in his life before. Fortunately, he did not do so, or this story might have had a different ending. He just stood and stared, moistening his dry lips with his tongue. The creature, whatever it was—for he did not know for certain, although he supposed it to be a lion—did not move either, and thus they remained for several seconds.
At the end of that time he began to think more clearly, and remembering his automatic, he took it out and levelled it. At the precise moment that his finger was tightening on the trigger there came a sound that put a new complexion on the situation. It was the door of the Dragon being slammed. Simultaneously, the green orbs went out as abruptly as electric lights that have been switched off. The Dragon’s engines roared. The noise threw him into a condition of hopeless despair such as he had never before experienced, but there was little time to dwell upon the calamity. With a bellow that shook the earth the engines roared full out, and an instant later he saw the black bulk of the machine rushing towards him. For a second he stood transfixed; then he flung himself flat as the machine swept past him not five yards away, the wing-tips actually passing over his recumbent body.
He was up in a moment, staring wild-eyed at the spot where the lion had been. It was no longer there. Quickly he looked round, but the beast had completely disappeared. Nevertheless, the relief he experienced at this discovery was more than a little squashed when he realized that he was alone on the veldt.
But was he? When he thought about it he was by no means sure, and he would have been far more comfortable in his mind had he been certain of it. What was to be done ? He must think —think.
What would Biggles do in a case like this, he asked himself, but he could find no answer until a solitary tree about a hundred yards away caught his eye. To his distraught mind it was like an island to a shipwrecked mariner, and he started off towards it with more haste than dignity; but he had not taken a dozen paces when, happening to glance over his shoulder, his worst fears were realized. The lion was trotting along behind him. He stopped. The lion stopped.
He could see it clearly now, see the great tufted tail switching from side to side. The desire to run was almost uncontrollable, but the first shock of horror having worn off, he had the sense to realize the folly of it, for there is no creature on earth that can outdistance a lion over a hundred yards, which it can cover in three or four mighty springs.
Slowly, still watching the beast, he began to edge nearer to the tree, a move to which the lion instantly responded by uttering a low growl. It reminded him of what he had once read in a book, that all wild animals are afraid of the sound of the human voice. Forthwith he proceeded to put this to the test. The noise that emanated from his dry throat was by no means a triumphant shout; to him it sounded more like a plaintive howl, so the test was hardly a fair one. In any case it failed, for the lion took not the slightest notice of it, but stood its ground, regarding him with significant interest.
Ginger, in his despair, remembered something else, and he could have kicked himself for not thinking of it earlier. In his pocket was a box of matches. It was the work of a moment to find it and drop a lighted match into the dry grass. To his infinite relief a little tongue of flame licked hungrily round his shoes. There was no breeze to help it, but the grass was tinder dry, and crackled cheerfully as the flames began to spread in a little circle. It had the disadvantage of making it difficult to see clearly what lay outside the radius of light, but he could just make out the form of the lion backing slowly away, and he offered a prayer of thankfulness.
Following up his advantage, he walked to the outside of the circle of fire on the side nearest to the tree and repeated the performance. Thereafter the gaining of his goal became only a matter of time, although he had some anxious moments as he crossed small areas of bare earth, similar to those that occurred at Insula, which he knew were caused by the levelling of ant-hills.
He had rather a job to climb the lower part of the tree, for the trunk was bare of branches, but his fears lent him unsuspected strength, and he managed to find a secure perch in a fork fairly near the top, from which he regarded with disfavour the fires he had started; for while they were burning only in a desultory sort of way, the smoke hung about and made his eyes and throat smart unmercifully. However, on the whole he had little cause for complaint, he decided, as he settled down to review the state of affairs, trying to muster the facts into some sort of coherent order.
First of all there was Biggles and Algy. What would they be thinking? They would have heard the Dragon take off, of course, and rush to the spot. What would they do then? What could they do, stranded as they were at Insula, without transport and hopelessly cut off from civilization? And Leroux? Where had he taken the machine? Wherever it was, there seemed small chance of recovering it. Why had he done it? Obviously, either to leave them stranded or to curtail their activities; to prevent them from finding—what? In either case it was a cunning move; Ginger was forced to admit that. How had Leroux achieved it? How had he managed to take off in the Puss, yet return to the aerodrome so quickly on foot?—for it was certain that he had not landed in an aeroplane. That would have been impossible without its being heard. These were questions for which he could find no answer, and which time alone might explain.
Somehow or other he had got to get back to Insula, there was no doubt about that, for it was useless to expect Biggles or Algy to come to his assistance when they could have no idea of where he was. In which direction was Insula? It gave him a severe jolt when he was forced to admit to himself that he did not know, although if Biggles’s theory had been correct when they had discussed why the Puss Moth had taken off towards the east, Insula ought to lie in an easterly direction. Biggles had contended that Leroux’s easterly take-off had been only a blind—that his real destination lay to the west. Following that line of argument, the Dragon would have been on a westerly course when it landed,
and if that were so, then Insula must now be to the east. But even if this assumption were correct, the thought of walking fifty or sixty miles across wild-beast-infested country without a rifle, and without food or water, appalled him; yet he could see no alternative if he was ever to get back.
At last, with his brain aching from the contemplation of so many vital problems, he leaned back with a sigh of weariness and prepared to wait for the dawn.
CHAPTER VI
SARDA STRIKES
AFTER the first shock occasioned by the disappearance of the Dragon had passed off, Biggles’s reasoning ability quickly returned to normal. Taking an electric torch, he went back with Algy to the hangar and made a thorough examination of the place, both inside and out, Algy assisting him in the search. They found nothing more, of course, for the simple reason that there was nothing more to be found, but Biggles was able to reconstruct the scene fairly accurately.
‘Ginger was sitting over there on the oil drum when the business started,’ he observed half to himself. ‘Leroux then came in and went to the machine.’
Algy started. ‘You think Leroux did it?’
‘Who else? Ginger was hardly likely to take the machine off himself, and the chances against any other pilot but Leroux being in the district must be pretty remote. As I say, some one, who for the sake of argument we will assume was Leroux, got into the machine, or attempted to do something to it ; whereupon Ginger came across to see what was going on. Leroux must have seen him and struck him down. He then put him into the machine and flew it away, leaving the rifle where it had fallen.’
‘But why in the name of goodness should he take Ginger with him?’
‘God knows. But he isn’t here, is he?’
Algy shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, old lad, but your theory strikes me as being a bit weak in places. I can’t think that Leroux would lumber himself up with a prisoner.’
‘I can’t imagine Ginger getting in of his own free will. And what about young Marton? He’s being held prisoner, isn’t he?’
Algy nodded. ‘That’s true enough,’ he admitted reflectively.
‘Then as I see it the odds are that before the night is out Ginger will either find himself with, or in the same place as young Marton.’
‘Don’t overlook the possibility that Leroux might have killed him and taken the body away to cover up the crime.’
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘I can’t somehow think that’s likely,’ he observed. ‘Had there been a struggle, Ginger would have cried out and we should have heard him. In the same way we should have heard a shot if Leroux had used a gun.’
‘He might have used a knife.’
‘In which case, surely there would be bloodstains.’
‘Yes, I suppose there would.’
‘I suppose it wasn’t quite fair of us to leave him here alone; but without making any excuses I must confess that I did not think matters had reached the stage when these people—Stampoulos—Leroux —or whoever they are—would go to such lengths as this. Well, I don’t think it’s much use staying here; let’s get back.’
Without speaking they walked over to the rest-house.
‘I’m afraid it’s going to be a bad business for Ginger,’ muttered Biggles, with a worried frown, when they were inside. ‘And for us, if it comes to that. Without transport our hands are absolutely tied. It would be out of the question for us to start walking about looking for him; we might spend the rest of our lives searching in a country of this size, even if it were possible to get about without supplies, which it isn’t. It seems to me that the only thing left for us is to get to Malakal and cable home for another machine.’
‘Get to Malakal—how ?’
‘Hoof it; there’s no other way.’
‘You don’t think these people will make another move?’
‘Why should they? They’ve effectually put us out of action, as no doubt they intended.’
‘What about seizing Sarda and making him speak?’
‘How would you propose to do that?’
‘By beating the hide off his back if necessary. He’s a dirty skunk.’
Biggles smiled grimly. ‘I don’t think he could tell us much even if he wanted to; I fancy he is in a very subordinate position,’ he said. Then he started. ‘By gosh! I tell you what we can do, though,’ he whispered sibilantly. ‘What about the telephone?’
‘Yes, by James! We can at least tell these swine what we’ll do to them if they don’t send Ginger back.’
‘I don’t think we’re in exactly the position to threaten,’ Biggles reminded him gently.
‘No, perhaps not. Never mind, let’s go.’
‘Wait a minute; not so fast. What do you suppose Sarda is going to say if we just stroll in and ask him if he minds us using his telephone?’
‘Why ask? Let’s stick a gun in his ribs and tell him.’
‘Your impetuosity will one day be your downfall, I fear,’ murmured Biggles sadly. ‘Fixed as we are, I think it would be a wiser plan to keep what few cards we hold up our sleeves. I also think that we should be fools to start a rough house with our dark-skinned friend in the middle of the night; no doubt he could find his way about blindfolded, whereas we hardly know it in broad daylight. No, we’ll wait for morning and then say what we have to say. “When in doubt, sleep on it,” is a very sound axiom. For the moment we’ll get some sleep, although we’d better take it in turns; the idea of closing my eyes while I am within striking distance of that wall-eyed baboo becomes more repugnant every minute.’
The remainder of the night passed slowly, for although they tried to sleep, the knowledge of their desperate plight made it difficult, and they were both glad therefore when the sky grew grey with the approach of dawn, and the light enabled them to see about the preparation of a meal before proceeding to the prosecution of their plan.
Algy, whose job it was to make the coffee, strolled to the door and looked out while he was waiting for the pot to boil. He was back instantly, gripping Biggles’s arm excitedly. ‘Here’s Sarda coming now,’ he said tersely.
Biggles swung round. ‘Sarda!’
‘Yes.’
‘What the dickens does he want at this hour, I wonder ?’
‘I don’t know, but it looks as if he’s carrying something.’
‘All right; stand fast. Don’t let him see we’re antagonistic.’
A moment later the half-caste appeared in the doorway. ‘Goot morning,’ he said cheerfully.
‘’Morning,’ answered Biggles, smiling. ‘What have you got there?’
Sarda was holding a large calabash in his hand. ‘Milk,’ he replied. ‘I think perhaps you like milk with coffee, huh?’
Biggles stared. ‘Milk!’ he cried. ‘Where did you get it?’
Sarda raised his eyebrows as if questioning Biggles’s surprise. ‘From my goat,’ he explained.
‘Of course,’ nodded Biggles, who remembered seeing the animal tethered at the back of the bungalow. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he went on. ‘A little fresh milk will be a treat.’ If the half-caste was anxious to hold out the olive branch, it was up to them to accept it, he thought. ‘By the way,’ he continued, ‘I suppose you know that our young friend went off last night on a joy-ride and hasn’t come back?’
‘Yaas, I heard him go,’ was the frank answer.’
‘If he’s had to make a forced landing out on the veldt he’ll be in a mess,’ Biggles told him. ‘And without an aeroplane to look for him, so are we. What do you think would be the quickest way of getting in touch with Mr.—what was his name?—Leroux. The gentleman who landed here yesterday. He can’t be very far away, and he might be willing to help us.’
‘Yaas, sure he’ll help you,’ declared Sarda emphatically. ‘You ring him up on my telephone.’
Algy, who had heated the milk and was pouring it over the coffee in the cups, nearly dropped the lot in his agitation at this very unexpected suggestion. Even Biggles was at a loss for words for a second or two.
‘You never asked me,’ returned Sarda simply.
‘That’s true enough,’ Biggles had to admit. ‘Where does it go to?’ he inquired quickly.
‘To Karuli.’
‘Where’s that ?’
‘That’s the tobacco plantation where my boss lives.’
‘Why, that’s fine,’ declared Biggles. ‘Sit down a minute while I drink my coffee and I’ll come back with you. I shan’t be a minute.’
Nothing more was said until Biggles drained his cup and then stood up, reaching for his hat which lay on the table. Suddenly, as if his legs were too weak to support him, he sat down again. ‘Dash it!’ he muttered, ‘I feel queer. Must have got a touch of fever.’ He raised his hand to his forehead. ‘Algy, do you mind passing me the quinine?’
A moment later, as Algy made no reply, he raised his head wearily and looked across at him. He was sitting on his bed, swaying gently, while beads of perspiration rolled down his pale face. ‘Sorry,’ he said slowly, as if with an effort, ‘but I can’t move.’
With a dreadful suspicion in his mind Biggles turned towards Sarda, although it required a tremendous effort of strength to do so. The half-caste was grinning broadly.
‘You like my milk ?’ he sneered.
‘You swine!’ Biggles ground the words out through his teeth. He tried to reach to his pocket for the automatic he carried there, but the effort was too much for him and he sagged forward limply. Calmly, and without haste, Sarda walked across to him, removed the gun from his pocket and tossed it on to the table, afterwards treating Algy in the same way. Then he walked to the door. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said with an unpleasant leer.
‘Algy—old son—I’m afraid—we’re sunk,’ whispered Biggles weakly. ‘That skunk —has — poisoned us.’