Biggles In Africa

by W E Johns

  He did not wait to see what it was, but instinctively sprang backward, colliding violently with Ginger who was close behind him, and who, caught completely unaware, had no time to avoid him. Clutching at each other to save themselves from falling, neither succeeded, but both went sprawling on the hard ground. Simultaneously, there was a deep-throated snarl, a harsh clang of metal and a loud thud.

  Biggles was up in a flash, drawing his gun at the same time, eyes feverishly seeking the cause of the débâcle. He saw Algy bending forward, tense as a spring, his right hand out-thrust, and heard his quickly muttered, ‘It’s all right—don’t shoot.’

  ‘What is it ?’ Biggles gasped, breathing heavily, for the fall had knocked the wind out of him.

  ‘It’s a leopard I think, but it’s on a chain,’ muttered Algy. ‘The chain is fixed to something under the window. The brute sprang at you, but you stepped back just in time. That bang you heard was the chain jerking taut; it pulled the beast up short and threw it on to its back. I wonder it didn’t break its neck. It’s still there, crouching under the window... see it? We shall have to go another way.’

  Biggles stood for a moment watching the animal while he recovered his breath. ‘Are you all right, Ginger?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, I’m all right.’

  ‘Sorry I barged into you like that, but I had to move quickly.’

  ‘So I noticed.’

  ‘Has any one heard us, do you think, Algy?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I can still hear talking going on inside; it sounds as if there’s an argument in progress.’

  They all went back to the front of the house, keeping in the shadow slightly to one side.

  ‘I’m going to have a look into that room,’ declared Biggles. ‘Stand still.’

  Half a dozen quick steps took him to the edge of the shadow in which they stood, so he dropped on to all fours and crawled quickly to the verandah, taking care to keep below the level of the window. Then, very slowly, he drew himself up until he could see over the sill, and the sight that met his curious stare caused him to catch his breath sharply.

  With his hands tied together and fastened to a hook in the wall was a youth whose pale face he recognized instantly. It was Harry Marton. Standing beide him, with the stock of a jambok in his right hand and the thongs in the other, was the native who had spoken to them while they had been repairing the Puss Moth, and who, only a few hours ago, had gloated over them as they lay in the hut at Limshoda. From the expression on his face he was enjoying himself.

  Seated at a small table in the middle of the room with glasses in their hands were two white men. One was Leroux, and the other was the tall man whom they had last seen at Insula. Both were leaning back in long cane chairs, with cigarettes between their fingers, watching the scene. Leroux was speaking.

  ‘We give you something to remember,’ he said. ‘Go ahead, Chola.’

  Biggles waited for no more. At the spectacle before him all the worry and anxiety he had suffered during the past few days seemed to merge into one searing impulse of cold fury that set his nerves tingling and drew his lips back from his teeth in a mirthless grin.

  ‘Come on,’ he snapped over his shoulder to the others, and without waiting for them, dashed to the door.

  On the threshold he pulled up short, crouching forward, eyes gleaming, his automatic waving gently like the head of a snake about to strike, as it covered the startled occupants. ‘Move!’ he snarled. ‘Move, one of you! Why don’t you move and give me an excuse to blow you in halves, you dirty, crooked rats in white skins. I’ve had to kill better men than you, and my finger’s twitching to fill you full of holes for the pleasure of doing it.’ He broke off, nostrils quivering, his blazing eyes never leaving the faces of the two white men, who did not move, but sat staring in a wide-eyed amazement that in different circumstances might have been comical. He heard the others just behind him, and took a pace forward into the room.

  ‘Algy, cut down that boy,’ he rapped out in a voice that was as cold and hard as cracking ice. ‘Shoot that black devil if he so much as winks an eyelid. Ginger, go and hail Captain Collison. As for you,’ he continued, to Leroux and Stampoulos, as the others obeyed his instructions, ‘you don’t know how lucky you are that Collison is here, or anything I have to say to you, which isn’t much, would be said with this.’ He flicked the muzzle of the automatic. ‘Keep your hands on the table, both of you. One false move is all the excuse I need to hand you what you deserve, and I’m praying for you to make it.’ He broke off as Collison, with a file of askaris behind him, hurried into the room, looking from one to the other questioningly.

  ‘Here are your men, Collison,’ Biggles told him tersely. ‘If you have any doubt as to what their business is, there are acres of hemp growing outside and an aeroplane loaded with hashish in the hangar.’

  At the word hashish Leroux and Stampoulos stirred uneasily. Stampoulos rose to his feet, and opened his mouth to speak.

  ‘You’d better keep anything you have to say for the court,’ Collison warned him curtly.

  An hour later, with the prisoners handcuffed and under armed guard in the room that had been Harry Marton’s prison for more than a year, and Collison’s askaris rounding up the natives in the compound, the rest of the white men sat round the table recently used by Leroux and Stampoulos. Harry Marton, still looking pale and tired, was telling his story, while Collison, note-book in hand, was making notes.

  ‘There really isn’t very much to tell,’ Harry was saying. ‘As you probably know, I got as far as Malakal without any trouble, and it was just as I was about to leave that I met this villain Leroux. He told me that he was a pilot and had been forced to land near Insula, where he had left his companion who was dying of fever. He asked me to go out and bring him in. What could I do? What would you have done, Bigglesworth?’

  ‘I’m afraid I should have done what you did,’ confessed Biggles.

  ‘Yes, of course I had to go,’ went on Harry. ‘I was ahead of my time, and I worked it out that there was still a chance of getting the record. Leroux said he would come with me to show me the way. Well, we went, and I never had the slightest reason for suspicion. Sure enough, there was a crashed machine lying near the edge of the landing-ground—an old French machine, by the look of it—which Leroux said was his. I landed near it. There was nobody in it, so Leroux said that his friend must have gone down to the rest-house. So to the rest-house we went, where a half-caste scoundrel named Sarda brought us drinks. How on earth could I have imagined that... well, that the drink contained dope?’

  ‘Of course you couldn’t,’ put in Biggles.

  ‘Well, there I was. I just flopped out and that was all I knew about it. When I woke up I was at this place. Leroux afterwards told me that he and Sarda just carried me back to my own machine and he flew me here the same day. And here I have been a prisoner ever since, compelled to keep my machine in order for their use.’

  ‘I suppose that’s why they kept you alive ?’ suggested Collison.

  ‘Of course. When I arrived here Leroux’s mechanic was down with fever, and Leroux himself is no engineer. In any case, neither he nor his mechanic knew anything about the rigging of a Puss, nor had they ever seen an engine like mine. So they flogged me and threatened me with death unless I kept the machine in order for them. Then Barrail, the mechanic, died, and then they had to keep me. I did what they told me because I always hoped that sooner or later I’d get a chance to escape. I knew, of course, that they would never let me go willingly, because I should have gone straight to the police. Once I escaped, but the natives caught me and brought me back. I was flogged for it, and after that a leopard was always kept chained under my window to prevent me from ever trying to escape that way again.’

  ‘We know all about that gentleman; I nearly trod on him when I was looking for you just now,’ smiled Biggles.

  ‘You knew what they were doing, I suppose?’ suggested Collison.

  ‘No, I didn’t. I never
did find out, but I guessed that it was something illegal. Sometimes, after I had finished work on the machine, I was made to do housework, so I knew all about the telephone. I was working near it the other day when it rang, and in desperation I answered it, but I only had time to get out one or two words when Stampoulos came into the room and knocked me down.’

  ‘All the same, it was a lucky chance, because that’s how we first knew that you were alive,’ Biggles told him. ‘It was Ginger ringing up from Insula. It’s fairly clear to see what happened,’ he went on, turning to Collison. ‘Leroux really did crash his machine, and what with that and his mechanic being sick, he was in a mess for transport. He was probably going up to Cairo by Imperial Airways to report the state of affairs at his head-quarters, or perhaps to fetch another machine, when Harry happened to land at Malakal and put an idea into his crooked mind. A crook will always choose a crooked path in preference to a straight one, so he decided to steal an aeroplane and a mechanic at one stroke. It was a clever scheme, for there was very little risk. In nine cases out of ten he would have got away with it, but Harry happened to have a father who wouldn’t take official reports for granted.’

  ‘And what are you fellows going to do now?’ asked Collison.

  ‘If it’s all right with you, I propose to hit the breeze for England, in the Dragon, as soon as it is daylight and your men come back with our kitbags. There are four of us now, but we can manage seven, so if you like we’ll give you and your two prisoners a lift as far as Malakal.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ agreed Collison. ‘My fellows can march back with the native prisoners, and you can make out your reports at my head-quarters. If you’ll do that I don’t think any objection will be raised to your pushing straight on home.’

  CHAPTER XVII

  IN CONCLUSION

  FIVE days later a touching reunion took place at Croydon aerodrome, where Mr. Marton senior, who had been notified of their coming, met his son and the three airmen who had been responsible for his rescue. Tears sparkled in the old man’s eyes when he put his hands on his son’s shoulders and looked into his careworn face. Biggles turned away.

  ‘Yes, I think it’s time we were moving off,’ observed Algy softly.

  But Mr. Marton called them back. ‘Where are you going?’ he asked.

  ‘Well—er, I don’t exactly know, but I expect we’re going home,’ stammered Biggles. ‘We’ve no immediate plans, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Then what do you say to a little reunion dinner tonight? I’ve yet to thank you for what you’ve done, and I’m anxious to hear the whole story; there is also a little—er—business matter to be settled yet.’

  ‘I think that’s a fine idea,’ smiled Biggles.

  ‘Seven o’clock at the Savoy?’

  ‘We’ll be there,’ Biggles assured him. ‘Goodbye for the present.’

  ‘Au revoir.’

  ‘And that’s that,’ murmured Ginger reflectively, as they walked towards the customs barrier to check in.

  ‘As you rightly remark, that’s that,’ agreed Biggles.

  THE END