Biggles' Second Case

by W E Johns

  ‘He’s hit a rock,’ said Biggles in a hard voice.

  Came another moment of silence; then a harsh, splintering crash.

  ‘I was afraid he’d got it,’ said Biggles evenly. ‘Listen. We shall soon know how bad it is.’

  Voices could now be heard, perhaps a quarter of a mile away — perhaps a mile. It was hard to judge distance. Biggles moved to a higher point and strained his eyes in the hope of making out the shape of the Tarpon, but in vain. The background was too broken up by rock. There was more talking; then a voice called an order sharply.

  ‘That was Algy’s voice,’ declared Ginger.

  ‘I don’t think the crash could have been very serious,’ said Biggles. ‘They were too low — just gliding in; somehow we’ve got to make contact. We must let them know where we are or they may open up on us.’

  ‘How can we make contact?’ asked Ginger. The Nazis are between us. If we try to by-pass them it will be pitch dark before we get in touch with Algy.’

  ‘There’s only one way,’ replied Biggles. ‘We’ll start the ball rolling. You and Bertie open up a brisk fire on those gold boxes while I move forward. Then I’ll open up and cover you while you join me. Let’s go. I’m getting cold.’

  In accordance with this plan of attack Ginger and Bertie started firing at the gold boxes, the outlines of which could still be seen. Biggles dashed forward. There was answering fire from the boxes, but he ran fifty yards before he dropped, and bringing his rifle into action brought a quick fire to bear on the enemy’s position. Bertie and Ginger appeared beside him. By this time weapons were flashing at several points.

  ‘I think Algy has got the hang of it,’ declared Biggles. ‘He’s got his fellows advancing, too.’ Cupping his hands round his mouth he shouted: ‘Algy! Can you hear me?’

  An answering shout came across the solitude.

  ‘Keep moving forward!’ shouted Biggles. ‘Close in on the boxes. They’re straight ahead of you.’

  For perhaps five minutes a minor battle raged, apparently without casualties on either side. Biggles and his party continued to advance in short rushes. Algy and his Norwegians did the same. Then, when they were within a hundred yards of their objective, the end came quickly.

  A man sprang up from behind the gold boxes, and with his hands held high ran towards Biggles shouting ‘Kamarad!’

  He did not get far. Another figure rose up behind him. A pistol flashed, and the would-be prisoner sprawled headlong.

  ‘Nazis usually end by shooting each other,’ said Biggles.

  ‘Look out!’ exclaimed Ginger sharply.

  The man who had fired the last shot, instead of dropping back to cover had dashed forward. Bending low he continued to run. His figure and his peaked cap revealed his identity. It was von Schonbeck. He did not run towards either of the attacking parties, but went out towards the flank between them, as if concerned only with escape. Biggles sprang up and ran too, firing an occasional shot as he ran.

  ‘Be careful!’ yelled Ginger. ‘That’s the direction of the bog.’

  Biggles knew it. He also had good reason to suppose that the Nazi did not know what he was heading for. He shouted to him to stop, not once but several times. Von Schonbeck’s only answer was to turn and fire a shot from his pistol before going on.

  Biggles followed. He was perhaps fifty yards behind von Schonbeck when the German reached the bog. He shouted a warning, dire, imperative, but the German ran on, with the ground under his feet beginning to rock with a long, ominous swell.

  Biggles raced to the edge of the bog and then stopped. He shouted a final warning.

  Whether the German heard it or not, or whether, having heard it, decided to ignore it, will never be known. But he must have realised his danger, for instead of running in a straight line he began to swerve, as if seeking firmer ground. Once he turned and, poised unsteadily, fired another shot. Biggles returned it. Both missed. Von Schonbeck went on, running hard, dodging as he ran, presumably to escape the shots he thought might follow him.

  In the end it was this method of retreat that destroyed him — or so it seemed to Biggles, who stood watching. Biggles was just beginning to get anxious, fearing that his man would reach the other side after all, when the Nazi, in making a swerve, stumbled and fell. There was a horrid sort of plop, something between a thud and a splash. Von Schonbeck did not rise. Where he had fallen appeared a black stain. It quivered for a little while, then settled down. The Nazi did not reappear. Silence settled on the scene.

  Biggles pocketed his pistol and was tapping a cigarette on the back of his hand when Bertie and Ginger joined him.

  Ginger stared out over the morass. ‘Where is he?’ he asked breathlessly.

  ‘He’s had it,’ answered Biggles laconically, dropping into service slang. He pointed to the ominous stain. ‘That’s where he went through. Maybe it was the best way. It saves us the trouble of taking him home and saves the country the expense of a trial.’

  Algy, Axel and the Norwegians came up to report that there were two dead Germans lying behind the gold boxes.

  ‘Then that seems to be the lot,’ observed Biggles. ‘There’s no longer any need for hurry. It’s all over.’

  CHAPTER XVIII

  The End of the Trail

  Algy jerked an apologetic thumb in the direction of the crashed arpon. ‘Sorry I made a mucker of it,’ he said moodily. ‘I was in a hurry to get down. There was a place where I thought I could get in between some rocks, but I was wrong. I hit a lump at the end of my run and she tipped up on her nose. No one was hurt.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about that,’ replied Biggles. ‘It means that we shall have to walk home, and we had that in front of us, anyway – unless we were prepared to risk a night take-off and landing. It’s— Hello! What the...!’ He swung round as from near at hand suddenly burst the roar of a high-powered aircraft.

  ‘A Nimrod!’ cried Ginger in astonishment. ‘What the deuce!’

  ‘A Nimrod usually means there’s an aircraft carrier in the offing,’ said Biggles.

  ‘Here, I say, by Jove! There’s another!’ exclaimed Bertie, dropping his monocle and catching it deftly in his left hand.

  ‘It looks as if Raymond has decided to take a hand,’ surmised Biggles.

  ‘Trust reinforcements to roll up when the show’s all over,’ said Ginger, a trifle bitterly.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ reproved Biggles. ‘Raymond wasn’t long getting on the job, you must admit, when we told him we needed help. Apart from that I’m relieved to know that we shan’t be marooned on Kerguelen. I, for one, have seen enough of it.’

  ‘Absolutely, old boy, absolutely,’ murmured Bertie. ‘Beastly place.’

  ‘That Nimrod pilot has spotted us, but he has too much sense to try putting his kite down in this wilderness,’ remarked Biggles, watching the nearest machine which, after circling overhead, made off in the direction of the cove. ‘We’d better start walking,’ he added.

  ‘What about the bally gold?’ inquired Bertie.

  ‘Unless you feel like carrying it, it can remain where it is for the time being,’ returned Biggles. ‘There’s nothing on the island likely to touch it. Let’s get cracking.’ He struck off at a steady pace in the direction of the cove.

  It was a cold, hungry, weary party which, sometime before midnight, plodded back to the starting-point, although it must be admitted that the last few miles were shortened by the appearance of bright lights in the vicinity of the cove. While some distance from the beach, the superstructure of a tall ship, anchored just outside the entrance, became visible.

  ‘It’s a carrier all right,’ declared Ginger. ‘There she is.’

  ‘Looks like the Vega,’ said Biggles. ‘She must have been lying somewhere handy to get here in such a short time.’

  A figure moved forward out of the shadows. ‘Quite right, Bigglesworth,’ confirmed a voice — Air Commodore Raymond’s voice. ‘You didn’t suppose I was abandoning you in these God
-forsaken seas, did you?’

  ‘I didn’t even think about it,’ replied Biggles. ‘I was too busy looking for what I came here to find.’

  ‘And you’ve found it, I see,’ observed the Air Commodore, inclining his head towards the shattered U-boat.

  ‘Yes, we found it,’ agreed Biggles.

  ‘Where’s von Schonbeck?’

  ‘He’s somewhere between the top and bottom of a bog of unknown depth about twelve miles inland,’ informed Biggles. ‘I doubt if it’s worth looking for him. Some of his men are lying about though, so you’d better send out a working party in the morning to tidy the place up.’

  ‘And the gold?’ There was more than a trace of anxiety in the Air Commodore’s voice as he asked the question.

  ‘That’s kicking about, too,’ announced Biggles. ‘It’s all yours.’

  Raymond smiled. ‘So you don’t want it, eh?’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘All I want is a bath and a bed.’

  The Air Commodore laughed softly. ‘No doubt that can be arranged. Come aboard,’ he invited, and walked towards a motor boat, manned by naval ratings, that waited near at hand. ‘You’ll be able to tell me all about it before you go to bed, I hope?’ went on the Air Commodore anxiously. ‘A lot of people at home are waiting to hear the story.’

  ‘I’ll see how I feel when I’ve had my bath,’ answered Biggles noncommittally as the party filed into the boat.

  Except for the inevitable official inquiry that was the end of what Biggles afterwards called ‘their second case.’ With their Norwegian allies they returned home on the Vega, an easy restful trip that occupied the best part of a month. Long before the carrier reached home waters Biggles had rendered a full report, with the result that much to his displeasure the newspapers had got hold of the story, and with no war news to occupy their columns had put it on the front page. The names of the officers concerned, however, were at Biggles’ request, omitted.

  ‘We’ve had all we want of von Schonbeck and his gang,’ he told Air Commodore Raymond, the first morning they reported for duty at their Scotland Yard office. ‘As far as we’re concerned it’s all washed up. Think of something new.’

  ‘I might even be able to do that,’ answered the Air Commodore slyly.

  ‘But not today, I hope?’ put in Biggles coldly.

  ‘All right — we’ll leave it until tomorrow.’ The Air Commodore went out, laughing.

  THE END