by W E Johns
Table of Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Title Page
Acknowledgement
Copyright Page
Epigraph
Chapter 1 Biggles Gets A Shock
Chapter 2 Dickpa Explains
Chapter 3 Running The Gauntlet
Chapter 4 The Getaway
Chapter 5 Trouble
Chapter 6 Escape
Chapter 7 The Falls
Chapter 8 Indians
Chapter 9 A Night of Horror
Chapter 10 The Raid
Chapter 11 The Ants
Chapter 12 Trapped
Chapter 13 Marooned
Chapter 14 Discovery
Chapter 15 A Perilous Passage
Chapter 16 Combat Tactics
Chapter 17 Crashed
Chapter 18 Conclusion
A dull murmur, like distant thunder, reached their ears and brought Biggles to his feet with a rush. 'What is it?' he gasped.
At the first sound Dickpa had leapt for the flashlight. 'Quick,' he snapped, as the floor of the cave sagged sickeningly. 'Get out – it's an earthquake'. Ah – stop!' he screamed.
There came a definite roar from somewhere down the tunnel up which they had come, and the air was filled with a cloud of choking, blinding dust. The sides of the cave quivered like jelly, and a few pieces of rock fell from the roof with a crash; then all was still again.
Captain W. E. Johns was born in Hertfordshire in 1893. He flew with the Royal Flying Corps in the First World War and made a daring escape from a German prison camp in 1918. Between the wars he edited Flying and Popular Flying and became a writer for the Ministry of Defence. The first Biggles story, Biggles the Camels are Coming was published in 1932, and W. E. Johns went on to write a staggering 102 Biggles titles before his death in 1968.
www.kidsatrandomhouse.co.uk
BIGGLES BOOKS
PUBLISHED IN THIS EDITION
FIRST WORLD WAR:
Biggles Learns to Fly
Biggles Flies East
Biggles the Camels are Coming
Biggles of the Fighter Squadron
Biggles in France
Biggles and the Rescue Flight
BETWEEN THE WARS:
Biggles and the Cruise of the Condor
Biggles and Co.
Biggles Flies West
Biggles Goes to War
Biggles and the Black Peril
Biggles in Spain
SECOND WORLD WAR:
Biggles Defies the Swastika
Biggles Delivers the Goods
Biggles Defends the Desert
Biggles Fails to Return
BIGGLES
AND THE CRUISE of the
CONDOR
CAPTAIN W.E. JOHNS
Red Fox would like to express their grateful thanks for help given in the preparation of these editions to Jennifer Schofield, author of By Jove, Biggles, Linda Shaughnessy of A. P. Watt Ltd and especially to the late John Trendler.
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
ISBN 978-1-4090-2445-3
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
BIGGLES AND THE CRUISE OF THE CONDOR
A RED FOX BOOK
ISBN: 978-1-4090-2445-3
Version 1.0
First published in Great Britain as The Cruise of the Condor: a Biggles Story by John Hamilton, 1933
This Red Fox edition published 2004
3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © W E Johns (Publications) Ltd, 1933
The right of W E Johns to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser
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A Random House Group Company
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited
can be found at:
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THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
The word 'Hun' used in this book was the generic
term for anything belonging to the German enemy.
It was used in a familiar sense, rather than derogatory.
Witness the fact that in the R.F.C. a hun was also a
pupil at a flying training school.
W.E.J.
Chapter 1
Biggles Gets A Shock
'The trouble about civil life is that nothing ever seems to happen. What interest people got out of it before the War I can't imagine; it must have been deadly dull. Even peace-time flying is so tame that I can't get a kick out of it. No Archie,* no Huns,** no nothing-just fly from here to there, and there you are. This peace seems a grim business to me; what do you think about it?'
* RAF slang for anti-aircraft fire.
** Slang term for Germans or anything German.
The speaker paused and glanced moodily at his companion, as if seeking confirmation of these unusual sentiments. Slim, clean shaven, and as straight as a lance, his carriage suggested military training that was half denied by the odd, wistful look on his pale, rather boyish face; tiny lines graven around the corners of his mouth and steady grey eyes gave him an expression of self-confidence and assurance beyond his years. His voice was crisp and decisive, and carried a hidden note of authority, as in one accustomed to making decisions and being obeyed.
His companion was about the same age, perhaps a trifle younger, but rather more stocky in build. His round, freckled face, surmounted by an untidy crop of fair hair, carried eyes that twinkled humorously at the slightest pretext. There was little about either of them to show that they had been two of the most brilliant air fighters in the War, a pair who, towards the end of 1918, were known on the British side of the lines of the Western Front* as nearly invincible, and on the German side as a combination to be avoided.
* The Front line trenches of World War I stretching from the North Sea to the Swiss frontier.
The speaker was, in fact, Major James Bigglesworth, D.S.O., M.C.,** popularly known as Biggles, who in October 1918 had commanded No. 266 Squadron in France. Victor of thirty-five confirmed combats and many others unclaimed, he was known, at least by reputation, from Belgium to the Swiss frontier.
** Distinguished Service Order, Military Cross (two medals).
The other was his close friend and comrade-at-arms, Captain Algernon Lacey, more often simply known as Algy, who had finished the War as a flight commander in the same squadron, with twenty victories signed up in his log-book.
'I agree,' he replied morosely, in answer to Biggles's complaint; 'but what can we do about it? Nothing! I expect we shall get used to it in time.'
'I shall pass out with boredom in the meantime,' replied Biggles with conviction, 'that's why I suggested
coming down here to see Dickpa. He should be able to shoot us a good yarn or two.'
'Why on earth do you call your uncle Dickpa?'
Biggles laughed. 'I don't know,' he replied. 'I used to call my guvnor*** "Pa" when I was a toddler, and when his brother Dick came down to see him I just naturally called him Dickpa. I've never called him anything else. I haven't seen him for years, because, as I told you, he's an explorer and is very seldom in this country. Hearing he was back on one of his rare visits, I thought I'd slip along and see the old chap while I had the chance, and I thought you'd like to come along too. He's got an interesting collection of stuff from all sorts of out-of-the-world places. There's the house now, straight ahead.'
*** Slang: father.
They walked slowly on down the leafy drive towards an old, red-bricked Elizabethan house, which they could now see through the trees, in silence, for it was midsummer and the sun was hot.
'Well, there are times when I positively ache to hear a gun go off,' went on Biggles presently. 'Sheer habit, of course—'
'Stick 'em up!'
Biggles stopped dead and stared, in wide-eyed amazement, in the direction from which the words had come. Algy also stopped, blinked, and shook his head like a prize-fighter who had just intercepted a straight left to the point of the jaw.
'Looks as if my dreams are coming true,' muttered Biggles softly. 'Can you see what I see, Algy, or shall I wake up in a minute?'
'Quit squarkin' and do as you're told,' growled a coarse nasal voice with a pungent American accent. The speaker, a tall, sun-burned man with a squint and a skin that had at some time been ravaged by smallpox, took a pace forward to emphasize his words. In his hand, held low on his hip, was a squat, wicked-looking automatic. 'You heard me,' he went on, scowling evilly.
'Yes, I heard you,' replied Biggles evenly, eyeing the speaker with interest, 'but aren't you making a mistake? This is England, my friend, not America; and we have our own way of dealing with gun-thugs, as you'll presently learn, I hope. If it's money you want, you've made a boob, because I haven't any.'
'Say, are you telling me?' snarled the man. 'Step back the way you came, pronto; you're not wanted here.'
Biggles looked at the American coldly and sat down on the stone wall that bordered the drive. 'Let's discuss this sensibly,' he said gently; and Algy who had heard that tone of voice before, quivered instinctively in anticipation of the action he knew was coming.
'Talk nothing. On your feet, baby, and step out!'
Biggles sighed wearily. 'Well, you seem to have— what do you call it?—the low-down on us,' he muttered. 'Come on, Algy, let's go. There's a present for you,' he added as an afterthought to their aggressor, and with his left hand flicked a pebble high into the air above the man's head.
It was an old, old trick, but, like many old tricks, it came off. The man's eyes instinctively lifted to watch the flight of the pebble, and he side-stepped to let it fall. But, even as his eyes lifted, Biggles's right hand shot out and hurled a large, jagged piece of stone, that he had taken from the wall, straight at the man's head. It was a good shot, and took him fairly and squarely between the eyes. Biggles, his fists clenched, seemed to follow the stone in its flight across the drive, but he pulled up dead, with a muttered exclamation of disgust, for the man, moaning feebly, lay in a semi-conscious heap at his feet. The automatic had fallen from his nerveless fingers, and Biggles, with a quick movement, picked it up and dropped it in his own pocket.
'Great jumping cats, I hope you haven't killed him!' gasped Algy, hurrying across and looking aghast at the trickle of blood that was flowing from a jagged wound in the man's forehead.
'Killed nothing!' sneered Biggles impatiently, white with anger. 'What of it, anyway? Do you think that, after being shot at abroad for years, I'm going to have people making a dart-board of me in my own country? Not on your life. If, after spending my precious youth fighting the King's* enemies, I can't fight one of my own, it's a pity. I don't understand what it's all about, though; there's something wrong here. I hope Dickpa is all right; come on, let's get along.' And, without another glance at their fallen foe, he strode off quickly up the drive.
* King George V 1910–1935.
With Algy at his heels, he reached the front door and jangled the great old-fashioned bell noisily. There was no reply. Again he pulled the chain. 'Anyone at home here?' he shouted in a loud voice.
The squeaking of a lattice window above them made them glance upwards, and the sight that met their eyes brought another shout from Biggles. Pointing down at them were the twin muzzles of a 12-bore sporting gun. Behind them, half hidden in shadow, they could just discern a face, the lower half of which was buried in a grey beard.
'Hi! Don't shoot! It's me, Dickpa!' yelled Biggles, ducking.
'Throw yourself flat; you're liable to be shot!' cried Dickpa quickly. 'I'm coming down.' The window slammed shut as Biggles flung himself at full length on the gravel path, with Algy beside him.
'When Dickpa says lie down, I lie down. He's no fool, believe me,' muttered Biggles anxiously.
Algy grinned. 'Picture of two young gentlemen visiting uncle in the country,' he chuckled. 'I've been thrown out on my ear before today, but I believe this is the first time I've gone in on it. If this is how you visit your uncles, you might have warned me to bring some overalls. This is my best suit—'
The rattle of chains and the withdrawing of bolts inside the door cut him short. The great iron-studded oak portal swung open a few inches and a pair of deep-set eyes peered through the crack at them. 'Quick, jump for it!' cried Dickpa, and flung the door wide open.
Together the two airmen leapt across the threshold, and as the door slammed behind them they heard a sharp report from somewhere outside and the dull thud of a striking bullet. Algy, who had landed on a loose bearskin rug, skidded violently, and, after making a wild effort to save himself, measured his length on the floor.
'Can't you land without stunting?' grinned Biggles.
Algy groaned. 'Is this how you usually visit your uncles?' he snarled, picking himself up and rubbing his knee ruefully.
But Biggles had turned to the elderly man, who was bolting the door securely. 'What's going on, Dickpa?' he cried in astonishment. 'Have you turned this place into a madhouse? Never mind your knee, Algy; meet Dickpa—Dickpa, meet Algy—the man who managed to survive the War more by luck than judgement.'
Algy glanced up and found himself looking into a rugged, weather-beaten face, in which a pair of rather mild blue eyes twinkled brightly. 'Pleased to meet you, sir,' he said. 'We seem to have arrived at an entertaining moment.'
'You couldn't have arrived at a better time,' replied the old traveller quickly. 'I'm badly in need of reinforcements. There are some gentlemen outside who—'
'Hold people up at the revolver-point,' broke in Biggles.
'How do you know?'
'One of 'em tried it on us.'
'The rascal! What did you do?'
'Smote him between the eyes with half a brick.'
'Splendid! cried the old man enthusiastically. 'I hope he liked it. But you must be hungry. Come and have some food and I'll tell you all about it.
'You are going to find it hard to believe the story I am about to tell you,' went on Dickpa when they had pulled up their chairs in the old, oak-panelled dining-room to a rather frugal meal of cold beef and pickles. 'In the first place, you had better understand I am in a state of siege.'
Biggles nearly swallowed a pickled onion in trying to speak. 'Siege?' he managed to gasp. 'Who—'
'Wait a moment; don't be so impatient,' interrupted Dickpa. 'I trust it will not be necessary to use them, but I have taken the precaution of bringing in from the gun-room what weapons I have available. From time to time I let drive from one of the windows with that elephant gun on the left, in order to encourage the enemy to keep at a distance.'
The two airmen followed his eyes to the wall, against which leaned a row of gleaming metal barrels — a Sharp's
Express rifle, a couple of 12-bores, a .410 collector's gun, and an elephant gun, beside which a .22 rifle looked ridiculously out of place.
'But why on earth don't you ring up the police?' cried Biggles in amazement.
'Because it wouldn't be the slightest use,' replied Dickpa gravely. 'They've cut the telephone wires, anyway. But I'll tell you the story if you'll listen.'
'Go ahead, Dickpa. I won't interrupt,' said Biggles apologetically.
The old explorer filled a well-worn briar pipe, and when he had got it going to his satisfaction he continued.
'The story really begins some years ago. As you know, I've spent my life exploring out-of-the-way parts of the world, but chiefly in South America. I have long held the opinion that the Incas—the great civilization that once occupied what is now Bolivia and Peru-ex tended much farther eastward than is generally imagined. The reasons I had for thinking that we need not go into now, but once when I was in England I read a lecture before a London society in which I stated these views, and to my disgust I was made to look a fool. The newspapers joined in the chorus of jeers, and that made me very angry, especially as none of my critics had even seen the country.
'Well, to make a long story short, I went back to the Matto Grosso—which is a province that occupies most of the vast hinterland of Brazil, stretching westwards to the Andes—determined to find proofs. I found them, too; in fact, I found more than I bargained for.' The old explorer leaned forward dramatically. 'I got on the trail of Atahuallpha's treasure,' he whispered mysteriously. 'The vast treasure of gold and precious stones that was being taken towards Cuzco by thousands of adoring priests for the ransom of Atahuallpha, their King, who was held prisoner by Pizarro, the Spaniard.
'You probably know the story of how Pizarro coolly murdered his captive, and how the priests, on hearing the news, turned about and hid the treasure so effectively that it has never been found, in spite of thousands of attempts that have been made to locate it. There is no doubt about the existence of the treasure, but I must admit it was certainly not in my mind when I discovered my first clue.'